A bone-deep chill permeated the air, thick with the scent of dried ceremonial paper and grave dust. From his precarious perch high in the rafters, Xie Wanjin pressed himself further into the shadow of a dust-shrouded beam, his breath a ragged, shallow thing. He’d seen enough instances to know this sound. This particular, soul-rending chorus of the damned. The old man wasn’t just sending a few spirits; he was emptying the entire damn estate. Xie Wanjin squeezed his eyes shut, a pathetic whimper catching in his throat. This was it. The newbie, Jian Zhiqiu, had finally pushed it too far. No amount of bizarre, suicidal charm could save him from a direct assault by the instance boss’s father. He was dead. They were all dead, just a matter of time. With a sound like splintering bone, the heavy double doors exploded inward, torn from their hinges as if struck by an invisible battering ram. Dust motes danced in the gloom, illuminated by the lurid glow of the spirit-world bleeding into reality. And then they came. Not a few, but hundreds, thousands of paper-figures, their hollow eyes fixed on the man in the center of the hall. They were no longer the mutely weeping attendants from the banquet hall. Their paper faces were contorted into rictus snarls, their flimsy limbs twitching with a manic hunger. Each rustle of their stiff, painted robes was a whisper of malice, a promise of shredding agony. They poured into the room, a swirling tide of predatory hunger, their numbers obscuring the very walls. The air grew heavy, pressing down, threatening to suffocate. Zhiqiu felt the phantom touch of countless cold, papery hands reaching, grasping, eager to tear at his flesh. Their malice prickled against his skin like needlepoints, yet his stance remained unyielding. His eyes, dark and unwavering, were not on the approaching horror, but solely on Bai Muyan. He stepped forward, placing himself squarely between her and the onslaught. His red robes billowed around him, a defiant splash of color against the monochromatic terror. He took her hand, his thumb tracing a gentle circle on her cold knuckles. Her skin felt like marble, but he held it with a warmth that seemed to defy the freezing dread in the room. His voice, clear and resonant despite the growing cacophony of rustling paper and spectral wails, cut through the noise, a declaration aimed not at the horde, but at the enraged presence beyond them. “I swore to protect you,” Zhiqiu stated, his gaze fixed on the empty doorway where Gong Mo’s rage coalesced. “And I will. No one, not even your own blood, will lay a hand on you while I live.” His tone was not one of desperate bravado, but of absolute conviction, the perfected delivery of a hero in a grand, tragic play. “Your family has hurt you enough. I won’t allow it anymore.” Bai Muyan’s frozen heart, which had just begun to thrum with a warmth she hadn’t felt in centuries, gave a sudden, painful lurch. To be protected. To be *defended* against her father, who had orchestrated her endless torment. No groom before him, in all the countless cycles of this macabre ritual, had ever dared. They had either cowered, fled, or simply succumbed. But Zhiqiu… he stood firm, his body a shield, his words a defiant challenge. He looked at her not as a monster, but as a cherished bride, unjustly tormented. A surge of frigid power, raw and untamed, erupted from her. The ethereal chill that had defined her presence amplified a hundredfold, sweeping through the bridal suite like an arctic gale. The leading edge of the paper-figure horde, mere inches from Zhiqiu, froze. Their twitching limbs locked rigid, mouths frozen mid-shriek. They were suspended mid-air, a macabre tableau of spectral fury, caught in a sudden, impossible stasis. The remaining figures, still pouring in, faltered, their momentum arrested by the sheer, overwhelming force emanating from the Ashen Bride. Patriarch Gong Mo’s guttural roar of disbelief echoed from the estate’s depths, shaking the very foundations of the pavilion. He had never anticipated this. Never once had his own daughter openly defied him, much less protected a groom slated for execution. The Dirge-Weaver System, reeling from the unprecedented boss interference, wailed with a dissonant, off-key toll, a sound of utter confusion and chaos. [FATAL ERROR: BOSS ENTITY HAS VIOLATED CORE IMMUNITY PROTOCOL.] [WARNING: INSTANCE INTEGRITY COMPROMISED. FORCIBLE TERMINATION PROTOCOL INITIATED.] [SYSTEM OVERRIDE: PATRIARCH GONG MO’S ‘HUNDRED GHOSTS NIGHT PARADE’ INTERRUPTED!] [NEW PRIMARY OBJECTIVE UNLOCKED!] Blood-red calligraphy flashed across Zhiqiu’s vision, overriding the previous warnings with urgent, undeniable clarity. It wasn’t a glitch, not an error message. It was a new directive, sharp and precise, born from this defiance. [SECRET CONDITION UNLOCKED: SEVER THE ANCESTRAL CURSE BEFORE DAWN.] Bai Muyan’s gaze, previously cold and distant, now held a bewildered warmth that flickered like candlelight in the gloom. Her hand, still in Zhiqiu’s, shifted. And then, slowly, deliberately, her pale, marble-like hand entwined with his, her grip tightening, a silent, powerful affirmation. It was a gesture of trust, of alliance, made in the face of her father’s ultimate fury, amidst a hall frozen solid with suspended horrors. The final toll of the wedding bell still loomed, but now, a fragile, forbidden hope sparked in the heart of the Weeping-Gong Estate.

The Father-in-Law's Fury