"Little Hei, I've noticed something."
Little Hei scratched its head: "Go ahead, Host."
Fang Zhiyi grabbed it: "You haven’t been assigning tasks lately?"
Little Hei looked somewhat embarrassed: "Host, you already know the tasks were fake..."
"Even games need an end goal, right? Huh?"
Little Hei pondered for a moment: "Well, everything you’ve done seems to fit the conditions. Honestly, I feel like the worlds you’ve passed through have improved a lot."
"And another thing! What’s with this appearance?" Fang Zhiyi shook Little Hei vigorously.
Though still pitch-black, Little Hei had now taken on a humanoid form—specifically, the shape of a little girl. And the more Fang Zhiyi looked, the more familiar it seemed!
"Hehe... Out of all the worlds, I thought Yue Anyao was the prettiest... Don’t you like it, Host?" Little Hei wriggled free and spun gracefully in place.
"Fine... Do as you please." Fang Zhiyi waved his hand dismissively.
When Fang Zhiyi opened his eyes again, he found himself still floating in midair.
"What’s going on?" Before he could react, a series of images flashed before his eyes like scenes from a film.
On the Dragon Boat Festival in the 18th year of the Republic, the square in front of the opera stage in Qinghe Town was packed with people. Fang Zhiyi, his face painted for the performance, was singing the line "Red silk veils the face as the lute strings snap" when his gaze was drawn to a figure by the riverbank. The person seemed to be pressing something into the water. Just as the drumbeats paused, the faint cry of a baby echoed through the air.
Fang Zhiyi’s heart lurched, reminded suddenly of his own sister who had died young. He hurriedly finished his part and retreated backstage. The Old Troupe Leader, though confused, quickly signaled two other martial actors to take over. Fortunately, the townsfolk here weren’t seasoned opera-goers, so no one noticed the switch.
Not long after, Fang Zhiyi emerged from the river, soaked to the bone, cradling a baby girl with utmost care.
A spectator nearby, puffing on a long pipe, sneered: "An actor meddling in others’ affairs—aren’t you afraid of losing your voice?" The words were cruel—for an opera singer, losing one’s voice meant losing one’s livelihood—but Fang Zhiyi ignored them.
His focus was entirely on the infant in his arms. He gently wiped the water from her face, and only when she cried again did the weight in his chest ease.
That night, he brought the baby back to the rundown temple where the troupe was staying. He cleared a relatively clean room, changed the child out of her soaked swaddling clothes, and used his savings to buy goat’s milk from the town. Once everything was settled, he watched the peacefully sleeping infant before drifting off himself.
But before dawn, the sound of pounding fists erupted at the door. Moments later, seven or eight burly men barged in, clubs in hand, followed by a hunchbacked old man.
The old man’s eyes landed on Fang Zhiyi—and the baby. His face twisted in fury: "You’ve ruined my fortune! Beat him!"
Fang Zhiyi shielded the infant as the blows rained down. Within moments, a sickening crack echoed—his arm had snapped. Outside the temple, villagers gathered to watch, but none intervened. Even his fellow troupe members stood silently by.
"That actor must have a death wish, crossing Squire Ma’s family!"
"Exactly! The blind fortune-teller said that girl’s birth chart curses her father. She should’ve been disposed of."
Others egged them on: "Hit him harder!"
When Fang Zhiyi was on the verge of collapse, the Old Troupe Leader finally rushed forward: "Please, sirs, have mercy! He won’t survive this!"
The thugs hesitated, glancing at Squire Ma. The old man met Fang Zhiyi’s blood-streaked gaze—his face still half-painted, eyes bleeding yet unyielding. A chill ran down Squire Ma’s spine. With a cold snort, he turned and left, his lackeys trailing behind.
The crowd dispersed.
Fang Zhiyi died that same day. The Old Troupe Leader, moved by sentiment, enlisted a few martial actors to carry his body out for burial under cover of night. In their homeland, it was said that actors who died unjustly must be buried after dark—or else invite misfortune.
When the group returned from the mass graves, the Old Troupe Leader remembered the baby. Staring at the child Fang Zhiyi had died protecting, he hardened his heart and led the troupe away before sunrise.
The horror began on the seventh night after Fang Zhiyi’s death—the night of the "Return." The sound of opera singing suddenly echoed from the abandoned stage, though the troupe had long since left. A night watchman, curious, crept closer—only to see a lone figure in bloodstained robes, sleeves fluttering, singing softly to itself.
"The moon bends, the boat sways, fear not the river’s chill~"
The watchman died that night, his corpse sprawled before the stage, skin mottled with blue-black patches.
Whispers spread through the town: The actor had returned. He had come for vengeance.
The rumors proved true. Every seven days, the stage would ring with song, and sodden footprints would appear from the wings to the backstage—as if someone were pacing. And with each performance, another life was claimed.
First was Zhao Si, the villager who had spotted Fang Zhiyi rescuing the baby. Then one of Squire Ma’s thugs. Every week, another death—each more gruesome than the last.
Panic gripped Qinghe Town. But Fang Zhiyi’s luck ran thin: A wandering Taoist arrived, and after accepting Squire Ma’s silver, he performed rites to seal the stage. From that day, the singing ceased, and the killings stopped.
Yet the Taoist himself was later ambushed and slain by bandits on the road.
Eighteen years passed. The town had nearly forgotten the tale—until Squire Ma’s son, Ma Xiaolou, decided to throw a lavish celebration for his father’s 79th birthday. He hired a renowned opera troupe and ordered the stage restored. The old legends? Mere superstition, he scoffed.
The troupe arrived, but the aged leader seemed uneasy. He murmured cryptically to Fang Xiuyun: "This place... you should see it for yourself."
Fang Xiuyun didn’t understand—until the night’s performance began. The moment she sang her first line, her body was no longer her own.
The celebratory lyrics twisted into something darker:
"Seven feet of silk sleeves, now ropes of vengeance; ten years upon this stage, my coffin~"
Terror gripped her, yet she couldn’t stop her own voice. A mournful wail escaped:
"Oh Earth, you blind judge—how dare you call yourself Earth!
Oh Heaven, you mistake the wise for fools—shame on you, Heaven!"
The words carried a chill that made the villagers shudder.
Backstage, the Old Troupe Leader trembled as he raised a hand: "It’s him... It’s him!"
Fang Zhiyi had finally found his moment. After the song ended, the slaughter began. The villagers now knew—the legend was real. The actor’s vengeful spirit still haunted them.