The narrow path behind the butcher's shop was lined with slabs of grey stone, damp from the mist that had begun to settle over the town like a half-forgotten memory. Tu the butcher led them quietly, his steps steady but his shoulders hunched forward with an invisible weight. His home sat just behind the storefront—simple, wooden, and weathered by time. The faint scent of pine smoke curled from a chimney above, mixing with the iron tang of raw meat and distant incense from some forgotten shrine.
Inside, the warmth came not from the fire, but from the presence of familiarity. The old man moved with a quiet dignity, setting down steaming cups of tea with slightly trembling hands. Lingque blew gently on her cup, cheeks puffed out like a squirrel, while Xinyu held his with both hands, letting the warmth bleed into his fingers.
Tu sighed, the kind of sigh one releases only when the door is closed and the world outside can no longer hear.
"Young master," he said hoarsely, "you carry a sword. I reckon you're not just any traveler."
Xinyu offered a mild smile, lowering his gaze. "You're right, sir. We're cultivators from verdant cloud Sect. We came to this town to investigate a few… oddities. Anything you say to us will remain safe."
Tu nodded slowly. His gaze lingered on the steam rising from his cup.
"I used to live in Tianlan Peak, back in my wild days," he began, voice raw with recollection. "I wasn't a good man. Got mixed in with gang types, ruined more than one life. One day, I got into a fight—almost lost my little girl and wife because of me. That's when I left. Thought I'd find peace here. For a while, it was paradise. Simple folk, simple days."
He looked up. His eyes were not bloodshot, but tired. Lined with something ancient and heavy.
"But then… the young ones started vanishing."
Xinyu straightened. Lingque's brows furrowed.
Tu's voice was low. "I used to sell meat to them. Bright-eyed, polite kids. One by one, they stopped coming. At first I thought they just moved away, but I checked. Their homes were still there. Their parents too. Only their names weren't spoken anymore. Like they'd never existed."
He paused. "Four, in one month. All around the same age. Seventeen, eighteen. Healthy, lively… gone."
Lingque clutched her teacup tighter, her lips pressing into a line.
Xinyu leaned forward, his voice gentler now. "Are you certain they didn't just leave the town?"
Tu looked at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
"Young master. I've no reason to lie. My daughter plays with those children. We live next door to them. You know when someone disappears, and you know when something wronger than wrong is at work."
Just then, the creak of a door drew their attention. A girl stepped out from the side room, slender and fair, her hair tied with a ribbon the color of fresh persimmon. Her gaze landed on them curiously.
"Father, who are they?"
Tu's expression lightened, just a little. "This is my daughter, Tu Yatang."
Lingque smiled instantly. "Such a pretty name! Can I call you Tangtang?"
The girl laughed, a sound as clean as wind chimes in spring. "Of course."
Tu ruffled her hair, eyes softening. "If you want to know more, ask my Tangtang. Brave girl knows everything in this town."
"Father!" she whined. "I'm not a kid anymore."
"You'll always be one to me."
Laughter filled the quiet house, and for a moment, even the shadow that loomed over the town seemed to withdraw.
When the sky darkened into dusk, painting the windows with strokes of indigo, Xinyu and Lingque stood.
"We should go," Xinyu said with a bow. "Thank you for the tea, Uncle Tu. We'll return tomorrow."
Tu nodded. "Be careful, Xiao Yu. These streets remember more than they reveal."
Tangtang clasped her hands behind her back, a grin stretching across her face. "Xinyu-gege, if you come again, I'll show you the best view of the city."
Xinyu chuckled. "Looking forward to it.
Back at the inn, warmth greeted them in a very different form. It was no humble hearth, but a grand, open hall filled with golden lanterns and ornate carved beams. The inn was not simply a place to rest, but a house of performance—where storytellers and wandering actors shared the stage with acrobats and singers. A red curtain veiled the dais in one corner. A faint melody of guqin danced in the air like smoke curling in moonlight.
Xinyu sat at a table near the front, watching Lingque inhale her food with a ferocity rivaled only by small dragons. He reached for his own bowl but paused, drawn to the low hum of the performance beginning.
A hush fell over the inn.
From behind the red curtain, a voice emerged. Refined, sorrowful, and theatrical—every syllable painted with dramatic flourish.
"There once was a girl, born to a family with little rice and even less silver. But Heaven favored her. She was beautiful, bright. Her fingers plucked music from silence, and her words were like poetry spilled from a forgotten scroll."
Drums beat lowly, mimicking the rhythm of a heart's ache.
"One day, a rich young master passed her window and heard her play. He returned the next day. And the next. Soon, love bloomed in the quiet space between her music and his silence. But their stars were not aligned."
Lingque stuffed another dumpling into her mouth, only half-listening. Xinyu, however, found himself leaning in.
The voice behind the curtain deepened.
"When she cried to Heaven, Heaven answered."
The inn grew colder, inexplicably.
"A god came to her. He said: I can make you rich. But every seven nights, one young soul must be offered to me. Refuse, and your beloved will perish. Accept, and he will be yours forever."
Gasps moved like ripples through the crowd.
"She refused. But her parents… they had other plans. A stranger was taken. A nameless youth. And with his death, her family rose. They married. She wore pearls. But—"
Suddenly, the curtain burst aside.
Guards flooded the stage, weapons drawn.
The storyteller was dragged forward, struggling in the grip of iron-clad men. "You all heard it!" he shouted. "We're living the same curse! The blood is on—"
A slap silenced him. The guards hauled him off-stage, vanishing like ghosts into the corridor.
For a breathless moment, the room stood frozen.
Then murmurs broke out.
Xinyu's brows drew together. His hands curled slightly over his knees.
Lingque blinked. "What the hell just happened?"
He didn't answer. His eyes had already turned to the stage again, where only silence remained.
But something in him stirred—something that felt eerily like recognition.
This was no story.
It was a confession.