The drone-eye, imprisoned within its oil-jar cage, pulsed with an agitated, sickly yellow glow. Nie Jiao’s report pointing toward the Summit of Weeping Pines hung in the frigid air of the Ancestral Hall. Nie Wanshan, having just overridden an otherworldly mind-hack with a mouthful of Blood-Wine, still felt the tremor in his hands. He glanced at Su Qiaoyue. Her spectral dress, once a pristine white, was now streaked with faint, shimmering traces of black where the system’s control had tried to burn through her essence.
“A new target, then,” Wanshan said, his voice a low rumble. He rubbed a hand over his face, a gesture of exhaustion that was becoming increasingly familiar. “But first, we need a moment to breathe. And maybe somewhere without, you know, ancestral spirits judging my life choices.” He gestured to the dusty, disapproving portraits on the walls.
Qiaoyue, her gaze still carrying a residual, haunted quality, pointed a delicate, pale finger towards a crumbling stone pathway leading behind the Ancestral Hall. “There is an old subterranean vault. Beneath the persimmon tree. It is... quiet.” Her voice was soft, like wind chimes in a forgotten garden, a stark contrast to the earlier cacophony of her forced rage.
They moved quickly, Nie Jiao clutching her glowing jar, Wanshan keeping a protective hand on Qiaoyue’s arm. The underground vault was exactly as Qiaoyue described: a squat, unassuming wooden door set into the earth, half-hidden by gnarled roots. Inside, the air was cool and still, smelling faintly of damp earth and forgotten harvests. Barrels and empty clay pots lined the rough-hewn walls, and a single, narrow bench offered a place to rest.
As Jiao carefully placed her drone-jar on a barrel, its light casting dancing shadows, Wanshan turned to Qiaoyue. The black streaks on her dress were not fading. They pulsed faintly, like dying embers. He reached out, his calloused fingers hovering inches from her cheek. “That… whatever they did to you,” he began, his usual cynical edge noticeably absent. “It left a mark.”
Qiaoyue flinched, a subtle tremor running through her spectral form. “It burns,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Like phantom acid gnawing at my essence. A violation.” She looked away, her head bowed. “They found my most vulnerable memories, Wanshan. The pain of the final binding.”
He gently took her hand, his touch surprisingly warm against her chill. “Tell me,” he urged, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand, a small, comforting rhythm. “If it helps.”
She hesitated, then began, her voice a fragile wisp of memory. “Before this place, before the veil… I was not a ghost bride. I was a girl. From the village of Yunxi. Offered… to pacify the mountain god. A sacrifice. They dressed me in white, then red. A marriage, they called it. To eternal slumber.” Her grip on his hand tightened, a desperate plea for understanding. “My heart still beat when they sealed the tomb. My spirit… it resented. And then, the broadcast found me. Twisted my resentment into this. A weapon. A calamity. Always bound. Always under their eye.”
Wanshan listened, his face unreadable. His usual flippant remarks died on his tongue. He saw a kindred spirit in her, another soul used and discarded by forces beyond their control. Managing her suddenly felt less like defusing an unexploded mortar and more like shielding someone through an ambush.
“They won’t bind you again,” Wanshan stated, his voice low and firm, echoing with an unexpected conviction that surprised even himself. His primary ambition remained intact—exploit the rules, survive, and return to an uninterrupted couch—yet the arithmetic had shifted. “I’ll dismantle their whole production before I let them touch you like that again. You’re free now, Qiaoyue. Truly free. No gods, no broadcasts, no sponsors. Just you.”
The words hung in the cool shelter. Qiaoyue’s gaze met his, and in her spectral eyes, the black streaks faded entirely, replaced by a clarity he hadn’t seen before. A faint, ethereal blush painted her cheeks, no longer hidden by her veil. She leaned into his touch, her other hand coming up to cup his cheek. Her touch, once chill, now felt like a gentle warmth seeping into his very bones.
He leaned in, the scent of petrichor and something sweet, like forgotten plums, filling his senses. Her lips, soft and cool, met his. Her mouth was dry, tasted faintly of dried persimmon and paper ash, but steady against his own.
Nie Jiao, clearing her throat with exaggerated politeness, broke the spell. “Ahem. As much as I enjoy the… dramatic tension, Wanshan, I’ve made some progress.” She tapped the glowing jar. “This little bugger transmits on a frequency unique to the Eldritch Broadcast. It’s a direct link to their master control terminal.”
Wanshan reluctantly pulled back, a faint flush on his own cheeks. He cleared his throat. “And?”
“And,” Jiao continued, “if we spike the show’s ratings—get them astronomical viewership—I can overload the terminal using its own feedback loop. Turn the feed back down their throats.”
[ATTENTION! ATTENTION, DEAREST VIEWERS!]
The Director’s voice boomed, rattling the ceiling timbers and making the ancient barrels tremble. It was louder, more triumphant than ever before, echoing across Mount Jitu, even piercing the damp earth and stone.
[GET READY FOR THE GRAND FINALE! THE CULMINATION OF ALL YOUR BLOODTHIRSTY DREAMS! YOUR BELOVED PRODUCER HAS A SPECIAL TREAT IN STORE FOR OUR LOVELY GROOM AND HIS FIERY BRIDE!]
Nie Wanshan exchanged a look with Qiaoyue.
[PRESENTING: ‘THE BANQUETING OF THE DEAD’! FEATURING YOUR VERY OWN, EXCLUSIVE, VIP EXECUTIONER… MR. DING PEIZHI HIMSELF! LET THE SHOW BEGIN!]