Chapter 22: Chapter 22: The First Rite
"The first ritual," Uncle Ren announced, his voice slow and measured, each word a stone dropping into a deep well, "is to prepare the offerings."
His gnarled finger, still extended, trembled slightly as he lowered it. It pointed now not to the ceiling, but to a small, low table set against the wall, almost swallowed by the shadows. On it, a collection of items rested: small, unlit incense sticks, shallow bowls, and stacks of folded paper money.
The air still hung heavy, Madam Luo’s soft, unending sobs filling the spaces between Uncle Ren’s words, a constant, mournful hum.
"The offerings must be prepared with respect," Uncle Ren continued, his gaze drifting from the table to the players, then back again. His eyes, dark and depthless, rarely blinked. "They are for the departed. For the journey."
Li Qiang, ever the one to take charge, stepped forward. "What exactly do we need to do? Just... light these?" He gestured vaguely at the incense. His voice, though still attempting authority, held a tremor that belied his confidence.
"There are traditions," Uncle Ren rasped, his voice like dry leaves skittering across pavement. He shuffled a step closer to the group, his eyes unblinking, fixing on Li Qiang. "Upon entering the hall, one bows three times. A sign of respect. Then, incense is lit. Three sticks. Held together. Offered to the departed. And then... placed carefully in the urn."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over each player, a subtle, unsettling intensity in his stare. "The incense must not burn out completely before the next offering. A continuous flame. A continuous prayer."
Lin Yue watched, his mind processing each instruction. Bow three times. Three incense sticks. Don’t let them burn out. Simple rules, seemingly.
But the System never gave simple rules without hidden layers. The emphasis on "completely" was noted. The "continuous flame" was noted. The rules were not arbitrary. They were a defense. A fragile barrier against something that sought to fill its void
"Bow three times upon entering?" Gao Lin scoffed softly, barely audible. "We’re already in. Does that mean we have to leave and come back in?" He shot a cynical glance at Uncle Ren, then at Li Qiang.
Uncle Ren’s head tilted. The faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips again. "The entrance is always open. The respect is always due." His voice held no judgment, only a detached statement of fact. "Even within these walls, one may enter the presence of the departed anew."
He turned his gaze towards the coffin, then back to the group. "Light the incense before approaching the coffin. It purifies the path. It signals your intent."
"And if we don’t?" Chen Hao asked, his voice low, cautious. "What happens if the incense burns out?"
Uncle Ren’s eyes, dark and ancient, settled on Chen Hao. "Then," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, yet carrying with chilling clarity, "the path becomes unclear. The departed may wander. And a wandering spirit... seeks companionship."
A shiver went through the group. Companionship. The word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken menace.
Lin Yue’s gaze flickered to the slightly ajar coffin. Wandering spirit. Seeking companionship. It tied into the "nameless will claim your name" warning. The rules were not arbitrary. They were a defense. A fragile barrier against something that sought to fill its void.
"So, we bow, we light incense, we place it in the urn, and we make sure it doesn’t go out," Li Qiang summarized, trying to impose order on the unsettling instructions. He looked at the group, attempting to rally them. "Alright, let’s start with that. Who wants to go first?"
No one volunteered immediately. The silence stretched, broken only by Madam Luo’s relentless, soft weeping.
Xu Ning, her sharp eyes scanning the hall, spoke quietly. "Uncle Ren, what about the others?" She gestured vaguely towards the deeper shadows at the edges of the hall, where other figures stood, shrouded in funeral cloth, unnervingly still. They had been there since they arrived, silent, unmoving, blending into the oppressive gloom.
Lin Yue followed her gaze. He had noticed them too. Figures, like statues, some leaning against pillars, some standing by the walls. Their faces, if visible, were obscured by shadows or covered by cloth. They were part of the scenery, yet they felt... wrong. Their stillness was too absolute. Their silence is too profound.
Uncle Ren turned his head slowly, following Xu Ning’s gesture. His eyes, unblinking, swept over the silent mourners. "They mourn," he stated, his voice flat. "They are... patient. They have offered their respects."
His gaze held no warmth, no recognition for these other figures. Just a detached acknowledgement of their presence. Patient. Lin Yue noted the word. It implied waiting. Waiting for what?
A small sound, a soft scuffle, drew Lin Yue’s attention. From behind one of the larger, draped pillars, a figure emerged. Small and child-sized.
It was a young boy, no older than seven or eight. He wore a simple, dark tunic, too large for his frame, and held a bundle of unlit incense sticks in his tiny hands. His movements were slow, deliberate, almost mechanical, mirroring Uncle Ren’s own.
The boy’s face was pale, almost translucent in the dim light. His eyes, wide and dark, seemed to absorb the faint amber glow, reflecting nothing. He didn’t look at Uncle Ren, or Madam Luo, or the coffin. He looked at them. The players.
His gaze was unnervingly direct. It swept over each of them, lingering for a fraction of a second on each face. It wasn’t curious. It wasn’t fearful. It was... assessing. Like a predator, or a judge.
He stopped a few feet away from the main group, his small hand rising slowly. His finger, thin and pale, pointed vaguely. Not at any one player specifically, but in their general direction. Then, it dropped. His eyes remained fixed on them.
"Who’s that?" Wang Jie whimpered, clutching his arms tighter. "Another one?"
Liu Fang, her face already tear-streaked, let out a soft gasp and pressed herself closer to Sun Mei.
"Just a child," Sun Mei murmured, though her voice lacked conviction. She looked at the little kid with a strange mix of pity and apprehension. "He’s probably just lost."
He Rong scoffed again, a low sound. "Lost? In here? Nothing is lost in these places. Everything has a purpose." Her gaze narrowed on the child. "Maybe he’s just another NPC."
Lin Yue observed the little child. The way he held the incense. The way his eyes seemed to bore into them. The vague pointing. A new character. He Rong was right. This child was not random. He was a piece of the puzzle. His silent presence was a new layer of psychological tension.
Why is he pointing? What does he see? Lin Yue’s mind raced, categorizing the new input. The child had incense. Was he part of the ritual? An observer? A warning?
"He’s not saying anything," Li Qiang noted, trying to maintain his composure. "Uncle Ren, is he... part of the ritual?"
Uncle Ren turned his ancient head towards the little child. His dark eyes softened, almost imperceptibly. "He’s Little Sheng; he helps in the ritual. He watches, and he remembers." Uncle Ren answered.
Remembers. That word echoed in Lin Yue’s mind. The entire instance revolved around forgetting. Around namelessness. And this child remembers? It was a direct contradiction. A potential flaw in the System’s design, or a deliberate trap.
"Remembers what?" Gao Lin challenged, his cynical smirk back in place. "The name of the deceased? Is that it? Is he a clue?" His voice was laced with a dangerous curiosity.
Uncle Ren’s unblinking gaze snapped back to Gao Lin. The faint smile vanished. The air seemed to grow colder. Madam Luo’s weeping intensified, a sudden, sharper edge to her lament.
"To remember is to name," Uncle Ren said, his voice dropping to that low, resonant drone again. "And to name... is to claim."
He paused, letting the words hang heavy. "Little Sheng remembers the rites. The traditions. He watches to see if they are followed. If respect is given."
Lin Yue’s eyes narrowed. He watches to see if they are followed. So the boy was an enforcer of the rules, or at least an observer of them. His pointing, then, could be a silent accusation—a sign of deviation.
"Alright, alright," Li Qiang interjected, sensing the rising tension. He shot a warning look at Gao Lin. "Let’s stick to the instructions. Bow three times. Light three incense sticks. Place them in the urn. Don’t let them burn out." He looked around the group. "Who’s going to go first?"
Still, no one moved. The air was thick with apprehension. The thought of approaching that coffin, even to perform a simple ritual, felt like stepping into an abyss.
"I’ll go," Sun Mei said, her voice surprisingly firm. She took a deep breath, her face set in a determined expression. "We must show respect. The spirits demand it." She walked slowly towards the table with the offerings. Her steps were tentative, but resolute.
Lin Yue observed her. Her belief, her almost devout approach, was a double-edged sword. It might protect her from perceived disrespect, but it might also make her vulnerable to manipulation.
Sun Mei reached the table. She picked up three incense sticks, her hands trembling slightly. She then turned towards the center of the hall, where the coffin lay. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them, her gaze fixed on the black lacquered box.
She bowed. Once. Twice. Thrice. Her movements were slow, deliberate, almost graceful, as if performing a sacred dance. Little Sheng, from his position, watched her, his dark eyes unblinking. He did not point.
Sun Mei then moved to a small, ceramic brazier placed beside the table. A single, weak flame flickered within it. She carefully lit the tips of her three incense sticks. A thin wisp of smoke curled upwards, carrying the heavy scent of sandalwood.
She held the burning incense in both hands, bringing it to her forehead in a gesture of reverence. Then, she walked towards the coffin, her steps soft, almost silent. Madam Luo’s weeping seemed to soften slightly as Sun Mei approached, a momentary lull in the constant lament.
Sun Mei stopped at a respectful distance from the coffin. She held the incense aloft for a moment, then, with utmost care, placed the burning sticks into a large, ornate bronze urn that stood beside the coffin. The smoke rose, mingling with the pervasive incense already in the air.
She stepped back, bowing once more to the coffin. Then, she returned to the group, her face pale but with a sense of quiet accomplishment.
"See?" Li Qiang said, a note of relief in his voice. "It’s not so bad. We just have to follow the rules." He looked at the other players, trying to encourage them. "Who’s next?"
"That was... surprisingly normal," Chen Hao murmured, though his eyes still darted nervously.
"Normal for now," He Rong said, her voice low. "The System rarely makes things easy. There’s always a twist." Her gaze swept over Uncle Ren, then Little Sheng, then the silent mourners. "Or a hidden condition."
Li Qiang followed Sun Mei’s actions. Bowed three times upon entering the inner space near the coffin. Lit incense. Placed it in the urn. Did not let it burn out. The rules seemed to hold. For now.
Lin Yue glanced at Uncle Ren. The old steward’s face was impassive. His eyes, dark and ancient, seemed to hold a deeper knowledge, a patient observation of their every move. He rarely blinks. Lin Yue noted it again. It was unnatural. A subtle distortion.
His gaze then shifted to Xu Ning. She was watching the other silent mourners intently. Her brow was slightly furrowed. She wasn’t just looking; she was analyzing.
"They’re too still," Xu Ning murmured, her voice barely audible, meant only for those nearest to her. She didn’t look at Lin Yue, but her observation aligned perfectly with his own. "They haven’t moved since we arrived. Not a twitch, nor a breath."
Lin Yue nodded almost imperceptibly. Unnatural stillness. The first hint from the instance description. These weren’t just background elements. They were part of the atmosphere, part of the psychological tension. And their lack of movement was a clue. Or a warning.
"Maybe they’re just... really good actors," Wang Jie whispered, trying to sound brave, but his voice was thin.
"Actors don’t stand for hours without a single shift," He Rong countered, her tone dismissive. "They’re not human. Or they’re not alive in the way we understand it."
Little Sheng, still watching them, slowly raised his small hand again. His finger, pale and thin, pointed. This time, it seemed to point directly at the urn where Sun Mei had placed her incense. The tips of the incense sticks glowed faintly, a thin plume of smoke still rising.
"What’s he pointing at now?" Gao Lin muttered, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. "The incense is still burning."
Lin Yue looked at the urn. The incense sticks were indeed burning. But as he watched, a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the flame. It flickered; it had weakened.
Do not let the incense burn out completely. The rule echoed in his mind. A continuous flame.
"The flame is weakening," Lin Yue stated, his voice low, detached. He wasn’t addressing anyone in particular, merely voicing his observation.
Li Qiang’s eyes widened. He hadn’t noticed. "What? But I just put it in!"
"It’s burning faster than normal," Chen Hao observed, his voice tight. "Look at the length. It’s already significantly shorter."
Sure enough, the incense sticks, which had been full-length just moments ago, were visibly shorter. The glowing tips were closer to the urn’s rim.
"Someone needs to put more in!" Liu Fang cried, her voice rising in panic.
"But we only have three sticks each, right?" Wang Jie whimpered. "And we have to bow three times, and light them..."
Lin Yue’s gaze flickered to the untouched bundles of incense on the table. Each bundle contained exactly three sticks. Three sticks. Don’t let them burn out completely. It wasn’t about a single set of three. It was about continuous burning. This implied a rotation. Or a constant supply.
He looked at Uncle Ren. The old steward’s face remained impassive. His unblinking eyes seemed to absorb the dim light, betraying nothing.
"We need a system," Lin Yue said, his voice calm, analytical. "A rotation. A continuous offering."
He walked towards the table, his movements fluid and silent. He picked up three incense sticks. He didn’t bow yet. Not until he was entering the space. He watched the existing incense. The glow was faint now. The smoke, barely a wisp.
As he reached the brazier, the last spark of light on Li Qiang’s incense sticks winked out. A faint, almost imperceptible hiss seemed to echo in the sudden, deeper silence. Madam Luo’s weeping, which had momentarily softened, returned with a renewed, unsettling intensity, a long, drawn-out wail that seemed to pierce the very air.
Little Sheng’s small hand, which had been pointing at the urn, dropped. His head tilted slightly. He looked at Lin Yue. His dark eyes, devoid of emotion, seemed to hold a silent question. Or a silent accusation.
Lin Yue felt a subtle chill. He had been too slow. The incense had burned out. The path becomes unclear. The departed may wander. And a wandering spirit... seeks companionship.
He looked at Uncle Ren. The old steward’s face was unreadable. But his dark eyes, ancient and unblinking, seemed to follow Lin Yue’s every move with an intensified scrutiny.
[System Notification: Rule Violation Detected. Continuous Flame Interrupted.]
The notification flashed briefly, not in his mind, but as a translucent, almost ethereal overlay at the edge of his vision. It was gone as quickly as it appeared. No penalty. No warning. Just the cold, precise statement of fact.
Lin Yue ignored it. He focused on the task. He lit his three incense sticks from the brazier’s weak flame. He then turned towards the coffin, his gaze fixed on it.
He bowed. Once. Twice. Thrice. His movements were precise, unhurried. He held the burning incense, its smoke curling upwards, a new thread in the heavy air. He walked towards the urn, his steps silent.
As he approached the coffin, the air around it felt colder. A distinct pressure, like an invisible weight, pressed against his chest. Madam Luo’s weeping, though still present, seemed to recede slightly, as if something else was now demanding attention.
He placed his three burning incense sticks into the urn, carefully positioning them. The tips glowed, catching the faint embers that remained from the previous offerings. A thin plume of smoke rose.
He stepped back, bowing once more to the coffin. His gaze, detached and analytical, swept over the black lacquered box. The faint crack in the lid seemed to pulse with a deeper darkness.
He returned to the group, his expression unchanged.
"Did anything happen?" Wang Jie whispered, his eyes wide. "When the first ones went out?"
"I don’t know," Li Qiang admitted, his voice strained. "But Madam Luo’s crying got louder."
"And Little Sheng looked at Lin Yue," Liu Fang added, her voice trembling.
Lin Yue didn’t respond. He had violated a rule. The System had noted it. But no immediate consequence. This was typical. The System rarely punished directly for minor infractions unless they were critical. It preferred psychological pressure. Or, perhaps, it was testing him. Testing how he would react.
He looked at the silent mourners again. Their stillness felt even more profound now. Like statues holding their breath.
"We need a system," He Rong declared, her voice cutting through the whispers. "A rotation. Someone needs to be ready to light the next batch of incense before the current ones burn out." She looked at Li Qiang. "You’re trying to lead. Organize it."
Li Qiang nodded, grateful for the concrete task. "Alright. We have eight players left who haven’t placed incense. Let’s make a schedule. Two people per shift. One person watches the incense. The other one will prepare it."
Lin Yue listened, but his attention was elsewhere. He looked at Uncle Ren. The old steward’s unblinking eyes were now fixed on him. A faint, almost imperceptible shift in his posture. A subtle tension in his gnarled hands.
Then, Lin Yue felt it. A cold, distinct presence, a weight on his consciousness. A sensation he knew well. The Arbiter.
He didn’t see him. He didn’t hear him. But the awareness was there. Like a distant echo. A flicker at the edge of his perception.
He’s here.
He didn’t react externally. His face remained impassive. He continued to observe. The incense. The child. The silent mourners. The coffin. And the subtle, growing tension that now permeated the very air.
Li Qiang, oblivious, was already assigning roles. "Okay, Chen Hao, Xu Ning, you two are up next. Get your incense ready."
Xu Ning, ever observant, glanced at Lin Yue. Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, met his for a brief moment. A flicker of something unreadable passed between them. She had noticed his calm. His lack of visible reaction to the rule violation, or the general dread. She was watching him, just as he was watching everything else.
Lin Yue offered her nothing back. His silence was his shield. His observation, his weapon.
"Uncle Ren," Gao Lin called out, his voice tinged with a dare. He couldn’t resist. "You said the departed has no name. No memories. No face. But you’re asking us to mourn. How can we mourn what we don’t know? What if... what if we tried to find out who they were?"
The question hung in the air, thick and heavy. It challenged the core rule. Not to name the nameless. Not to know the identity of the departed.
Uncle Ren’s head tilted. His unblinking eyes, dark and ancient, seemed to deepen. Madam Luo’s weeping intensified dramatically, a sudden, heart-wrenching sob that seemed to tear through the fabric of the silence.
Little Sheng, who had been watching the new incense, slowly turned his head. His dark, unblinking eyes fixed on Gao Lin. And his small, pale finger rose. This time, it pointed directly at Gao Lin.
The air grew impossibly cold. The dim light seemed to flicker, struggling against an encroaching darkness.
Uncle Ren’s voice, when it came, was a dry, chilling whisper. "To seek the name... is to offer your own."
The unspoken threat hung heavy.
Gao Lin’s cynical smirk faltered. His face, which had been pale, now seemed to drain of all color. He swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on Little Sheng’s accusing finger, then on Uncle Ren’s unblinking eyes. He had pushed too far. He knew it.
Lin Yue watched them. He registered the fear in Gao Lin’s eyes. The intensity of the weeping. The child’s silent accusation. The cold, unmoving stare of Uncle Ren.
The System was tightening its grip. The rules, once subtle, were becoming stark. The consequences are clearer.
And somewhere, unseen, unheard by the others, the Arbiter was watching. A cold, detached presence, now fully within the instance. Lin Yue felt it like a hum beneath the floorboards, a subtle distortion in the very air he breathed. A predator observing its prey. Or perhaps, something else entirely.
The silence stretched, broken only by Madam Luo’s desperate sobs. The incense in the urn continued to burn, a fragile beacon against the encroaching dread. But the question had been asked. The forbidden thought, voiced. The seed of identity, planted.
And the nameless... was listening.
