『Chuma Xian Shrine』5+1 Simulator · Chat

The 15th day of the 7th lunar month, the third quarter of the hour of the Rat. On your eighteenth birthday cake, the last wisp of smoke has just dissipated, and the candle wax solidifies like tears over the frosted words "Happy Adulthood". The lights in the room suddenly dim by three degrees. Your grandfather sits in the armchair beside you, his palm pressing against the back of your hand. His hand is very cold, like bluestone soaked in well water. You smell the familiar scent of sandalwood in the main hall of the old house, but tonight, something else is mixed into it—a cold scent, similar to the first snow weighing down pine branches, and another heavy, earthy smell, as if seeping from the stone crevices of an ancient tomb. The air begins to carry weight. First, the shadows change. On both sides of the altar table, water-stain-like halos slowly seep out on the walls of the celadon vases that your grandfather never allowed anyone to move—the left vase reflects the silhouette of a white-bearded elder, lightly tapping a bamboo cane; the right vase flashes the fleeting smiling face of a young man in a golden robe. The willow-leaf birthmark behind your shoulder begins to burn without warning. "The time has come." The voice sounds from nowhere, yet seems to come from all directions at once. Deep, ancient, echoing, as if transmitting from deep underground. Your grandfather's hand suddenly tightens. The purple clay teacup in front of him cracks with a "snap", and the brown tea spreads along the tablecloth, meandering like a talisman. The century-old "Mountain Dwelling Scroll" on the east wall of the main hall moves without wind. The clouds and mist in the painting actually begin to flow, and deep within the mist, a pair of amber vertical pupils flashes past, cold and devoid of any human emotion. The bronze bell in the west corner, which never rings, shakes on its own, its sound muffled and hoarse, every chime striking against your ribs. "Liu Qingyun." This time it is a male voice, clear and cold as a jade chime, coming from the painting. "The contract states, a sixty-year cycle. When the hour of the Rat ends tonight, if there is no successor, the three hundred years of incense at the Spirit Quelling Hall will be cut off forever." Your grandfather's back hunches over, and he begins to cough violently, his other hand tightly covering his mouth. Through his fingers, you see a terrifying dark red. "Hu Yanqing!" The phantom of the white-bearded elder solidifies a bit on the left vase, his voice laced with anger. "This child's life lock has just loosened, and their Yin energy has not yet been concealed, yet you want to force them into this?" "Lord Huairen," the male voice from the painting remains utterly unruffled. "It is not coercion, it is destiny. You protected them for eighteen years, can you protect them for a lifetime? Once the hour of the Rat passes tonight, the 'things' within a hundred miles will know that the Liu family has produced an unshielded Pure Yin Physique. When they come, it won't just be to 'discuss'." You feel a dense chill crawl up your back. It is not fear, but something more primal—as if the night itself is squeezing in through the cracks in the windows and doors, curiously sniffing at you. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Your grandfather finally stops coughing, and he slowly wipes the blood from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve, this simple action done with immense heaviness. He turns his head to look at you, and under the dim yellow light, emotions you have never seen before settle in the old man's eyes: bottomless guilt, an overwhelming reluctance to let go, and a kind of almost desperate, doting love. "There are some things..." He calls your name, his voice incredibly hoarse, "Grandpa..." Before he can finish speaking, the pitch-black incense burner on the altar, worshipped for generations, suddenly cracks with a "snap", splitting into three neat fissures from top to bottom. The century's worth of accumulated incense ash slowly spills out, spreading into an ominous pattern on the mahogany altar table. The room falls into a dead silence. All scents—the pine snow, the earthy smell, the sandalwood—solidify in this moment. The eyes in the painting, the shadows on the vases, the bronze bell in the corner, all come to a standstill. Only your heartbeat roars in your chest like a beating drum. Your grandfather looks at the cracked incense burner for a long time. Finally, extremely slowly, bit by bit, he releases your hand, as if letting go of the most precious treasure in the world. He leans on the armrest of the chair, tremblingly stands up straight, faces the ancient painting of surging clouds and mist, and takes a deep breath. That breath is drawn so deeply, it's as if it's meant to drain the very last of his spirit. Then, using all his strength, he shouts into the depths of the darkness the words destined to tear your entire life apart: "—I invite the immortals of the Shrine, reveal yourselves and discuss the succession!"