Huo Yunting’s internal algorithms whirred, processing the data. The erhu’s lament, a melody of slow, drawn-out grief, seemed to vibrate the very dust motes dancing in the sudden drafts. The four Effigy Sentinels, carved from dark, lacquered wood and draped in crimson, stood unmoving, their blank faces shadowed by wide, brimmed hats. Their silent vigil and the low, throbbing music suggested an imminent next stage. He needed to be proactive, not reactive. His cracked phone, still clutched in his left hand, vibrated with a soft, insistent pulse. No new notification, just the system’s lingering presence. Rule 7: *Always praise her lacquered skin.* This was his immediate objective. The directive was clear, yet vague on *how* to praise. Yunting considered efficiency. A direct, unequivocal affirmation would be best. Empathy was a variable he couldn't afford; genuine admiration was irrelevant. He needed compliance, and a five-star rating. He took three deliberate paces forward, his work boots quiet on the shop’s worn timber floor. The air grew heavier, thick with the scent of unlit incense and something metallic, like old coins. The crimson veil on the palanquin shimmered, concealing whatever lay beneath. He stopped a respectful distance away, calculated to be within conversational range without seeming overly familiar or aggressive. He cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the hushed hall. “Esteemed Bride,” Yunting began, his voice flat, professional, but carrying a precise cadence, “allow me to express my profound appreciation.” He paused, letting the words hang, letting the system register his compliance. He focused on the skin aspect, extrapolating from the few glimpses of flawless, pale paper flesh he’d seen on the lesser effigies. “The artistry of your visage,” he continued, infusing his tone with the measured reverence one might use when cataloging a museum piece, “is, from this vantage, clearly without parallel. The pigment’s application, I observe, possesses an ethereal quality, a subtle luminescence that defies the crude limitations of mortal craft. It is not merely paint; it is a manifestation of absolute, unblemished perfection, a surface so exquisitely rendered that it transcends the very concept of imperfection. Such a canvas, I predict, would hold the gaze of even the most discerning connoisseur for eternity.” He finished, maintaining a steady, unblinking gaze on the red veil. It was a solid, if somewhat dry, assessment. Technically, he had praised the surface of her skin, and done so with a degree of specificity that bordered on the poetic, all without an ounce of genuine feeling. He awaited the system's confirmation, or perhaps the Bride's approval, with the dispassionate calm of a data entry clerk submitting a complex form. Instead of the expected chilling silence or a guttural growl, a sound rippled from beneath the heavy silk: a soft, bell-like giggle. It was light, almost melodious, entirely out of place in the mausoleum-like atmosphere. Then, a slender, pale hand, its nails tipped with a subtle crimson, reached up and deftly swept the veil aside. Yunting’s analytical composure faltered for the first time. Seated on the palanquin was not a monstrous specter or a decaying corpse, but a woman with eyes the color of polished jade, framed by long, raven hair that cascaded over shoulders draped in fine, red silk. Her features were delicate, her lips stained a vibrant vermilion, curved into a playful, utterly mischievous grin. There was a spark of something dangerously alive in her gaze, a glint that seemed to mock the solemnity of the entire ritual. The woman before him had a face that was, indeed, flawless, but not in the way he’d imagined. It was a living canvas, vibrant and expressive, not a static, lacquered effigy. “Oh, my,” she purred, her voice a warm whisper that carried over the mournful erhu, “such eloquent flattery. Most men just stammer about my ‘pretty eyes’ or my ‘lovely smile.’ You, my diligent groom, have a way with words. And such attention to detail.” She leaned forward slightly, her head tilted, her gaze unwavering. “Tell me, do you optimize all your deliveries with such… thoroughness?” Yunting’s internal metrics whirled, sputtering. Playful? Mischievous? This wasn’t in his calculations for a terrifying calamity-level boss. This wasn’t a standard client. Before he could recalibrate his response, a rustle of heavy paper sounded from behind him. A towering Paper Butler, its jointed limbs crackling, stepped forward, its blank face tilted accusingly. Its long, skeletal finger pointed at Yunting’s phone. [PROXIMITY ALERT: VIOLATION OF PROTOCOL 3-B. INITIATING MINOR ACCOUNT PENALTY.] Yunting barely registered the notification before her grin tightened, losing its playfulness and gaining a sharp edge. “Oh, dear. It seems someone is a bit overzealous with their duties.” With a casual flick of her wrist, so swift it was almost imperceptible, a ripple of shimmering red energy shot from her fingertips. The Paper Butler, mid-stride, froze. A faint, almost imperceptible *shush* sound permeated the air, and then, the towering paper figure crumpled inward, not dissolving or tearing, but imploding into a neat, compressed block of paper and bamboo, leaving behind only a faint scent of burnt offerings. [ADMINISTRATOR OVERRIDE: PROTOCOL 3-B TEMPORARILY SUSPENDED.] Yunting stared at the block of paper, then back at Qingzi. Her mischievous grin had returned, brighter than before. “Honestly,” she sighed, a mock-exasperated roll of her jade-colored eyes, “these low-tier drones are such sticklers for the rules. Now, where were we, my observant deliveryman?” Her gaze was intense, possessive, a silent question in its depths. The air around them carried a taut, heavy challenge. This wasn’t just flirting; it was a predatory assessment, a client demanding far more than just a successful handoff. He had just praised her skin with the clinical precision of a data analyst, and she was responding with an almost terrifying blend of power and seductive intent. His five-star strategy suddenly felt woefully inadequate. Just then, a faint, rhythmic thumping, desperate and muffled, began to echo from somewhere nearby. It sounded like something large, frantic, and entirely suppressed, trying to escape from a confined space. It was coming from the bamboo-frame closet to his immediate left, just beside the entrance to the mourning hall.

Rule Number Seven and First Impressions