The Ghost in the Painted Mask

The crowd surged like a flood, pressing toward the exits in a frantic tide.
I moved with them, about to be swept away entirely, when two strong hands suddenly grabbed me.

Two anxious faces appeared in front of me.

“Why are you alone? Where’s our young master?”

“Still inside,” I said, pointing toward the small building. “The owner said he’s quite familiar with your young master and would personally send him home once he wakes up.”

I couldn’t resist adding admiringly,

“Your master sure has good connections—everywhere he goes, he meets kindred spirits! I even saw that owner carry him into a room himself. Truly a touching scene of…断袖之情—ah, love between gentlemen!”

Both attendants blanched, then bolted inside without another word.

I lingered by the door, uncertain where to go next. The street ahead was a jam of bodies—no space to move, no air to breathe.

Trapped among the masses, I wasn’t alone in my frustration. And as always happens when people have nowhere to go, they began to gossip.

And the topic, of course, was none other than the cause of all this chaos: Princess Haiqing.

I fished a handful of sunflower seeds from my pocket, cracked one open, and listened intently.

“They say Princess Haiqing has run away from the palace.”

“Because General Qin returned? Did she go looking for him?”

“You’ve got it wrong—General Qin is engaged to Princess Jinxiu, the Emperor’s sister, our kingdom’s first beauty. The runaway is the Emperor’s daughter!”

“But I thought His Majesty didn’t keep a harem? Where’d this daughter come from?”

“He used to have one. But that consort was executed later—word is, she… gave the Emperor a green hat.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

“Impossible! Who’d dare cuckold the Emperor?”

“It’s common knowledge! My cousin works in the palace—heard it from his own mouth. Truer than gold, he swore!”

“Tsk, tsk… even emperors get cheated on.”

Now that was a juicy story.

I leaned closer, ears twitching.

Piece by piece, the tale came together:
The current Emperor of Xihan, Zhuoyuan, ascended the throne at seventeen. In nineteen years of rule, he had taken only one consort, who bore him his sole child—Princess Haiqing, now eleven years old.

But when the princess was only three, her mother died suddenly. The official story said illness. The unofficial one… claimed the consort had been unfaithful—with one of the Emperor’s own guards.

Zhuoyuan had them both executed and never took another consort again.

To the public, he was hailed as the most diligent, austere monarch in Xihan’s history.
Privately, whispers painted him as the first ruler with 断袖 tendencies—an emperor rumored to favor men.

And the subject of those rumors?
None other than the legendary General Qin An—Xihan’s war god, betrothed to the Emperor’s own sister, Princess Jinxiu.

An emperor, a general, a princess—
Ordinarily, the pairings would be simple: emperor with princess, general with princess.

But here… it became emperor with general.

A love triangle written by the heavens, destined for tragedy.

No princess was found in the brothel after all, and soon the trapped patrons were released.

As the crowd dispersed, I sighed, reluctant to leave.

What a kingdom! Xihan truly overflowed with hidden talent—and even more, enthusiasm for gossip.

In just one evening, I’d learned not only the Emperor’s scandals but practically the color of his undergarments.

Licking my lips, I glanced at Abao.

“Tell me, are folks in Dongyi Kingdom this entertaining too?”

Abao looked up at me with wide, innocent eyes that clearly said: Please, no.

But the fire of curiosity once lit cannot easily be quenched.
So I dragged poor Abao through the streets again until we stumbled upon a theater house, its paper lanterns flickering red in the dusk.

A smiling usher found me a good seat near the stage and even brought a dish of sunflower seeds.
I tossed Abao into the bowl and settled in, eyes fixed on the platform.

The current act was Wu Song Slays the Tiger.

Unfortunately, the man playing the tiger was so scrawny he looked like a half-starved cat. Two swats later, “Wu Song” knocked him dead.

The audience roared with delight. I stared at them in disbelief.
So this is what passes for drama these days? Hypocrites, the lot of them.

Bored, I was just about to leave when a performer in blue robes and a painted mask stepped onto the stage.

His voice sliced through the noise—

“A flower that blooms is not a flower. A human skin that breathes is not a human!”

Now that caught my attention.

He began to sing—no preface, no explanation, just eerie, lilting verses that filled the hall like fog. His voice was beautiful, haunting.

Still… after a while, my full belly and the long day caught up with me. My eyelids drooped. Before I knew it, I’d fallen asleep on the table.

When I woke, the theater was deserted.

The stage had been half-dismantled; only a hollow platform remained. Two masked actors still stood upon it, their painted faces black and white.

Thirsty, I reached for my teacup—empty.
Strange. I’d poured a full cup before dozing off.

Had Abao drunk it?
But the fruit plate was empty, and Abao was nowhere to be seen.

A faint ache pulsed at the base of my skull.

Then—movement.
The two masked actors shifted, turning toward me, faces splitting into ghastly smiles.

One black, one white.
They began to sing.

“I cultivated for a thousand years, all for a single smile of yours.
Yet your heart was venomous—you flayed me alive!”

“You beast dared reach above your station, craving a god’s affection!”

“We were bound by love—why call it presumption?”

“Your shamelessness knows no bounds. You deserve to die a thousand deaths!”

The duet spiraled into violence.

The one with the whip faltered first, struck down by a spear.
The victor leapt upon him and, with swift strokes, peeled his skin away.

Then, still singing, he held the bloody hide aloft.

“You say I wronged you, but your devotion was delusion.
You’ll find no vengeance, for I’ll bind your soul and be reborn to love another!”

“You can bind this flesh, but not my spirit. Thousands of foxes bear my blood—through them, I shall endure!”

The final line struck me like thunder.

Every nerve screamed.

My gaze locked on the advancing figure—his face shifting, eyes burning red through the mask.

“Who are you?” I croaked.

The figure smiled. His teeth gleamed white as bone.

“Don’t you remember? You promised to take me to Mount Xuhe, to find the blue gentian flowers… and to the Red River, to catch fish. You’ve forgotten everything, haven’t you?”

Images flickered in my head—faces, voices, laughter half-remembered.
My skull felt as though invisible hands were prying it open.

“Shut up!”

I slammed my palm on the table. The teacup shattered.
A shard embedded itself beneath my nail, but I felt no pain.

This wasn’t real.
Just another illusion—one of many I’d endured before.

Rage steadied me.

“I don’t care who you are,” I hissed, grabbing the nearest chopstick. “But if you dare haunt me again—”

I lunged.

“—I’ll gouge your eyes out!”

He paused—then laughed softly.

“Good. Very good.”

Good, my tail!

I raised the chopstick again—then froze.

Blood trickled down my wrist. A dull sting spread up my arm, growing sharper by the second, like needles threading through flesh.

“Stop—stop biting—it hurts!” I gasped.

And then—

I woke.

The real stage was alive with light again. On it, Sun Wukong was beating the White Bone Spirit to a pulp.

Pain burned at my fingertip. I looked down—

Abao was clinging to my finger, gnawing merrily away.

“You little beast!”

I flicked him. He tumbled twice across the table, squeaked in terror, then dove headfirst into the fruit plate and covered himself with sunflower shells.

I lifted my left hand. A neat little bite mark gleamed red, blood beading along the edge.

My temper flared like a match.