“My bride,” Zhiqiu murmured, his voice a low, steady thrum against the unnatural quiet, “it seems our grand production has entered its final act.” From the rafters above, a terrified cough broke the silence. Xie Wanjin, a shadow among the ornate carvings, slowly lowered himself, his face ashen. He stared at the tableau below – the array of paper-figures arrested mid-lunge, the unearthly bride gripping the new groom’s hand, the blood-red text still hovering in the air. “You… you actually did it,” Xie Wanjin breathed, staring slack-jawed. “You got a new objective. A *secret* one.” He pointed a trembling finger at the glowing characters. “Sever the ancestral curse… before dawn. Do you even know what that means?” Zhiqiu turned, his smile unwavering. “It means we have a deadline, and a grand finale to prepare for. And you, my friend, have just volunteered to be our stage manager.” Xie Wanjin nearly choked. “Me? I’m a survivor! I’m not… I don’t flirt with calamity bosses! My expertise is *avoiding* death traps, not walking into them with a smile!” “Precisely,” Zhiqiu said, his gaze returning to Muyan, whose expression remained a fascinating blend of confusion and nascent affection. “You know the workings of these phantom worlds, the mechanics of these death-games. We need that knowledge. My bride and I,” he gave Muyan’s hand a gentle squeeze, “are rather new to this particular form of marital strife.” Muyan’s head tilted slightly, a subtle acknowledgment of his words. Her grip on his hand remained firm. “The ancestral curse,” Xie Wanjin whispered, rubbing his temples. “It’s what binds her to this place. To break it, you have to get to the core. The heart of this instance. Usually, that’s the Ancestral Shrine. It’s always rigged with hallucinations and physical snares. The resentment of the estate fights back harder the closer you get.” [WARNING: INITIATING RETRIBUTION PROTOCOL. ALL PATHWAYS SCRAMBLED.] [WARNING: SPIRIT VEILS ACTIVATED. PSYCHIC AURA INFLUX IMMINENT.] The previous blood-red text vanished, replaced by new warnings. The motionless paper-figures around them began to crackle with dark energy, though they remained locked in place under Muyan’s power. “See?” Xie Wanjin gestured wildly. “The estate is already fighting back! We can’t just walk through this place. The hallways shift, the dirges disorient, and the illusions prey on your deepest fears. You’ll be lost, driven mad, or shredded before you even reach the main corridor!” “Then we shall simply have to hold each other’s hands very tightly,” Zhiqiu said, looking at Muyan. “My beloved, will you trust me to lead the way, even through the darkest corners of your family’s labyrinth?” Muyan met his gaze, her porcelain features softening. A hint of a smile touched her lips, a fragile blossom in the desolate air. She nodded, her pallid fingers tightening around his, a silent pact. As they stepped past the threshold of the bridal chamber, the doors slamming shut behind them, the atmosphere outside was a suffocating shroud of despair. Funeral dirges, previously faint, now swelled into a cacophony of sorrow, reverberating through the vast, empty halls. The very walls seemed to writhe, the flickering lantern-light casting grotesque, shifting shadows that whispered tempting untruths. “Don’t listen to them,” Xie Wanjin urged, his voice strained. “They’ll tell you you’re trapped, that you’re worthless, that your choices are futile. They’ll show you visions of everything you’ve lost.” Zhiqiu didn't flinch. He walked with an actor’s deliberate grace, his hand firmly holding Muyan’s. He turned to her, his voice cutting through the mournful melodies. “You know, my dear,” he said, his tone light, a stark contrast to the oppressive gloom, “my family’s troupe, the ‘Crimson Cloud Melody Theatre,’ used to perform the most outlandish comedies. We had one, ‘The Rogue Scholar and the Serpent Spirit,’ where the hero had to sneak through a monster’s lair disguised as a delivery boy. It was all about distracting the grumpy guardians with terrible jokes and exaggerated compliments.” Muyan listened, her head tilted, the ethereal chill of the hallway seemingly less potent around her. “Perhaps I should try that now,” Zhiqiu continued, a twinkle in his eye. “Tell me, my beautiful bride, do you think I could charm an angry phantom with a truly terrible pun about, say, a haunted teacup?” A low, melodic sound escaped Muyan’s throat – a genuine chuckle, soft as falling snow. The sound itself seemed to push back against the despairing notes of the dirge. Her lips curved into a true, unblemished smile, a rare, breathtaking sight that caused the shadowy miasma clinging to the walls to visibly recoil, like smoke shying away from fire. “The smiles… the smiles actually work?” Xie Wanjin stammered, utterly dumbfounded. “I’ve never seen the nightmare react like that! It’s like her genuine emotion is… repelling it.” “A beautiful smile is a powerful thing, Wanjin,” Zhiqiu replied, his gaze locked on Muyan. “Especially when it’s directed at me. Come, my love, tell me, what kind of performance would you like to see, once we’ve escaped this theatrical tragedy?” Muyan considered, her gaze thoughtful. “Something… bright,” she said, her voice a soft, dry rustle, like silk. “Something with… laughter.” “Laughter it is,” Zhiqiu promised, his thumb gently caressing the back of her hand. “I’ll sing a comedy just for you, in my family’s theatre. I’ll make you laugh until your sides ache, and until the sun itself grows jealous of your joy. Consider it my first gift to you, after we’ve severed this tether.” As Zhiqiu spoke, the oppressive psychic attacks grew weaker, the illusions less convincing. Muyan’s presence, anchored by Zhiqiu’s unwavering attention and the genuine joy blooming within her, became a beacon. The dark energies of the estate found purchase in fear and sorrow, not in the burgeoning connection between them. Xie Wanjin, still navigating the labyrinthine hallways using his knowledge of structural weaknesses and arcane ley lines, found their path surprisingly clearer than he’d anticipated. He pointed to a seemingly solid wall. “This should be it. The Ancestral Shrine. The core of the cursed grounds.” With a unified push from Muyan’s subtle, chilled energy and Zhiqiu’s focused intent, the wall dissolved, revealing a vast, cavernous chamber. At its center, a monstrous, pulsating heart of obsidian and shadowed silk throbbed with raw, malevolent power. And within it, partially assimilated into the very fabric of the dread core, stood Patriarch Gong Mo. His ghostly form was elongated, distorted, his eyes burning with a furious, triumphant glow. His voice, now a deep, guttural resonance that shook the foundation stones, echoed through the chamber. “Foolish bride. Foolish groom,” Patriarch Gong Mo boomed, his gaze fixing on them, filled with a terrifying, possessive hunger. “You thought to escape? To sever what is bound by blood and suffering? This realm *is* me. And now, you shall both become part of its eternal torment. Forever bound. Forever ours.” The dark tendrils of the core pulsed, already reaching for them, preparing to drag them into its depths, to make them mindless battery-spirits for his unending ritual of grief.

The Core of the Weeping-Gong