Gao Lanshan watched the last wisps of paper ash settle onto the parquet floor, the brass bleat of mourning horns still vibrating in his teeth. Pei Ruoxue’s head remained tilted beneath her scarlet veil, her mirth prickling against his skin like static electricity. Tang Mingze, stuffed into a ruffled magenta maid-of-honor gown, stared straight ahead with dilated pupils. [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!] "Purging?" Tang's voice squeaked, his hardcore composure unraveling. "What does that mean here? A disconnect? A hard reboot?" Lanshan clapped him on the shoulder, a grin stretching across his face. “Probably means they feed us to the spirit hounds, Mingze. Don’t sweat it. Think of it as an express ticket to… well, somewhere.” He glanced back at Ruoxue, who hadn’t moved, her posture a silent, expectant command. “Looks like the lady wants her presents. Lead the way, Maid of Honor. You’re practically glowing in that outfit, you know.” Tang shot him a glare that could peel wallpaper, but the threat of biological termination kept his boots moving. He stomped ahead, his pink heels clacking on the warped floorboards, navigating the red-draped labyrinth of Dormitory 4. Lanshan followed, whistling a jaunty tune, keeping an eye on the bride. She remained still, a blood-red statue, until they were almost out of sight. Then, with a ripple in the air, she was gone. “She’s watching, isn’t she?” Tang muttered, his voice low. “This whole place is a trap.” “Of course she is,” Lanshan agreed cheerfully. “It’s her big day. Every bride wants to know her groom is making an effort, even if he’s just fetching a toaster from the basement.” The stairs to the basement were slick with a dark, viscous fluid that smelled faintly of iron and old perfume. Red lanterns, strung haphazardly, cast flickering shadows that elongated into grotesque shapes. The air grew heavy, damp, and cold enough to make Lanshan’s breath plume in front of him. Each step creaked, a mournful sigh in the oppressive quiet. The basement wash house was an expanse of pitted concrete and rusted chrome basins. Sump water formed oily slicks along the floor, but the real horror clogged the appliances. Every front-loader drum and tumbler was stuffed to bursting with matted, jet-black hair. It coiled within the drums like an unholy nest, tangled and matted, occasionally shimmering with a wet, unnatural sheen. Some strands looked suspiciously like they’d been recently… severed. Tang gagged, clamping a hand over his mouth. “What in the… is that… real hair?” “Probably,” Lanshan said, unfazed, peering into a front-loader. “Or the best damn synthetic this game has to offer. High fidelity horror, eh? Makes you appreciate a good barber.” He pulled out a loose, long strand, twirling it around his finger. It felt strangely soft. Tang, meanwhile, was frantically scanning the room, his gamer instincts kicking in. He skirted the rusted tumblers, scanning wire shelves crammed with calcified soap crates and cracked wicker hampers. He stopped at a crumbling concrete pillar, running his gloved hand along its rough surface. “There’s a seam here,” he announced, prying at a loose section. With a soft click, a small, recessed compartment was revealed. Inside, nestled among cobwebs, was a leather-bound journal. "A diary?" Lanshan raised an eyebrow. "Sweet. Some juicy nuptial gossip?" Tang ignored him, his eyes already devouring the faded script. “It’s… Pei Ruoxue’s. This academy used to be the site of the ancient Qingyun Monastery. Her family were scholars, but they fell out of favor. Her family promised her hand to a warlord's son, but she refused. They buried her alive beneath the monastery's foundation stones to appease the soil after a drought. Right under where this dorm sits now." Tang's fingers trembled against the vellum. "They sealed her with her dowry chest as tribute to the loam." Lanshan whistled. "Buried alive? Rough break. Explains why she's particular about the ceremony. So the tribute isn't fine china. It's grave goods." He walked towards a row of industrial dryers, his gaze falling on the largest, its circular door sealed by a heavy, rusted latch. “And I bet the game wants us to find something specific. Something that relates to her tragic end, but twists it into a horror. Something that makes us want to break Rule Three.” [Matchmaker OS: Rule Three Reminder! Accept all wedding traditions and gifts with grace and gratitude! Refusal will displease the spirits!] Lanshan clicked his tongue. “Called it.” He braced himself, then yanked the latch. With a screech of rusted iron, the dryer hatch popped open, revealing the ceremonial tributes. They weren’t jewels, or silks, or even ancient scrolls. They were severed paper heads. Dozens of them, meticulously crafted from crimson-dyed paper, each with a blank, vacant expression. Some were pristine, others crumpled and stained, as if pulled from a shallow grave. They filled the dryer’s drum, a silent, unsettling tableau. Tang recoiled. “What in the… no, absolutely not. We are not touching those.” “Oh, but we are, Maid of Honor,” Lanshan said, a glint in his eye. He reached in, his fingers brushing against the cold, stiff paper. He selected one, a relatively clean one with a faint smudge of dark red near its paper neck. He held it up, examining its featureless face. "A bit morbid for matrimonial bliss, I'll grant you, but beggars can't be choosers. Besides, I've shot worse. Remember the Zhaos’ wedding? The bride insisted on live doves, and then the caterer accidentally deep-fried one.” As Lanshan spoke, static rippled across the mirrored glass of an agitator unit beside him. The reflection shimmered, then coalesced, showing not Lanshan’s own face, but a decaying, skeletal visage. Sunken eye sockets stared out from beneath a tattered, crimson veil, flesh peeling away from bone, a rictus grin frozen in eternal agony. It was Pei Ruoxue’s true form, a manifestation of her centuries-old suffering, magnified and horrific. Lanshan met the reflection’s gaze. He didn’t flinch, didn’t gasp. Instead, he winked at the ghastly face, a slow, deliberate movement. “Don’t worry, darling,” he murmured, his voice playful, a thread of steel beneath the humor. “You’re still beautiful to me. I’ve photographed bridezillas who were far more rotten on the inside. At least you’re honest about it.” The spectral image in the reflection flickered, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor passing through it. Then, a presence solidified directly behind Lanshan. The air grew arctic, the scent of earth and grave dust overwhelming. Icy breath ghosted over his neck, raising goosebumps despite his outward bravado. A whisper, dry as ancient leaves, slithered into his ear. “Will you still smile,” Pei Ruoxue’s voice murmured, a chilling echo of her earlier amusement, “when I take your eyes?”

Severed Heads and Sweet Nothings