Su Qiaoyue drifted an inch off the cedar planks, watching Nie Wanshan lean in toward his sister. Her stitched sleeves twitched, long talons digging through embroidered silk. For decades, her world had smelled exclusively of burned paper and copper runoff from headless trespassers. Now, this exhausted soldier treated her bloodbaths like paperwork and promised her uninterrupted afternoons on a porch. The notion of Peizhi interrupting those quiet hours turned her spectral blood to boiling lye. Nie Wanshan stepped back over to her, shoulders slumping into familiar military slouch. “The Banqueting of the Dead. Peizhi playing executioner.” He rubbed the stubble along his jaw. “Administrative nonsense.” [DEAREST VIEWERS, OUR GROOM’S FAMILY IS ALREADY GATHERING! DO NOT MISS THE PAGEANTRY!] “Wanshan, I can distract them,” Qiaoyue offered, her voice a low hum. “The paper-flesh creatures. My presence alone usually draws… intense reactions.” He nodded, checking the laces on his combat boots. “Good. We need to buy Jiao time. The servants' quarters are likely behind the main hall. That’s where Peizhi would stash his ‘Sponsor Contract’ – the physical tether to his privileges, if I know how these cheap thrill-rides operate.” Jiao adjusted the strap of her satchel. “Right. Maximum chaos in the main hall. I’ll make a run for it.” Wanshan watched her disappear into the gloom, then turned back to Qiaoyue. “Ready to put on a show?” He pushed open the heavy double doors to the banquet hall. Inside, dozens of paper-flesh figures sat around long, low tables laden with bowls of dry rice and rotting pork, red wax dots painted where their cheeks met. Their hollow eyes swiveled in unison, fixing on Wanshan and Qiaoyue. At the head table, Ding Peizhi lounged back, tapping the chipped iron spine of an executioner's cleaver against the lacquered wood. “Wanshan,” Peizhi drawled, tilting the heavy cleaver upright. “Just in time. The guests were getting restless. Don’t want to keep them waiting for the main event, do we?” Wanshan ignored him, sweeping his gaze across the assembled guests. He leaned closer to Qiaoyue, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Remember the plan. Make them scream.” “With pleasure,” Qiaoyue murmured, tilting her head until the jade beads in her hair clicked. Her veil, which had been steadily rising to reveal her full face, now shimmered with an unsettling energy. Her red pupils narrowed to razor slits beneath the sheer gauze. She took Wanshan’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and stepped forward, pulling him slightly ahead of the entrance. [OH, MY! WHAT AN ENTRANCE! WILL OUR FIERY BRIDE FINALLY UNVEIL HER TRUE PASSION?] “Peizhi,” Wanshan called out, his voice carrying easily across the hushed hall. “Still playing the loyal dog, I see. What did they promise you? A lifetime supply of instant noodles and a new gaming console?” Peizhi’s grin tightened. “You’ll regret that, Wanshan. Rule four is posted right by the lintel: disrupt the banquet rites, and the sponsor takes your next of kin.” “The rules?” Wanshan scoffed, tightening his grip on Qiaoyue’s hand. “Funny, I thought you were the one who kept rewriting them.” He pulled Qiaoyue closer, overtly, provocatively, ignoring the collective gasp that rippled through the paper-flesh guests. He tilted her chin, caught the frost on her lips, and kissed her hard, lingering against the cold silk of her skin in open defiance of every ancestral modesty rite. [ASTOUNDING! UNSCRIPTED PASSION! THE VIEWERSHIP IS… EXPLODING!] Across the hall, the paper-flesh figures began to stir, their static smiles contorting into rictus snarls. Their pasted joints creaked like cracking bamboo. Peizhi shoved his stool back and slammed the iron cleaver down, splitting a serving tray. “What are you doing? You’ll ruin the broadcast rating curve!” Wanshan broke the kiss with an audible smack, exhaling against her chin. “Ruin everything? That’s standard operating procedure, squad lead.” Qiaoyue's face flared brilliant pink beneath her veil, her fingers sinking possessively into his collar. “Let them watch. Let them see what happens when you try to cage a spirit.” *** Nie Jiao crept through the moldy servants' corridor, clutching the drone-eye jar against her ribs. The floorboards reeked of damp rot and cold tallow candles. Past a row of empty bunk frames, she spotted a desk littered with charred talisman paper and a familiar dog-eared snapshot: Wanshan and Peizhi squinting under harsh desert sun, both wearing mud-stained webbing. Jiao sneered at the paper, resisting the urge to spit on it. She found it in a small, cramped room, tucked beneath a loose floorboard. Not a contract, but a small, ornate wooden box. Inside, nestled on crimson silk, was a single, gleaming platinum card, etched with the symbol of the Eldritch Broadcast Network. *Sponsor: Ding Peizhi.* This was it. The direct conduit, the physical manifestation of his authority. Jiao felt a tremor of triumph. She could feel the faint hum of the network emanating from it, a faint but steady energy signature. It was an access key, a remote control. If she could overload this… [WARNING! UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED! INITIATING SECURITY PROTOCOL!] A floorboard shrieked near the entrance. Peizhi stepped out of the blind turn, carrying a second cleaver dripping black grease. The slick grin was gone from his mouth, replaced by a flat, hollow scowl. “You little pest,” he said, raising the notched steel blade until it scraped the low ceiling beam. “Did you think I didn't leave a motion ping on the sponsor ledger? Let's see if your brother loves you enough to forfeit his retirement.”

Ghosts of the Past