Fang Ziyan surveyed the chaos of the Jade Blossom Manor ballroom, a tableau of expensive panic. Jiang Xiu, the bride, was engaged in a full-throated soprano aria of distress over the color of the floral arrangements. “It’s not ‘vermilion sunset,’ Ziyan! It’s… it’s *bruised peach*! My entire aesthetic is ruined!” Ziyan, immaculate in his charcoal-grey suit, offered a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Miss Jiang, the contract specifies ‘vermilion hues, gradient to peach.’ Our artisans have executed this to the nanometer. The ambient lighting, however, provided by the venue, casts a warmer glow than anticipated. A simple adjustment of the dimmer switch, and your sunset will re-ignite.” He gestured to a junior coordinator already scurrying towards the control panel. He didn’t care about bruised peaches or ruined aesthetics. He cared about flawless execution, about managing emotional outbursts as if they were minor plumbing leaks. His tablet, displaying a color swatch comparison, vibrated with a satisfied green checkmark as the room’s lighting shifted, bathing the peonies in a truer, fiery glow. Jiang Xiu blinked, her wails tapering into a sniffle. “Oh. Well. It’s… acceptable.” Ziyan inclined his head. “Crimson Silk Events strives for nothing less.” He turned, already mentally moving on to the next logistical challenge – the delayed caviar shipment – when a sudden, sickening chill pierced the warmth of the opulent room. It wasn’t the air conditioning. It felt like a grave had opened in the middle of the dance floor. A whisper, dry as rustling funeral shrouds, slithered into his mind, followed by a searing pain in his palm. He looked down. The pristine white cuff of his shirt was stained by something dark and wet. In his hand, where his tablet had been moments ago, now rested a scrap of cured membrane. It was not paper. It was supple, like cured leather, and bore the distinct, horrifying texture of human skin. Tiny, almost invisible hairs dotted its surface, and the ‘ink’ bleeding across it was a viscous, arterial red. [Welcome, Recruit 777, to Yama-Draft Protocol Instance: Weeping-Brocade Compound.] The text pulsed, hot against his skin. The opulent ballroom, Jiang Xiu’s voice, the very air of Jade Blossom Manor, dissolved around him like smoke. The sound of his own gasp was swallowed by a sudden, jarring cacophony of wailing erhu strings and mournful flutes. He stumbled, the floor beneath him no longer polished marble but rough, decaying wood. The air was thick with the scent of dust, incense, and a suffocating sweetness like rotten fruit left on an ancestor altar. He was no longer in his suit. Heavy, coarse silk, the color of dried blood, clung to his body, fashioned into a traditional groom’s robe, complete with an embroidered phoenix and dragon entwined on the chest. “No. No, this can’t be happening again.” The voice was a low, desperate growl beside him. Ziyan turned his head, his vision still swimming, to find another man similarly garbed in crimson silk. This man was burly, his jaw trembling with a deep-seated terror Ziyan rarely saw in his high-society clients, even during a bankruptcy. “You too?” the man choked, his hands trembling as he clutched his own piece of bleeding parchment. “Damn it, I thought I was done with these purgatories! Where are we? The Yama-Draft? Again?” Before Ziyan could process the man’s frantic words, the sheet in his hand unfurled, the vermilion script shimmering. [Instance: The Calamity Bride’s Ghost Marriage. Location: Weeping-Brocade Compound. Objective: Successfully complete the Nine Taboo Rites before the Blood-Moon sets. Failure to comply with all matrimonial customs, or any transgression against the Honored Bride, will result in permanent soul-stitching into the compound’s foundation by the Censorate of Ashes. Your existence will fuel the eternal loop of this curse.] [Present Time: Hour of the Dog. Blood-Moon set in: 12:00:00.] [Compliance Rewards: Yin-tokens. Infraction Penalty: Immediate Dismemberment.] [Taboo Rites Log: 1. The Grave-Dirt Tea Ceremony: To be performed immediately upon awakening in the Bridal Chamber. (Current Status: Pending) 2. The Veiled Procession: Acknowledge the Bride in silence. (Current Status: Locked) 3. The Three Prostrations: Show proper reverence. (Current Status: Locked) ... (Further Rites Locked)] Ziyan’s gaze swept over the rules, processing them with the cold efficiency he applied to wedding budgets. Nine rites. Soul-stitching. Immediate dismemberment. This was not a bridezilla’s tantrum; this was a logistical problem of truly lethal proportions. “Oh gods, no. Look! Look what it says!” The burly man, Gou Chenguang, pointed a shaking finger at his parchment. “The Censorate of Ashes! That’s new! And soul-stitching? This is a calamity instance! We’re dead!” Ziyan ignored Gou Chenguang’s rising hysteria, his eyes still scanning the decaying chamber. It was vast, dominated by a four-poster bed draped in red silks. Cobwebs hung like heavy shroud-cloth from the rafters. The walls, brushed with faded murals of auspicious dragons and phoenixes, seemed to weep, black stains spreading from their seams like mourning ink. Paper figures – servants, musicians, a sedan chair entourage – stood frozen in various poses around the room, their lacquered grins eerie in the dim, lantern-lit space. Another figure, a young woman with a shock of purple hair, was already stumbling towards a far door. “This is insane! I’m getting out of here!” she shrieked, her voice cracking. She took one step, her foot falling squarely on a long, elongated shadow cast by one of the paper musicians. [Infraction Detected: Disrespectful Footfall upon the Shadow of the Honored Dead.] The red text flashed, searing the air. Before Ziyan could even register the warning, the paper figures around the room, previously inert, sprang to life. Two of the tallest, papier-mâché eunuchs with grotesque, doll-daubed smiles, moved with impossible speed. Their stiff, jointed limbs scissored through the air, their paper hands sharp as blades. The young woman barely had time to let out a gurgling scream before she was torn into shredded flesh, a fine mist of scarlet spraying across the decaying floorboards. Her tattered remains scattered, then dissolved into a pile of grey ash and a faint, lingering scent of burnt paper. Ziyan felt a knot tighten in his gut. This was not a game. This was a *system* that enforced its rules with terrifying finality. He had to be perfect. The two eunuchs, their sketched grins still fixed, turned their heads with a sharp, synchronized jerk. Their blank, black eyes settled on Ziyan. One extended a stiff, white hand, holding a steaming, dark cup. The aroma wafted towards him: bitter, earthy, and undeniably, sickeningly, like grave dirt. [The First Rite: The Grave-Dirt Tea Ceremony. Present your offering.] Ziyan stared at the cup, then at the eunuch’s expectant, unblinking gaze. The funeral music swelled, a mournful dirge echoing through the desolate chamber. Gou Chenguang whimpered behind him. The first rite. And the tea, a silent, macabre invitation, steamed ominously in the eunuch’s hand.