A Strange Passerby — Truly Odd, Where Is My Bride?
In the square cell, the only iron door that served as the sole exit was shut tight, sealed so perfectly it seemed less like a door and more like a wall. All light came from a single palm-sized skylight set into the center of the roof high above.
Sunlight streamed through that skylight, keeping the prison from sinking entirely into pitch-blackness.
In the middle of the cell lay a spread of vivid red silk, its exposed surface catching the light and flowing with shallow and deep crimson glows, like a pool of molten rubies. He Zhuoming was curled up beneath that shimmering "gemstone," her consciousness blurring from days without food or water.
She didn't even know when the red silk had been draped over her—when she'd still had the strength to search for an exit, to plead through the door crack or curse at it, the thing hadn't been there.
Now she lacked even the strength to move a finger, let alone speak. Her throat had gone from dry and aching to numb. He Zhuoming no longer even had the energy to regret anything. All she could smell was the faint earthy must rising from the floor, but in her blurry vision she seemed to see a family bucket meal, iced cola, sweet-and-sour ribs, chicken wings stuffed with potato, spinach egg rolls...
The more she thought about food, the hungrier she got. He Zhuoming wanted to cry again, but she'd wept too much over the past few days, losing too much fluid; now her eyes were so swollen she could barely squeeze out tears.
Suddenly, the sealed iron door was opened from outside. He Zhuoming peered through the gap between the red silk and the floor, catching only a glimpse of bare, rough feet. Then she was hoisted up, along with the red cloth draped over her.
The hands gripping her were hard as iron pincers; when they lifted her, He Zhuoming's feet didn't even touch the ground.
Her heart lurched. *It's over,* she thought. *They kept me locked up all these days, and now the final blow is falling. What are they going to do to me?*
Thinking of the vulgar clichés male-protagonist novels always reserved for anonymous female extras, the half-starved He Zhuoming shuddered, and sheer terror jolted a good portion of her wakefulness back.
Back in Chinese class, she'd always found the texts annoying, and even when the teacher explained the meaning, it hadn't moved her. But now that she was truly trapped in such a situation, a phrase surfaced instinctively in He Zhuoming's mind: *A scholar may be killed, but not humiliated.*
Novels were fine to read, but if she were really forced to endure such indignities in reality, she'd rather die on the spot.
She was still lost in frantic thought when she was shoved down onto a cold, hard wooden chair. The red silk slipped from her head, and He Zhuoming's vision filled with flickering candlelight that stung her eyes, forcing them shut.
A moment later, she forced them open and found herself seated before a dressing table. The cloth draped over her wasn't ordinary red silk at all—it was a red wedding dress threaded with gold.
The bronze mirror before her reflected her dazed face, still carrying a childish baby fat, with moth-like brows and round eyes—a young girl's face, innocent of the world.
Beside her stood several men of unusually imposing height, their clothing plain—so plain they resembled savages, their deep-featured faces bearing a deathlike numbness. Stranger still, none of them spoke.
Since being tricked into this place, He Zhuoming had never heard a single person in the village utter a word. They were all like stones.
One of the villagers picked up a phoenix crown from the dressing table and set it onto He Zhuoming's head. Beaded tassels hung down from the front, the dark green beads clattering against one another with a series of sharp, rattling sounds.
This phoenix crown looked expensive—the carvings gleamed with gold light, trembling celestial cranes stretching their wings as if about to take flight. It was impossible to think such a thing could come from a remote mountain village. In fact, even the magnificent red wedding dress on He Zhuoming's body didn't seem like a product of this village.
Those villagers themselves wore a motley of hemp and animal hides—how could they possess silk clothes so lustrous and smooth?
Once the crown was secured, two villagers flanked He Zhuoming, hoisting her up by the arms, and under the escort of the others, they walked out of the room.
The procession crossed fields of green rice seedlings, blowing and beating instruments—the suona and gongs shook so loudly that He Zhuoming retched several times. Finally, they halted before a tall temple, its walls plastered with red double-happiness characters.
The villagers carried He Zhuoming inside. Outside, it was clearly a blazing summer day, but the moment they crossed the temple threshold, a chill breeze wafted to meet them, making He Zhuoming shudder involuntarily.
Through the beaded curtain, she summoned her courage and looked up at the altar. There stood a massive statue, half-naked, its face white as snow.
That statue wasn't a bodhisattva or a vajra warrior, nor a fairy or a Daoist—it wasn't even any deity from the mythological systems He Zhuoming knew! Its snow-white face was covered entirely in narrow, pitch-black eyes, densely packed like a mass of tadpole eggs. At a single glance, He Zhuoming retched again, and her swollen eyes treacherously spilled tears. She wished she could just die of fright on the spot.
Before the altar, there was no prayer cushion—only a coffin, its lid cracked open just a little, revealing pitch-black darkness within.
The coffin looked like a single-person casket, very narrow, painted with patterns He Zhuoming couldn't understand. Every time she looked at them a moment longer, she felt dizzy, nauseated, and wanted to vomit again.
If not for her arms being gripped tightly by the two villagers on either side, He Zhuoming would have collapsed to the ground retching long ago. Even with an empty stomach, she couldn't hold back that wave of revulsion.
Just then, two more villagers entered through the side door of the temple. They, too, escorted a young man between them, one on each side. He wore the same crimson wedding attire as He Zhuoming.
*This 'groom' doesn't seem willing either,* He Zhuoming thought. *Was he tricked here like me?*
This village was truly bizarre—first they tricked in a bride, and now they were going to trick in a groom...
As she spiraled into frantic speculation, the young man was pressed forward until he stood before her. Peeking at his face through the beaded curtain, He Zhuoming felt her stomach cramp in terror again!
The young man's complexion was pale and ashen, his lips colorless, and livid spots dotted his neck—clearly, unmistakably, he was a corpse!
She tried to struggle, but hunger had robbed her of all strength. A hand shoved the back of her head down, forcing her to bow in worship alongside the dead man opposite her. The silence around them was tomb-like, broken only by He Zhuoming's muffled sobs and whimpers.
Now she finally understood what these people were planning. Even if she'd never eaten pork, she'd seen pigs run—they were going to marry her to the dead!
He Zhuoming had only ever encountered ghost marriages in internet news and Chinese horror games. Now that she was experiencing it firsthand, she felt both terrified and disgusted. If she weren't half-dead from starvation, she'd crawl out of this godforsaken place, and she wanted nothing more than to never lay eyes on that "groom" again.
After being forced to bow through the wedding rites, He Zhuoming suddenly felt the grip on her arms loosen.
With nothing to lean on, she collapsed to the floor. She didn't see the bizarre statue on the altar suddenly change—the crowded eyes on its face split open, revealing real eyeballs that swiveled within.
The villagers hastily lowered their heads to avoid meeting those eyes, but the next moment, their heads dropped from their shoulders. As their skulls rolled on the ground, their faces still wore expressions of shock!
The "groom" flicked the blood from his sword's edge, looked up, and smiled at the statue.
The corpse-like pallor on his face receded rapidly, replaced by healthy, ruddy skin. Once his complexion returned to normal, his smiling face looked especially sweet—he even had two very pronounced dimples on his cheeks.
The villagers from outside charged in, and their heads dropped from their necks as well. The young man's sword was quick—so quick the dying felt almost no pain.
He leaped into the air, rising even above the statue, and brought his pitch-black blade down from the statue's head to its base. From within, a torrent of wet, black eggs spilled out like a rain of frogs, splattering everywhere.
The smell of blood was thick enough to turn one's stomach. The black eggs that hit the ground shriveled and dried rapidly, and the sticky liquid clinging to them evaporated along with them.
The young man landed, sword in hand, and with a flick of his wrist, the long black blade softened like silk and coiled around his waist.
The blade was black, but the hilt was striking red, adorned with red crabapple blossoms that, amid the scattered heads, exuded their floral fragrance all on their own.
In such a scene, the scent of flowers was more unsettling than the stench of blood—far more frightening, for no reason at all.
And its owner walked through the pile of corpses, always smiling, his eyelashes curving as he strolled leisurely.
No living person seemed to remain in the temple; all the headless bodies lay fallen on the ground. As the young man passed them, he didn't step on a single head or a single body.
He made a full circuit of the temple, stroking the sword hilt at his waist, a flicker of confusion surfacing on his smiling face.
The young man muttered to himself: "How strange—where's my bride?"
He Zhuoming was hiding inside the coffin.
From the moment more and more heads started rolling across the ground, she'd realized danger was unfolding. Her first instinct had been to crawl toward the temple gate and slip out in the chaos—but villagers kept charging in from the entrance, and with her strength sapped by hunger, she'd been trampled several times in the turmoil.
Afraid of being crushed to death, she'd changed course and, for now, hidden inside the coffin.
Whether this was a zombie fighting villagers or a male ghost battling demons, He Zhuoming had no idea, but she knew that no matter which side won, it was dangerous for her. So she refused to take sides, and she didn't want them to find her!
She'd long abandoned any notion of being the redemption arc's heroine, and she'd accepted that this world was no novel. To her, it was now the real world—one filled with supernatural monsters. As an unnamed extra in the original story, she couldn't handle the villain and had no right to lecture the male lead. As an ordinary person, her odds of tripping and dying in these deep mountains were higher than her odds of joining the protagonist's party.
She was tired, hungry, and thirsty, and the overwhelming terror had drained what little energy she had left.
She'd meant to stay alert and listen for sounds outside the coffin, but the moment she lay down, she fell asleep on her own.
She had no idea how long she slept. When she was roused by the beaded tassels poking her cheek, the light seeping through the coffin's cracks had grown dim.
She struggled to sit up and peered through the gap. Outside, night had fallen.
All was silent. That groom—whether zombie or male ghost—seemed to have left. He Zhuoming mulled it over and decided to wait until dawn before going out.
In the daytime, with the sun out, ghosts and zombies probably wouldn't go wandering. And since the villagers were all dead, she could search for something to eat without worrying about being captured again.
Having made up her mind, He Zhuoming took off the phoenix crown and pinched it. It didn't feel hard—it looked like real gold.
At the thought that it might be genuine gold, a surge of strength rose in her hunger-weakened limbs. She rolled up her sleeves and pressed down hard on all the delicate openwork carvings, flattening them. Once she left this village, she'd need money wherever she went, and this would be her seed capital for survival!
This wedding dress felt smooth and silky—maybe it was worth a lot, too.
With that in mind, He Zhuoming threw herself into the work with renewed vigor, huffing and puffing through most of the night until she'd hammered the phoenix crown—larger than her head—into a fist-sized lump of gold. As for the beads and gems on the crown, she pried them off with her bare hands and wrapped them in the wedding dress, bundling it all into a parcel.
Once she was done, He Zhuoming hugged the parcel and slept soundly, a smile curling at the corners of her mouth even in her dreams. She'd already pictured herself leaving this godforsaken place behind and heading to a big city to eat and drink well.
As for sleeping in a coffin, she no longer felt afraid.
Compared to a ghost marriage, sleeping alone in a coffin was a blessing! And "coffin" sounded like "official wealth" in Chinese—maybe it was even a good omen!
She slept all the way until the sky was bright. Though she hadn't eaten a thing, He Zhuoming felt surprisingly full of energy.
She peered through the crack in the coffin lid. Outside, all was quiet, save for flies buzzing over the corpses.
The temple gates stood wide open, and the midday sun poured in from outside, warming even the coffin where He Zhuoming lay, dispelling the previous chill.
She pushed the coffin lid open with all her strength, gripped the edge, and rose unsteadily. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, her breath came short, and her legs felt weak as she panted.
And just then, a voice came from behind her: "Morning~"
Startled, she tumbled back into the coffin. Covered in cold sweat, she spun around to look and saw a young man in red sitting cross-legged on her coffin lid.
He had short hair, and his left earlobe was pierced, decorated with a thin pink bead chain about two inches long.
He looked very young, very harmless, with brows and eyes curved into a smile and a very cute dimple on his cheek. Beneath his thick, straight lashes, a friendly, kind gaze rested on He Zhuoming.