Pei Ruoxue emerged, not with a sudden lurch or a ghostly shimmer, but with a sorrowful grace that seemed to drain the very color from the air. The heavy red veil, thick as damask, rippled like a curtain of congealed blood, revealing only the ghost of a silhouette beneath. Yet, her presence alone was a physical force. The crimson silks adorning the dormitory walls, moments ago merely decorative, now began to fray at the edges, threads dissolving into fine ash that drifted silently to the floor. Plaster cracked and peeled from the ceiling in delicate curls, exposing the raw, water-stained concrete beneath. Even the air, already thick with the scent of jasmine and aged paper, grew heavier, colder, pressing down like a lead blanket. The suona music, which had been a mournful wail, now felt like a lament that could shatter bone.
Tang Mingze, still entangled in the pink lace of his Maid of Honor dress, let out a strangled gasp. “You… you’ve got to be kidding me. This isn’t a boss fight, this is… environmental damage!”
Lanshan, however, wasn’t looking at the decaying walls. His eyes, usually scanning for escape routes or flattering angles, were fixed on the enigmatic figure beneath the veil. He tilted his head, a critical frown creasing his brow. “Honestly, darling, your entrance is quite stunning, truly. But whoever arranged this lighting did you a terrible disservice. It’s all overhead, casting such harsh shadows. Flattens your best features, I’m sure. We need something softer, maybe some warm side-lighting to really bring out the… ancestral glow.”
Tang spluttered, sounding like a dying pigeon. “Are you insane? That’s the boss! The terrifying boss! She’s radiating pure, unadulterated dread!”
Lanshan ignored him, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. Then another. And another. He advanced on the bride, his polished black shoes silent on the dust-mote-strewn floor, until he was close enough to discern the intricate, hand-stitched pattern on the heavy silk veil. He could almost feel the chill radiating from her, a cold that promised to seep into his bones and never leave. The air around her hummed with a barely contained power, a sorrowful energy that felt like a scream held captive for centuries.
He reached out, his fingers surprisingly steady, and gently, oh so gently, brushed the edge of the blood-red fabric. The silk was cool, impossibly smooth, like skin. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, a faint, almost imperceptible floral scent tickling his nose from somewhere beneath the veil. “There, see? Just a little adjustment. We want to highlight the mystery, yes, but also the delicate curve of your… well, the part of your cheek that’s not entirely obscured by the fabric of fate.” His thumb lingered for a fraction of a second against the cool silk, a touch that was both intimate and entirely professional.
Tang Mingze, his jaw dropping in genuine fright, finally snapped. “That’s it! You’ve completely lost it! This is a high-level apparition, not a photoshoot subject! I’m going to draw aggro and give you a window!” With a surge of desperate energy, Tang ripped at the pink lace, trying to free his arms. He slammed a fist into his palm, a practiced motion. “Spectral Ward: Soul-Shatter Palm!” he roared, a faint, sickly green aura flickering around his hand – a rare, high-tier combat skill from his elite gamer days, designed to disrupt ethereal beings.
Before the green light could fully coalesce, before Tang could even fully unleash his attack, the chipper, robotic voice of the Matchmaker OS cut through the mournful suona music, echoing from everywhere and nowhere.
[Matchmaker Protocol Violation! Rule 3: No aggressive actions towards the esteemed bridal party! Punishment incoming! Enjoy the festivities!]
The green aura around Tang’s hand vanished as if snuffed out by an unseen force. Instead, a new, far more horrific sound began to well up. A cacophony of distorted trumpets and gongs, a burial march played by unseen hands, blared from behind the now-decaying walls. The ground vibrated with the heavy, rhythmic thud of countless feet. A chorus of hollow moans joined the terrifying music, growing louder, closer.
“A mortuary procession?” Tang shrieked, clutching his lace collar. “For who?!”
Lanshan didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Tang by the scruff of his ridiculous pink lace dress, hauling the flailing gamer away from the bride and the rapidly approaching phantom horde. “Darling, when a ghost-wedding boss brings her own funeral, it’s rarely a good sign for the uninvited guests. And you, my dear Maid of Honor, are doing a terrible job of charming the principal.” He kept his voice light, almost amused, even as the walls around them seemed to groan under the sheer pressure of the approaching phantoms.
He tugged Tang behind a crumbling pillar, still keeping half an eye on the motionless, veiled bride. “You see, the trick with these ancient, heartbroken types isn’t brute force. It’s… appreciation. For their aesthetic, for their tragedy, for their utterly impeccable sense of dramatic timing. And honestly, for their patience with utterly idiotic interlopers.”
From beneath the shimmering crimson veil, a soft, breathy sound escaped. It wasn't a sob, or a sigh of anger. It was a laugh. A sound like wind chimes in a desolate temple, laced with an ancient, delicate sorrow, yet unmistakably amused. The oppressive cold in the room lessened, if only fractionally. The terrifying blare of the funeral procession, which had been right outside the crumbling dorm walls, began to recede, the trumpets fading back into a distant, melancholic echo.
With a languid flick of one pale, elegant hand, barely visible beneath the veil, Pei Ruoxue dismissed the red-robed paper ghouls that had been advancing on Lanshan and Tang. They ceased their shuffling, their garden shears lowering, and turned as one, dissolving back into flat, two-dimensional paper figures before wisping away like smoke. The bride’s head tilted slightly, as if considering Lanshan, still partially hidden by the crimson fabric. Another soft, amused exhalation ghosted from her.
[Matchmaker OS: Delightful progress, Groom! Your charm is truly… unique! Now, for the next cherished tradition! The Betrothal Gifts!]
[Quest Update: Fetch the Betrothal Gifts!]
[Objective: Proceed to the Cursed Basement Laundry Room of Dormitory 4 and retrieve the Betrothal Gifts! Time is of the essence, dearest!]
[Failure to comply will result in immediate purging from the instance. Happy hunting!]