Beyond her, the hall sprawled, a cavernous space draped in funerary silks of ash-grey and deep crimson. Gilded lanterns, shaped like weeping willows, cast a dim, shifting luminescence over a long, lacquered banquet table. White ash, like powdered bones, coated every surface. Across from each waiting palanquin, a pale, still figure sat, veiled in scarlet, mirroring Bai Muyan’s bridal attire. These were surrogate brides, lifeless paper effigies propped at the table, their empty hands resting on lacquered trays. The air hummed with the mournful thrum of a funeral drum, a slow, methodical beat that seemed to press against the ribs.
Zhiqiu stepped fully into the hall, his eyes never leaving Bai Muyan’s. He noted the intricate embroidery on her sleeves—patterns of skeletal sturgeon and withered lotus blossoms. He noted the way the spectral light caught the frost on her long, delicate fingers. He noted the complete, terrifying absence of warmth in her entire being. Yet, to him, it was merely an extreme character choice, a difficult role to play opposite. He allowed a gentle, almost imperceptible smile to grace his lips, a carefully calibrated expression of tenderness and unwavering devotion.
[ *Ding-dong* ] The Dirge-Weaver System chimed, its red script unfurling above the banquet table like fresh blood on parchment:
[ **Rule 3: The Groom Must Suffer Her Gaze.** ]
[ **At the Phantom Banquet, the groom shall make eye contact with his bride at all times. To waver, to blink in terror, or to avert your gaze from her ethereal beauty, is to invite the severing of your worldly ties.** ]
“Severing of worldly ties?” Xie Wanjin’s voice, a ragged gasp, broke the oppressive silence. He stumbled out of his palanquin, his eyes wide with unmasked horror as he took in the macabre scene. “They mean… they mean death! Soul-shredding death!”
Just then, a figure emerged from the shadowy recesses at the far end of the hall. He was a towering, skeletal man draped in ancient, tattered robes, his face a leering mask of withered skin and sunken eyes. This was Patriarch Gong Mo, the architect of this nightmare wedding. His voice, a rasping whisper that vibrated with malevolent power, echoed through the hall. “Indeed, little grub. My daughter’s beauty is a sacred thing. Any who find it… lacking… shall find themselves lacking life.” He pointed a gnarled finger, tipped with an unnaturally long, yellowed nail, at a groom who had just emerged from a palanquin to Zhiqiu’s right. The man, with a wispy mustache and trembling hands, had met his paper-bride’s blank stare for only a moment before his eyes flickered away, drawn by the ghastly sight of Gong Mo.
[ **Violation Detected: Rule 3 (Gaze Averted).** ]
[ **Penalty: Severing of Worldly Ties.** ]
Before the groom could even whimper, a shimmering, blood-red thread erupted from his chest, connecting to the Patriarch’s finger. With a guttural cackle, Gong Mo tugged. The thread snapped, and the groom’s body sagged, dissolving into a cloud of shimmering grey motes that swirled around the Patriarch before vanishing. A faint, high-pitched scream, like wind through dry bones, was the only lingering sound.
Xie Wanjin choked, his face ashen. He fumbled for his seat at the table, his gaze now frantically locked onto his own paper-bride, a terrified rictus fixed on his features. He couldn’t afford to look away, not for a single blink.
Zhiqiu, however, found his role. This wasn’t a death sentence; this was a love scene. He strode to the seat directly across from Bai Muyan, his steps fluid and unhurried. He settled into the ornate chair with balanced poise, feet anchored precisely as rehearsed across years on the opera stage. His gaze remained steadfast, not just fixed, but *engaged*. He propped his chin lightly on his hand, allowing his thumb to brush his jawline in a gesture of contemplative affection. His dark eyes narrowed slightly, cataloging every contour of her face with practiced, lover-like precision.
He watched the subtle shift of the spectral light on her veil, the way her unmoving lips seemed to hold a silent, ancient sorrow. This wasn’t just looking; this was *seeing*. This was the art of conveying profound emotion through the simplest act of observation. He could almost hear the mournful strings of the *erhu* in the background, setting the mood for a tragic, beautiful romance.
Patriarch Gong Mo watched him, sunken sockets smoldering, before turning toward the other trembling candidates. “Eat, my new sons! Partake in the feast! Let your love for my daughter fill you as you fill your bellies!”
Paper attendants began setting platters across the lacquer table with stiff, mechanical twitches. Ghastly delicacies: translucent dumplings that pulsed faintly, platters of what looked like solidified shadows, bowls of thick, red liquid that steamed with an unnatural chill. Xie Wanjin made a strangled noise, his eyes glued to his paper bride as he tried to discern if he was supposed to eat, or if even that act would constitute looking away. He certainly couldn't bring himself to touch the food.
Zhiqiu, maintaining his tender expression, picked up polished bone chopsticks. He lifted a 'shadow dumpling' from a tray and brought it to his lips, each gesture fluid and unhurried, treating the poisoned banquet like an intimate dinner with his beloved. The strange, earthy taste was unsettling, but he allowed no outward reaction to betray his performance. His eyes never left Bai Muyan’s.
One of the attendants, an effigy painted with weeping streaks, suddenly lunged forward. Its papery hand, tipped with sharp, ink-stained nails, shoved a steaming bowl of scarlet broth directly beneath Zhiqiu’s nose with jarring speed. The bowl’s contents sloshed precariously close to his robes.
Most men would have flinched, even slightly. Zhiqiu didn’t. His gaze remained locked onto Bai Muyan, unbreaking. Instead, his free hand traced a smooth arc across the tabletop. It bypassed the painted doll entirely. His fingers, warm despite the chill of the air, gently closed around Bai Muyan’s icy hand, which still clutched the frost-kissed peony across the table.
The touch was feather-light, barely there, yet utterly deliberate. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, a silent caress. His voice, a low, resonant murmur, carried only to her, a breathy whisper against the drone of the funeral drums. “My dearest Bride,” he breathed, his eyes still holding hers with an intensity that promised devotion, “How could I ever look away, when your beauty is the only thing my heart truly desires to see?”
[ *Error: System integrity compromised. Bridal aura override detected.* ]
[ *Warning: Behavioral anomaly in instance boss.* ]
[ *Ding-dong* ] The System tolled, the blood-red calligraphy flickering erratically. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through Bai Muyan’s form. The glacial emptiness in her eyes seemed to deepen, but her lethal aura, which had been a constant, oppressive weight, wavered, a ripple in the fabric of the macabre hall.
Patriarch Gong Mo’s head snapped towards Zhiqiu, his sunken eyes burning with an unholy fury. “What trickery is this, mongrel?!” His voice, no longer a whisper, clawed at the air. “You dare to… *affect* my daughter? My rules are absolute! You grooms are meant to die in terror, not to… to charm!” The air around him crackled with malevolent energy. “Very well! If you insist on rushing to your doom, then so be it! The rules change *now*!”
[ **New Rule Imposed by Instance Regulator: Veil Lifting Accelerated.** ]
[ **The Wedding Veil Ceremony shall commence immediately. Grooms, prepare to face your brides.** ]
A harsh bark of approval broke from the ghostly Patriarch, and the paper figures shuffled toward the candidates, painted fingers raised toward scarlet veils.