Nie Wanshan stared at the chipped granite slab, the name etched there fading like a bad memory. The scent of damp earth and stale chrysanthemums clung to the air, a familiar perfume of the forgotten. Beside him, Nie Jiao, ever practical, knelt to brush away fallen leaves, her college textbook clutched under one arm. “You know, they could at least trim the weeds,” she muttered, more to herself than him. “It’s like they assume the dead don’t mind looking shabby.”
Wanshan grunted. “The dead don’t mind anything, Jiao. That’s the point.” He wanted a nap. A long, undisturbed nap, far from the echoes of explosions and the phantom ache of a rifle stock against his shoulder. Civilian life was supposed to be quiet. Boring, even. He craved boring.
A sudden shift in the air, not cold, but *thick*, like trying to breathe swamp gas, made the hairs on his arms prickle. The cemetery, just moments ago bathed in the wan light of a dying afternoon, now felt distant. The familiar rows of headstones blurred into an indistinct grey, and the scent of decay thickened into sour musk, entirely unnatural. This was a scent of ancient rot, of things that should not exist.
“Did you feel that?” Jiao whispered, standing abruptly, her hand flying to her throat. Her pragmatic stare, usually sharp, shrank toward the ground in genuine confusion.
Before Wanshan could answer, the world dissolved. It wasn’t a fade-to-black or a dizzying spin. It was a complete, instantaneous re-stitching of reality. One moment, the cemetery; the next, a suffocating, milky fog. The ground beneath their feet was no longer packed earth but slick, moss-covered cobblestones. The air hummed with a low drone, like distant bamboo pipes played at a funeral.
Paper lanterns, glowing with an internal, sickly yellow light, bobbed in the mist, outlining the gables of unseen structures. He smelled tallow and burned sandalwood, mixed with something else: rust and old blood. And then, the voice.
[Welcome, cherished viewers, to the Eldritch Broadcast Network!]
The voice was an assault, booming and saccharine, as if a deranged game show host were trying to sell them a lifetime supply of existential dread. It vibrated in Wanshan's teeth, settling deep in his chest.
[Season Four of ‘Till Death Do Us Part’ is officially underway! Our premiere location? The quaint, fog-choked Mount Jitu Shrine!]
Jiao stumbled back, her face pale. “What is this? Wanshan, what’s happening?”
Wanshan, ever the soldier, even in retirement, scanned their new surroundings. Courtyards, narrow pathways, intricate wooden latticework, all draped in a perpetual shroud of mist. He saw effigies, too. Not human. Paper-thin, dressed in archaic robes, their painted faces frozen in serene, blank smiles. They stood rooted in place, like macabre decorations.
[Our brave contestants will embark on the sacred—and completely lethal—journey of the funeral-nuptial rites! Your goal? Conquer the ratings, survive the curses, and avoid becoming permanent scenery! And now, for your debut episode’s rules!]
A shimmering panel of vermilion characters materialized before Wanshan, glowing faintly in the mist. Jiao gasped, pressing herself against her brother.
[Rule 1: The crimson veil of the Calamity Boss Bride, Su Qiaoyue, must *never* be lifted by mortal hands. Violation results in immediate conversion to wedding streamers!]
[Rule 2: Offerings to the Paper-Flesh Relatives must be completed before sundown. Failure to appease results in a rather… intimate family reunion!]
[Rule 3: Compliments to the Bride are encouraged! Negative remarks will result in a complimentary face-removal service!]
[Rule 4: All wedding attendants must remain within the Shrine’s boundaries. Trespassers make excellent fertilizer!]
“Wedding streamers?” Jiao choked out, her voice thin. “Wanshan, this isn’t real, right? It’s some kind of VR prank, a kidnapping…”
Wanshan felt a familiar detachment settle over him. Terror was a luxury he couldn't afford. It was a mission brief. A new set of parameters. His retirement was officially ruined. He pinched the bridge of his nose, a weary sigh escaping him. “Doesn’t matter what it is, Jiao. We play, or we die. And if we die, we become ‘eternal reruns’ or ‘fertilizer.’ Not ideal for future nap schedules.” His gaze drifted to the paper effigies. They looked disturbingly like the old squad photos from his last deployment, just… flatter.
[And now, for our dashing groom! Nie Wanshan! Your sedan awaits!]
The pipes picked up pace, joined by the rhythmic clang of gongs. From the swirling fog, a palanquin emerged, carried by four more folded attendants. It was an ornate, dark wood sedan, draped in heavy scarlet silk. Inside, a shadowy form sat still.
“Wanshan, no!” Jiao grabbed his arm, her eyes pleading. “You can’t just… get in there!”
“I don’t think ‘can’t’ is an option, sis.” Wanshan pushed her gently behind him. “Stay close. Follow the rules. Try not to piss off the paper people or the bride. And for god’s sake, don’t look at her veil.” He gave her a tired, lopsided grin, the kind he used to flash before walking into a known ambush. “Looks like I’m getting married, Jiao. Hope you brought a gift.”
He strode to the palanquin, pushing aside the silk curtain with a sigh. The interior was surprisingly spacious, dimly lit by a single, pulsating red lamp. Opposite him sat Su Qiaoyue, the Calamity Boss Bride. She was a silhouette swathed in cinnabar, from her flowing robes to the thick, blood-red veil that entirely obscured her face. Only the faint glimmer of something large and gold—perhaps an elaborate hair ornament—peaked from the top of the veil.
“Well,” Wanshan said, settling onto the plush cushion opposite her. The wood creaked under his weight. “This is certainly a departure from the usual blind date. No small talk? No awkward silences about the weather?”
A tremor passed through the bride’s form. The air around her dropped several degrees, pinning Wanshan's lungs in a sudden vice. He heard a faint, high-pitched scratching sound from beneath the veil. *Interesting.*
“I was hoping for a lovely civilian retirement, you know,” Wanshan continued, leaning back. The sedan began to move, swaying gently as the paper bearers carried them deeper into the shrine’s misty pathways. “Naps, maybe a bit of fishing. Definitely not a… posthumous shotgun wedding. Bit of a downer, if I’m honest.” He paused. “But, you know, a man’s gotta adapt. And you’ve got good taste in color. Red really suits the… atmosphere.”
The scratching sound scraped louder, and Wanshan swore he heard a faint, choked squeak. The bride’s shoulders seemed to draw inward, as if she were shrinking. Was that… embarrassment? From a terrifying apparition cloaked in red silk?
[High ratings inbound! The Groom’s charming cynicism is a hit! Keep it up, Nie Wanshan!]
“Oh, I intend to,” Wanshan murmured, mostly to himself. He glanced out the sedan window, past the red curtain. They passed a small gathering of other contestants, huddled fearfully, their faces grey in the mist. One young man, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and awe, stared straight at Wanshan. Then, his gaze lingered on the open sedan, on Wanshan’s new, terrifying bride.
Suddenly, the air crackled. The pipe music abruptly ceased, replaced by a guttural, wet ripping sound. The paper bearers carrying the sedan jolted to a stop. A shriek, raw and despairing, ripped through the fog.
Outside, the young man’s body exploded. Not like a bomb, but as if an invisible, impossibly sharp force had shredded him into a thousand slick ribbons. They fluttered for a moment, then began to dissolve, melting into the ancient cobblestones, leaving nothing but a lingering scent of iron and ozone.
Wanshan, ever unfazed, simply observed. His eyes flickered to the bride. He noticed the red lamp inside the sedan pulsed a little brighter, a faint curl of vapor rising from the folds of her veil. The scratching sound beneath it had stopped, replaced by a soft, rapid breathing. She sat motionless, but Wanshan felt the change. The cold draft in the carriage grew heavier, but it was no longer malevolent. It was… possessive.
Then, for just a flicker, through the heavy fabric, Wanshan saw it: the very edges of her cloth, where it met her neck, seemed to darken a shade, a blush of deep, embarrassed heat blooming beneath the blood-stained weave.
“Hmm,” Wanshan said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a slightly crumpled pack of mints, extracted one, and unwrapped it. “Long trip ahead, isn’t it? Funerals, weddings, dismemberments. Can get a bit… metallic, sometimes. Want one?” He extended the small white disc towards the crimson veil, a cynical, combat-fatigued soldier offering a breath mint to a blood-soaked ghost bride.
The bride remained frozen, but the blush beneath her veil deepened, and the air around her thickened to a stifling heat. Wanshan, oblivious to the monstrous affection he’d just ignited, simply waited, the mint poised. The funeral pipes started again, this time with a frantic, joyful cadence. The sedan lurched forward.
[Magnificent! Truly magnificent! The ratings are skyrocketing! What a perfect start to our Season Four premiere! But the ceremony is far from over, dear viewers! Our newlyweds have a long, bloody night ahead! Will Nie Wanshan survive his own wedding? Or will his bride claim him entirely before the dawn? Stay tuned!]
The paper bearers carrying the sedan sped up, the flutes now a celebratory, if eerie, crescendo. Wanshan simply shrugged, popping the mint into his own mouth. He still needed that nap. But first, he had to keep his sister alive, and apparently, flirt with a monster.
He watched the last vestiges of the screaming contestant's dissolved body vanish into the stone, leaving behind only the faintest smear. *Damn*, he thought, *that’s going to be a pain to clean up.*