The countdown on the Broadcast Interface flickered, a stark green against the encroaching digital static. **[00:00:28]**. Xiaotian ignored the frantic scrambling of Su Ting in the wings, her gasps echoing like tiny bells against the low, mournful thrum of the paper musicians. Starving effigies. A worthy offering. He looked down at the thermal bag still clutched in his hand, the logo of ‘Spicy River Feast’ emblazoned on its side. Inside, the lingering warmth of his undelivered order. Pei Shuang, still as carved jade beside him, watched the paper audience begin to stir, dry joints grinding like dry reeds. This wasn't a time for subtlety. This was a time for five-star service. And a dash of the absurd. “Honored guests!” Xiaotian’s voice boomed, cutting through the growing murmur, cheerful and bright, utterly devoid of fear. He moved with a practiced ease, unzipping the thermal bag and pulling out a large, clear clamshell tub. The sharp sting of fried chili, garlic, and simmered peppercorn broth cut into the stagnant theater air, cutting through centuries of mold. “As the humble groom, I present to you a culinary masterpiece from the modern realm! A true delicacy that perfectly marries tradition with contemporary zest! Introducing… the ‘Inferno River Crawfish Feast’!” He held the tub aloft, spiced shells gleaming under the dim footlights. The crowd in the pit, previously shuffling forward on creaking knees, paused. Charcoal-inked eyes fixed onto the steaming heap. A ripple of confusion, then curiosity, seemed to pass through the silent, seated crowd. Xiaotian grinned, a flash of white teeth. “These aren’t just any river prawns, my esteemed audience. These are a symbol of prosperity, of fiery passion, and of the joyous, communal spirit of the modern feast! Each succulent morsel carries heat hot enough to wake the dead!” He knew he sounded like a madman trying to sell vacuum cleaners to ghosts. But the Broadcast Interface, which had been displaying a steady stream of mocking comments, suddenly began to glitch. [VIEWER: WAAH! WHAT IS THIS HUMAN DOING?!] [VIEWER: LOL! IS HE ACTUALLY SELLING FOOD TO PAPER?] [VIEWER: BUT… IT *DOES* SMELL INTERESTING…] [CHATTER_88: OLD GHOST DETECTING NEW FLAVORS. INTRIGUING!] [SUBSCRIPTION_TICKER: DIRECTOR GU’S FACE MUST BE PRICELESS!] [RATINGS SURGE: +15%] Director Gu’s disembodied voice spluttered, a crackle of static. “What… what in the name of the Void is this?! He Xiaotian, you cannot be serious! They’re paper effigies! They can’t eat!” “Ah, Director Gu, but they can *appreciate*!” Xiaotian shot back, pitch-perfect. He walked to the apron edge, setting the tub down before the front row of cutouts. He snapped on a disposable transparent glove and shucked a shell, holding up the glistening meat. “Behold, the very essence of flavor! While our honored guests may be beyond the need for sustenance, the *spirit* of the feast, the *aroma* of abundance, is a tribute in itself! A sensory journey for the spectral palate!” He set the shelled tail delicately onto the silk-clad lap of the nearest figure. Its inked grimace remained, but the parchment fingers, poised to rake skin, settled onto its knees. A strange, almost imperceptible hum resonated from the pit, like the satisfied sigh of a thousand unseen beings. The ticking timer on the interface vanished. [RULE #9: WORTHY TRIBUTE OFFERED! GUESTS APPEASED!] [DIRECTOR GU: UNBELIEVABLE! PURE LUCK! I’M RAISING THE DIFFICULTY!] The system immediately flashed: [AUDIENCE INTERACTION HAZARD: LEVEL UP!] But for now, the immediate threat receded. The silence that followed was heavy, no longer predatory, but almost… contemplative. Xiaotian turned to Pei Shuang, a tiny, almost shy smile touching his lips. He was still wearing the plastic glove. He cracked another tail, oil dripping along his fingertips. He offered the morsel to her, crimson seasoning stark against her alabaster skin. “You know, for an old-dynasty warrior, you missed out on street food. Bet the garrison only gave you hard millet. Try a taste of modern progress, Bride.” Pei Shuang’s gaze, which had watched the seating rows with heavy exhaustion, shifted down to the morsel, then up to his grin. Her pale hand, knuckle-deep in dried rust-brown gore, hovered. “I… do not partake in such… earthly pleasures.” Her voice was a low whisper, like wind chimes in a desolate temple. “Nonsense!” Xiaotian chirped, moving closer. “It’s about the experience! Think of it as… cultural exchange. From my era to yours.” He lifted the morsel against her mouth. A strange, fleeting expression crossed her face, a blend of surprise and something softer. Her lips parted, letting the seasoned bite graze her tongue. A faint, almost imperceptible glow emanated from her, and the ghost of a flavor, chili and garlic, seemed to dance in the air around her. “It’s… unusual,” she murmured, a faint blush, almost visible, spreading across her spectral cheeks. Her hand, which had been about to push him away, instead reached up, her fingers brushing against his gloved ones. “My… my wedding feast was… different. Less spice. More… blood.” A faint, bitter twist settled on her lips. “A banquet of betrayal.” He Xiaotian, ever the attentive server, kept his smile gentle, but his focus sharpened. “Betrayal, huh? Who would cross a warrior bride like you?” He shelled another bite. This time, she took it from his fingers, frost soaking straight through the latex membrane. He saw a flicker in her eyes, a memory-reflection of old pain. The rigid posture of the warrior, the delicate silk of the bride. A forced union, then a final, fatal cut. “He was… a general. My intended. He wanted my clan’s lands, my father’s strategems. He found me… in my armor, beneath my veil. On the morning of my wedding. A blade… through the heart.” Her voice was devoid of self-pity, a simple, chilling statement of fact. “This very dress… it was meant to be my shroud. Stained before the vows could be spoken.” Xiaotian listened, truly listened, the cheerful mask softening slightly at the edges. The way she said it, so matter-of-factly, spoke of centuries of frozen grief. He opened his mouth, perhaps to offer a comforting platitude, or another crawfish, when a sudden, clattering noise erupted from the gloom of the stage’s periphery. Su Ting, shivering in a shadowed alcove, stumbled backward into a leaning stack of wooden set-pieces. A metallic clang echoed, loud and jarring. Pei Shuang stiffened, the warmth that had briefly touched her face vanishing, replaced by an icy fury that radiated outward. Her eyes, which had been softening, snapped open wide, glowing with an internal, furious light. From beneath the timber, a long bundle clattered free: a corroded broadsword, bronze hilt wrapped in moldering silk, the steel notched and stained brown. The moment her gaze fell upon it, the Hundred-Echoes Opera House itself seemed to groan. The ground beneath them trembled, a deep, resonant rumble that shook the very foundations of the decaying theater. Dust showered from the rafters, and the cutouts shook in their row chairs, dried lacquer peeling along their jaws.

Spicy Crawfish Tribute