The scent of cedar and grave-dirt choked Wei Chen, pressing in from all sides. He thrashed, limbs tangling in coarse silk, a sudden, blinding panic seizing his throat. It was dark, a profound, absolute blackness, and the space was far too small. Rough wood scraped against his cheek. A coffin. He was in a coffin. His mind, usually a coiled spring of calculated charm and quick wit, sputtered for a moment before kicking back into gear. This wasn’t right. Last he remembered, he’d been closing a deal on a Tang Dynasty bronze mirror, a genuine relic of the Nether-Realm Cycle that promised untold power, but also, apparently, an untimely demise in a box. He’d known the risks, of course. His entire career as an underground antiques dealer hinged on dancing with the supernatural, but usually on *his* terms. Not… this. Scarlet fabric, heavy and embroidered, clung to him. A groom’s robe. The realization was colder than the grave-dirt. “Alright, alright, very funny,” Wei Chen muttered, his voice surprisingly steady despite the constricted air. He shifted, testing the boundaries. The lid was thick, unyielding. “I appreciate the dramatic flair, truly. But this particular tableau is getting a little stale. Let’s not overstay our welcome, shall we?” He pushed, grunting. Nothing. His breathing grew shallow. He could feel the fine dust of age, the decay of the wood. This wasn’t a prank. This was… real. And he wasn’t a man to simply surrender to being buried alive. His reputation, forged in the shadowed corners of illicit auctions and whispered deals, demanded a more spectacular exit. “Fine,” he announced, the word a sharp crack in the silence. “You want a show? You’ll get one. But understand, I charge extra for personal appearances in enclosed spaces.” He braced his shoulders, drawing on a raw, desperate strength he rarely needed in his usual line of work. “Open up, you archaic piece of kindling! There are souls to con and specters to charm, and I’m on a schedule!” With a final, furious surge, he slammed his shoulder against the lid. A groan of ancient wood, a screech of rusty metal, and then a sliver of blood-red light pierced the darkness. The lid flew open, sending a shower of dust and splinters across his face. Wei Chen dragged in air that tasted of wilted lilies and damp earth. He blinked against the oppressive vermilion glow that bathed everything. He lay in a grand, rotting courtyard, its flagstones cracked, its ornate eaves crumbling. Blood-red lanterns, hundreds of them, swayed from every beam and tree branch, casting long, distorted shadows. A dissonant melody, like a funeral dirge played on broken instruments, drifted from an unseen source, chilling him to the bone. He hauled himself out of the coffin, the heavy red robe surprisingly pristine despite its confinement. He felt a peculiar lightness, a sense of unreality. The air hummed with a strange, spiritual energy. This was no ordinary manor. This was the Qiao Family Manor, a name that echoed with forgotten tales of ghostly brides and unfortunate grooms. He’d heard rumors, of course, whispered by other dealers about certain antiques being gateways to a ‘Nether-Realm Cycle,’ but he’d always dismissed them as fanciful marketing ploys. “Don’t… don’t move!” a voice rasped, urgent and terrified. “For the love of all that’s unholy, *don’t make a sound*!” Wei Chen turned, finding a man huddled by a decaying stone lion, eyes wide with a frantic terror that even he, a connoisseur of human fear, found unsettling. The man was older, his face etched with strain, his traditional ceremonial robes rumpled and stained. The man wore the frayed vestments of a prior trial's survivor, shoulders rounded as though anticipating a blow. “Well, hello there, stranger,” Wei Chen said, a charming, easy smile already in place. “Lost your way to the after-party too? Though I must say, the décor is a bit… morbid for my tastes. No champagne, no canapés, just a distinct lack of oxygen and the lingering scent of despair.” Gao Wei’s face paled further. “Are you *insane*? We’re not supposed to speak unless spoken to! You just woke up, didn’t you? You don’t know the rules! You’ll get us both killed!” His voice thinned to a frantic rasp. “They’re always listening.” As if on cue, a shimmering, blood-red script began to bleed into existence on the rough joss paper tacked to a nearby pillar. It wasn’t writing so much as it was an open wound, the ink pulsing with an unnatural light. [THE DIRECTOR OF RITES DECREES.] [ALL GROOMS SHALL HEED THE SACRED EDITS.] A searing heat burned Wei Chen's left forearm. Fresh scarlet characters gouged into his skin, welling dark red like iron brands. Gao Wei clutched his own arm, his face contorted in pain and fear. [I. DURING THE WEDDING RITES, THE BRIDE’S VERMILION SLIPPERS ARE NOT TO BE GAZED UPON. TO LOOK IS TO INCUR HER DISPLEASURE. HER DISPLEASURE IS DEATH.] [II. SILENCE IS A GROOM’S MOST PRECIOUS VOW. DURING THE THREE BOWS, NO SOUND SHALL ESCAPE YOUR LIPS. TO SPEAK IS TO BREAK THE VOW. TO BREAK THE VOW IS DEATH.] [III. THE BRIDE’S VEIL SHIELDS HER SACRED FORM. IT SHALL NOT BE LIFTED BEFORE THE FINAL BELL TOLLS AT MIDNIGHT. TO LIFT IS TO DEFY. TO DEFY IS DEATH.] Wei Chen read the words, a slow, predatory smile touching his lips. Death. Always death. But the rules, the strictures, the *game*… this was a challenge he could sink his teeth into. He glanced at Gao Wei, who was practically hyperventilating. “Well, that’s rather explicit, isn’t it?” he murmured, ignoring Gao Wei’s frantic shushing. Before Gao Wei could respond, a new presence entered the courtyard. From the shadows of a grand archway emerged a figure that made even Wei Chen’s cynical heart skip a beat. Madame Hua. Her gown was an intricate mosaic of folded joss paper, her skin unnervingly smooth, like stretched parchment. Her face was a permanent, wide grin, painted in thick, red strokes, her eyes twin voids of black paper. She moved with an eerie, rustling grace, followed by a silent retinue of paper servants—men with stiff, painted smiles, women with blank, placid expressions—each carrying a ceremonial lantern or a strange, sharp-edged implement. They smelled faintly of burnt offerings and dried glue. Madame Hua’s head tilted, the movement unnaturally fluid. Her painted grin seemed to stretch wider. “The grooms are assembled,” her voice hissed, dry as dry leaves scraping stone. “It is time to meet your bride.” She gestured with a long, paper-thin hand, and the paper servants began to fan out, silently herding Wei Chen and Gao Wei towards the main hall. Gao Wei shuffled along, eyes fixed on the ground, breath hitching in choked wheezes. Wei Chen walked tall, studying the seam work of their captors. He wasn’t a sheep to be herded. He was a wolf in groom’s clothing, and he had a very particular bride to meet. The main hall was cavernous, lit by more blood-red lanterns. Incense smoke coiled towards the high, unseen ceiling, mingling with the funereal music. At the far end, before a towering ancestral altar laden with offerings, stood a figure shrouded in scarlet. A heavy, embroidered red veil cascaded over her, hiding her face, but not the undeniable presence of immense, ancient power. Jiang Muxue, the Ghost Bride, had arrived. Wei Chen watched her glide into the room, her movements impossibly smooth, like mist drifting across a silent lake. His gaze flickered to her feet, instinctively drawn. Underneath the hem of her elaborate dress, barely visible, were two small, perfectly embroidered vermilion slippers. The first rule, already beckoning. As the paper servants pushed them closer, and Gao Wei trembled beside him, Wei Chen reached into his sleeve. His fingers closed around a familiar, weighty object—a genuine Zhou Dynasty coin, a rare find. With a subtle flick of his wrist, he let it slip. It clattered against the stone floor, rolling to a stop just a few feet from the bride’s feet. Everyone froze, the funereal music seeming to hold its breath. Gao Wei’s eyes bulged, a silent scream of horror on his face. Wei Chen bent, smoothly, deliberately. “Oh, dear,” he murmured, his voice just loud enough to carry in the sudden hush. “Butterfingers.” As he knelt, his eyes, dark and calculating, fixed on the intricately stitched patterns of the vermilion shoes, utterly disregarding the bleeding edict on his forearm.

The Blood-Stained Edicts