The grand doors to the main stage groaned open, not with the theatrical flourish one might expect, but with a sluggish, reluctant sigh of old, stressed wood. Beyond them lay pitch, an echoing cavern from which the sweet stench of rotting lotus petals intensified.
[AUDIENCE APPRECIATION: IMMERSION LEVEL – EXCELLENT!]
[VIEWER COUNT: RISING!]
He Xiaotian offered Pei Shuang a reassuring, if slightly forced, smile. “Well, Your Highness, it seems our ride has arrived. Shall we make a grand entrance?” He kept his voice light, ignoring the mounting drone from beneath the floorboards, a guttural murmur of unseen multitudes. His grip remained firm on her surprisingly cool hand, a delicate anchor in the swirling chaos.
Pei Shuang’s crimson veil shifted, a faint sound like rustling silk in a phantom breeze. She did not speak, but the spectral frost that had edged her posture seemed to recede a fraction. Instead of pulling away, she leaned toward him by an inch. It was enough. He Xiaotian took a measured step forward, guiding her into the abyssal black.
As they crossed the threshold, the funeral dirge from the foyer mutated, now laced with a frantic, plucked string melody that sounded like a horde of starved insects gnawing on a gourd. The stage was not empty. A sea of paper effigies, stiff and unnervingly lifelike in their painted finery, filled the orchestra pit and the first few rows, their blank eyes fixed on the entrance. They sat with rigid backs, clutching paper instruments – flutes with gaping holes, lutes with snapped strings. Overhead, grotesque fixtures fashioned from bleached bone and tarnished brass swayed on long, creaking irons.
“A bit dusty for a wedding venue, wouldn’t you say?” He Xiaotian murmured, his eyes scanning every shadow, every unnaturally still fold of paper costume. He wasn’t just assessing the front rows; he was scanning the floorboards for wire and grease. His delivery rider instincts, honed by years of navigating chaotic city streets and dodging unexpected obstacles, screamed at him. This wasn't just a stage; it was an elaborate gauntlet.
Su Ting scrambled in behind them, fingers digging into the chipped paint of the doorframe. She whimpered, pressing herself against the doorframe, unable to move further. “It’s… it’s a trap,” she choked out, barely audible over the chattering drone underfoot. “Everywhere. A trap.”
[WARNING: AUDIENCE MEMBERS ARE EXPECTED TO BE SEATED PROMPTLY!]
He Xiaotian didn’t acknowledge Su Ting directly. His focus was entirely on Pei Shuang and the immediate path. He tugged gently on her hand. “Don’t worry, Your Highness, I always check my routes for potholes. OSHA would have a field day with this place, though.”
His foot scuffed against something low and taut – a barely visible wire stretched across the stage floor. Just as he instinctively adjusted his step, a groaning shriek echoed from above. One of the bone fixtures overhead snapped loose, its link parting with an iron screech. It arced downward, a jagged mass of rib cages and verdigris brass aimed straight at Pei Shuang’s head.
His delivery reflexes, trained to swerve around sudden potholes and careening pedestrians, kicked in. He didn't just dodge; he moved with a practiced fluidity, hauling Pei Shuang into his chest and pivoting them both clear of the pendulum's reach. Her frame met his ribcage with solid, cool resistance, silk catching against his nylon jacket. The bone-and-brass monstrosity smashed into the stage floor with a sickening crunch, sending splinters and metallic shrapnel flying where they had stood a mere heartbeat before.
[GROOM DEXTERITY: 5 STARS!]
[REACTION TIME: IMPRESSIVE!]
[VIEWER ENGAGEMENT: EXPLODING!]
He held her an extra second, the cold radiating through her gown seeping into his sleeves. Sandalwood incense drifted from her sleeves as her veil brushed his cheekbone. When he finally loosened his embrace, setting her gently back on her feet, he kept his voice light, a practiced customer service murmur. “See? Workplace hazards. Always gotta be vigilant. Good thing your groom’s got a perfect safety record, huh?” He winked, though he doubted she could see it through the veil. The sheer audacity of his flirtation, a shield against the terror, was both genuine and a deliberate provocation.
Pei Shuang kept quiet, her fingers twitching against his sleeve before drawing back. It wasn't rejection, not exactly. It was more like a re-evaluation, a flicker of something unreadable behind the crimson silk. She glanced down at the pulverized rib bones, then turned her head back toward him.
Behind his grin, his gaze flicked to the upper perimeter of the green readout. Tucked below the stream of comments and view counts, a small, square timer blinked. It was a digital clock, counting down. **[BROADCAST RUNTIME: 01:59:59]** it read, before glitching violently, the numbers scrambling into static for a split second, then reforming: **[BROADCAST RUNTIME: 01:59:58]**. Two hours. One hundred and twenty minutes. Then, the entire set, the opera house, the paper effigies, and everyone trapped within, would be… deleted. Turned to static. His grin froze at the corners. This wasn't just about surviving the rules; it was about finding an unlisted exit condition before the show itself was canceled.
“The show must go on, right?” Director Gu’s voice cut through the air, sharper than usual, laced with a fresh note of annoyance. “But it seems some of our guests are getting a little… peckish. And the groom hasn’t exactly been attentive to their needs, has he?”
A knot tightened in his belly. Director Gu was adapting, reacting to his survival. This was going to get harder. He glanced toward the pit; the lacquered red grins on the effigies appeared wider now, waiting.
[RULE #9 UPDATE: IMMEDIATE!] Director Gu’s voice boomed over the stage. “To appease the honored guests and secure their blessing, the groom must present a worthy offering to the starving masses within sixty seconds! Failure to comply will result in a… hearty feast for our hungry attendees!” The system window flashed crimson: **[RULE #9: OFFER A WORTHY TRIBUTE TO THE HUNGRY GUESTS WITHIN 60 SECONDS. FAILURE MEANS BEING THE TRIBUTE.]** A new timer, small and insistent, began ticking down: **[00:00:59]**.
Xiaotian's eyes snapped to the paper figures. Starving? They were made of paper. What did a paper effigy even eat? And what counted as an acceptable gift in a theater built on graves? The countdown was already half-gone.