Chapter Twelve: Illusions

My heart nearly stopped! At almost the same instant, a chill swept over me, making my head buzz and leaving me dizzy and dazed.

“One stroke for blessings and longevity, two strokes to brush away sorrow. Three strokes to preserve chastity…” An ethereal voice echoed near my ear, growing clearer and closer with each word.

As the dizziness faded, the dim surroundings gradually glowed with a yellowish light, revealing shapes and scenery. I glanced around—everywhere were low, earth-brick houses, built in a style so ancient and impoverished it was impossible to tell what era this was.

I was utterly confused. Where was this place? How had I ended up here?

And where was the ghostly woman? Where was Old Chen? They’d both vanished without a trace.

I tried to call out for Old Chen, but when I opened my mouth, not a single sound emerged. Clutching my throat, I tried again and again, but not even the faintest noise escaped.

It wasn’t just my throat—everything around me was unnaturally silent, the kind of stillness that deafens. The world was shrouded in that same somber, yellow-tinted glow, and I felt as if I’d stepped into a silent, old film.

Suddenly, faint voices drifted from somewhere ahead—startlingly out of place in this absolute quiet. I followed the direction of the sound.

As I wove through the narrow paths of the village, the place felt even more ancient, like the old houses from my childhood, exuding a mysterious, ancient aura.

The voices wavered between clear and indistinct, as if coming from a worn-out tape recorder, but I was gradually getting closer.

I came to a brick house; the voices were coming from within. Drawn by some invisible force, I entered. The interior was gloomy, lit only by the flickering glow of candlelight.

A group of women had gathered in the main hall, all dressed in old-fashioned, right-fastening tunics with cloth buttons and wide-legged pants in shades of grey and blue—simple, austere, and distinctly antiquated.

Among them, several women stood out; their clothing was identical in style but uniformly black.

In the center of the hall was an altar, set with incense, tea, and offerings of meat, all placed before a statue of the Bodhisattva Guanyin. The candle flames wavered, smoke curled in the air, casting everything into a dim, hazy, mystical light. It seemed some kind of ritual was underway.

A slender figure sat in front of the altar, long black hair cascading over her shoulders, wearing a brand-new black robe. In her hand she held a handleless wooden comb.

“One stroke for blessings and longevity!” intoned a middle-aged woman.

“One stroke for blessings and longevity,” echoed the young woman seated before the altar. As she spoke, she drew the comb through her dark hair, once from top to bottom.

“Two strokes to brush away sorrow!” the middle-aged woman continued.

“Two strokes to brush away sorrow,” the young woman repeated, combing her hair again.

“Three strokes to preserve chastity!” the older woman led.

“Three strokes to preserve chastity,” the slender woman intoned, combing yet again.

I stared, bewildered. What was this ceremony? What did it all mean?

Everyone present watched the woman with solemn reverence, as if witnessing a rite of passage.

One stroke for blessings and longevity, two strokes to brush away sorrow.

Three strokes to preserve chastity, four strokes for sworn sisterhood.

Five strokes for diligence, six strokes for harmony.

Seven strokes to honor Guanyin, eight strokes to honor one’s parents.

Eight lines in total, and the slender woman combed her hair eight times, each matching a line.

When the ritual ended, she set down the comb. An older woman, also dressed in black with her hair coiled atop her head, stepped forward and arranged the young woman’s hair into a chignon, murmuring lifelessly, “From this day forth, this is ironclad proof; let no matchmaker come again, and let no parent decide her fate.”

Once her hair was done, the slender woman knelt before the Bodhisattva, raising her hands in oath: “From this day on, I shall remain single all my life and never marry.”

After bowing to Guanyin, she turned and kowtowed to an elderly couple nearby—presumably her parents. In that moment, I glimpsed her face: thin, with delicate features, almost beautiful.

The dim light began to fade, and the scenes—silent as an old film—were swallowed by darkness. I felt dazed, lost, unable to grasp what was happening.

A woman’s terrified, anguished scream suddenly pierced the air.

I jolted, whirling toward the sound, but there was only blackness—nothing to see. After the scream, the noise of frantic scuffling and collisions followed, alongside hurried footsteps, as if someone was desperately struggling to escape.

What was happening? Who was over there?

I ran toward the sound. A faint glow appeared ahead, spreading slowly, and the world lit up again with that same dim hue—but now the setting was different: the grand courtyard of an old, wealthy household.

A gasp rang out, and the slender young woman from before came running in terror from a room.

She hadn’t taken two steps before a burly young man seized her from behind, a leering smile plastered on his face. He dragged her back toward the room.

The woman clung to the doorframe, fighting wildly, her face a mask of terror as she pleaded, “Young Master Fan, I beg you, please let me go!”

It took no imagination to understand what was happening. I still had no idea why I was here, but I dashed forward all the same.

I tried to shout for the man to stop, but, as before, no sound came from my throat. I lunged, wanting to punch the brute away. But when I swung my fist, it passed right through him, as if I had no strength at all.

Surprised, I realized that, though I was never strong, I was never this weak!

Yet what shocked me most was that my fist went straight through his face! The sensation was strange—not like punching air, but as if I myself was made of air, unable to exert any force, unable to intervene. All I could do was watch, helpless and close at hand.

Her strength no match for his, the slender woman was dragged inside, and the door slammed shut. From within came the sounds of struggle, her terrified cries and pleas echoing again and again, haunting the darkness.

Each scream struck me to the core. I could feel her horror, her utter helplessness; calling for help in vain, with no answer from heaven or earth—reduced to nothing more than a helpless victim, at the mercy of her tormentor.

I tried to force my way inside to save her, but the door was like a barrier I could not touch or pass through. All I could do was pace outside, listening as her cries grew ever more desperate.

Once more, the world dimmed, her cries fading into the darkness, lingering, finally dissolving into nothingness.

I found myself back in the old village again. The slender woman was bound hand and foot, stuffed into a pig cage, and paraded through the streets by a jeering, drum-beating crowd. Though the drums thundered just steps away, their sound, too, was strangely distorted, as if filtered through a battered tape recorder.

Tears streamed down the woman’s face, mingling fear and humiliation. Her lips moved, trying to speak, but her voice was lost beneath the drums, unheard by anyone.

The crowd looked on with contempt, mockery, and scorn—faces cold and devoid of pity.

No one cared what she had to say. No one heeded her defense. Not a single person showed even a shred of compassion.