The vermilion doors groaned inward on hinges that screeched across the wet stone. A gust of fetid air, thick with the scent of stagnant water and decaying incense, spilled out from the darkness beyond. The red glow pulsing within solidified, revealing itself as the lurid light of countless votive candles, their flames dancing on the surface of the rising water, casting long, distorted shadows that writhed on the walls like tormented souls. “Oh, no, no, no,” Tang Ze whimpered, pressing himself against Rong Ji’s back like a terrified limpet. “This is bad. This is really, *really* bad. The main altar is always the worst place in these things.” Rong Ji merely grunted, pushing past the quivering vlogger into the threshold. The water within the chamber was deeper here, reaching his shins, a murky mirror reflecting the flickering candle flames. The air was heavy, humid, and held a silence that felt less like absence and more like a suppressed scream. Decaying silks draped from the rafters, once vibrant, now sodden and tattered, resembling grotesque funeral banners. Intricate paper cut-outs of dragons and phoenixes, waterlogged and warped, floated listlessly on the surface, some disintegrating into pulpy forms. He scanned the cavernous room. In the center, on a raised dais that the water had not yet claimed, sat a solitary silhouette. Still. Silent. Swathed in a bridal gown of heavy, blood-red silk, its head bowed, entirely obscured by a thick, crimson veil. Surrounding the dais were more paper effigies, not the animated ones from outside, but inert, life-sized retainers and musicians, their lacquered faces frozen in serene expressions, their parchment robes slowly softening in the damp. “Well, if it isn’t the main attraction,” Rong Ji murmured, a cynical curl to his lips. He took another step, the water swirling around his legs, when a sudden, terrified squeak ripped through the oppressive quiet. It came from beneath a large, overturned lacquered table near the far wall. A small, trembling person, adorned in a soaked hiking jacket and round spectacles, peered out. “Please! Don’t look at me!” she stammered, her voice a reedy whisper. “I’m not… I’m not supposed to be here!” “Oh, look, another one of us,” Rong Ji drawled, unconcerned. “And you are?” “D-Ding Ruo,” she whispered, her gaze darting nervously between Rong Ji, Tang Ze, and the still form on the dais. “I’m a folklorist. I… I was researching local legends near the Crane-Wading River when the broadcast… it just pulled me in.” She shivered violently, hugging her knees. “This is a ghost marriage ritual. It’s… it’s very dangerous.” “No kidding, Sherlock,” Tang Ze muttered, his face pale. “What did you expect? A tea party?” [THE HOST: Attention, cherished participants! Welcome to the Bridal Chamber! The moment you’ve all been waiting for! The grand, romantic prelude to an eternal union!] The glitchy, cheerful voice blared from a small, waterlogged radio perched precariously on a collapsing shelf. It crackled with static, the sound distorting slightly as if struggling against the temple’s curse. [THE HOST: Our groom, Rong Ji, it’s time to perform the first traditional rite!] One of the life-sized paper retainers, previously inert, suddenly straightened. Its head, a smooth, blank oval brushed with a simple, serene smile, turned slowly towards Rong Ji. It held a small, ornate cup carved from dark, polished wood, filled to the brim with a thick, crimson liquid. [THE HOST: Bridal Etiquette Rule No. 3: The Groom must accept the Burial Wine from the attendant. Looking directly at the attendant’s face is strictly forbidden. Disrespect will not be tolerated!] Tang Ze gasped, a choked sound. “Don’t look at its face, Rong Ji! Don’t do it! It’ll kill you!” Ding Ruo whimpered, pressing herself further into the shadows beneath the table. “Attendants here… they resent direct gazes. It’s a breach of their ghostly protocol. The consequences are usually… dismemberment.” Rong Ji eyed the paper effigy. Its painted smile seemed to stretch, unnervingly. He could feel the cool, damp air pressing in, prickling against the nape of his neck. This was the Broadcast’s game, a sadistic dance of rules and punishments. He took a deliberate step forward, the water parting around his legs. “Look directly at its face, huh?” he mused aloud, his voice dripping with an almost casual defiance. “Well, I can’t promise not to critique the craftsmanship. Some of these paper artisans, honestly, no sense of proper proportion.” He fixed his gaze on the outstretched, jointed paper hands, which held the cup with an eerie rigidity. He didn’t glance up, didn’t acknowledge the featureless ‘face’ above. He simply reached out, his fingers brushing the stiff paper, and took the cup. The crimson liquid inside shimmered, almost black in the dim light, smelling faintly of ferrous decay and rancid honey. [RATING UPDATE: +100 ‘Audacious Defiance’! Current Rating: 150. Total Audience Engagement: RIVETING!] “Honestly, the lack of detail in the joints,” Rong Ji continued, shaking his head slightly, still looking only at the stiff fingers, as if genuinely preoccupied with their construction. “A true master would have articulated the phalanges better.” He brought the cup to his lips, his gaze still studiously avoiding the paper ‘face’ as he drained the liquid in a single, audacious gulp. It tasted like bitter iron and the earth, leaving a metallic tang on his tongue. [THE HOST: Marvelous! Such… *intense* focus on detail! What a unique interpretation of the rules!] The paper automaton slowly retracted its hands, its featureless face still turned towards him, its sketched smile unblinking. It then folded itself back into its previous inert position, becoming just another decorative effigy. Tang Ze sagged with relief. “You… you actually did it. You found a loophole! You’re insane!” Ding Ruo peered out, a flicker of awe in her terrified eyes. “That was… incredibly risky. But clever. By treating it as an object of critique, you dehumanized it, circumventing the ‘direct gaze’ taboo.” Rong Ji merely shrugged, a small, triumphant smirk playing on his lips. He tossed the empty wooden cup onto a nearby floating paper dragon. “Risky is my middle name, sweetheart. Now, for the next item on the agenda.” He walked straight to the dais where the veiled bride sat. The water here was shallower, but still lapped at the edges of the platform. He stepped onto it, the sound of his wet boots on the ancient stone echoing in the silence. He came to a halt beside the figure, close enough to feel the faint, cold aura radiating from her. Her stillness was absolute, unnatural. He lowered himself to sit cross-legged beside her, a move of utterly brazen disregard for any unwritten taboos or the terrifying chill she exuded. He could feel the eyes of Tang Ze and Ding Ruo on him, wide with disbelief and horror. The red veil, heavy and ornate, concealed her entirely, yet he sensed her presence keenly, a frigid core in the heart of the temple. A single drop of murky, reddish water, looking suspiciously like diluted blood, clung to the delicate curve of her chin, just visible beneath the edge of the veil. It seemed to defy gravity, shimmering there, almost like a tear. Rong Ji reached out a hand, his fingers surprisingly gentle, and wiped the drop away with his thumb. His touch was light, feather-brief, yet the sheer audacity of it hung heavy in the air. The veil didn’t stir. The bride didn’t move. Until her hand, cold as river ice, shot out and seized his wrist. Her grip was sudden, bone-crushing, sending frost biting straight up his forearm to lock his lungs. He tried to pull away, but her grip was like a vice. He stared at the red veil, his defiance momentarily faltering in the face of such raw, supernatural power. Then, a voice, a whisper like the rustle of dry leaves over frozen ground, barely audible beneath the heavy silk, slithered into his ear. “Fool. The burial wine… it was poison. But fear not, groom. I have… *frozen* it in your veins.”

The Red Veil