The Guan Yin pendant against Rui Lengyu's chest burned like a smoldering coal, searing through the thin fabric of her black blazer. She jolted upright in the passenger seat of Ye Shaoyang's SUV, her fingers flying to the pendant—its cool jade surface now hot enough to make her hiss. Before she could yank her hand away, three silver fragments tucked in her pocket began to hum, a low, resonant vibration that traveled up her arm, as if the pieces themselves were begging to be freed.
"Whoa—easy." Ye's hand shot out, steadying her elbow. His thumb brushed the back of her hand, warm and calloused from years of wielding his peachwood sword, and the heat in the pendant dimmed, just for a second. "The shards again?"
Rui nodded, fumbling to pull the fragments from her pocket. The three Pivot Shards glowed faintly gold, their edges pulsing in sync, pointing like tiny compasses toward the heart of Chinatown. Through the SUV's windshield, the neon sign of Tianle Theater flickered to life—"Tianle Theater" scrawled in chipped red paint, the characters bleeding into the night. Even from two blocks away, she could hear it: the faint, warbling strains of a Peking opera aria, floating from the theater's broken backstage window.
"It's coming from there." She tapped the windshield, her voice tight. "Tianle Theater. The century-old one—my mom mentioned it once. Said it was a hub for Chinese opera troupes in the 1920s, until the lead singer… disappeared."
Dao Feng, slouched in the backseat with Master Qingyunzi's tattered notebook open on his lap, sat up straight. "Su Yurong." He tapped a yellowed page, where a faded photo of a woman in a red opera gown was taped. "1938. She was the theater's biggest star—until she was found hanged in the backstage dressing room, still wearing her 'Farewell My Concubine' costume. Rumor says her ghost haunts the place, clinging to her old opera robes ."
Before anyone could speak, Rui's phone buzzed. The screen lit up with a text from her mother—only two lines, but her hands shook as she read them: "Be careful of Su Yurong's costume. The shard is with her, but she's not just a ghost. She's being controlled."
The aria cut off mid-note.
Ye killed the engine. The night fell silent, save for the distant wail of a taxi and the rustle of wind through the theater's overgrown hedges. He grabbed his peachwood sword from the center console—its blade already glowing faintly gold, a sign of nearby Yin energy—and pushed open the door. "Stick close. Dao Feng, you take the front; Rui, stay with me. If we see the costume, don't touch it."
The theater's front entrance was padlocked, but the backstage door hung ajar, creaking in the wind. As they stepped inside, the smell hit first: a mix of mildew, dust, and the faint, sweet scent of joss paper, like someone had been burning offerings to the dead. The main hall was a graveyard of broken seats—upholstery peeling, springs poking through—and the stage was draped in a tattered velvet curtain, its once-rich red now faded to pink.
The aria started again, louder this time.
"It's coming from the dressing rooms." Dao Feng whispered, his hand resting on the Xuanqing Whisk at his waist. The whisk's silver bristles glowed, casting a soft light over the shadows. "The Yin energy's thick here—thicker than the Mirror House. Whatever's controlling Su Yurong, it's powerful."
They inched toward the backstage corridor, their footsteps muffled by a layer of dust. The dressing rooms were lined up along the wall, their doors hanging off their hinges. In the third one, the light was on—a single bare bulb swinging from the ceiling, illuminating a vanity cluttered with cracked powder compacts and a half-empty jar of hair oil.
And hanging on a rusted clothes rack, there it was: Su Yurong's costume.
Red silk, embroidered with golden phoenixes, the hem frayed but still vivid. It hung perfectly straight, as if someone had just taken it off—but there was no one in the room. No one visible, anyway.
Rui's Guan Yin pendant flared. "She's here."
The costume's sleeve moved.
Not a gust of wind—deliberate, slow, like a hand waving from inside the fabric. Then, thin black threads shot out from the sleeve, coiling toward Rui's ankles. Puppet strings.
"Watch out!" Ye swung his peachwood sword, slicing through the threads. The strings dissolved into black smoke, and the costume let out a high, keening wail—like a woman screaming, but distorted, as if trapped in a jar.
From the vanity mirror, a face appeared: Su Yurong's. Her skin was pale as paper, her lips painted a vivid red, and her eyes were empty, black pits. She mouthed words Rui couldn't hear, then lunged forward, the costume's other sleeve lashing out with more puppet strings.
Dao Feng raised his whisk, chanting a Taoist prayer under his breath. Silver light shot from the bristles, wrapping around the strings and freezing them mid-air. "Rui! Now—your runes!"
Rui fumbled in her blazer pocket, pulling out a handful of oak rune chips she'd soaked in cinnabar that morning. She hurled them toward the costume, yelling the old Irish incantation her grandmother had taught her: "Sowilo, solas, scaipe an dorchadas!" (Sowilo, light, scatter the darkness!)
The runes exploded in a burst of blue light. The costume screeched, reeling back, and Su Yurong's face in the mirror contorted in pain. But the strings didn't break—they multiplied, shooting toward Ye, who was too busy guarding Rui to dodge. One string wrapped around his wrist, yanking him forward, and he stumbled, crashing into Rui.
They fell to the floor, Rui's back hitting the vanity, and for a second, time stopped. Ye's hand was on her waist, his face inches from hers, and the three Pivot Shards in her pocket began to glow—bright enough to blind her. The light seeped through her clothes, wrapping around them both, and the costume's wails turned to whimpers.
Then, Ye kissed her.
It was quick—just a brush of lips, accidental, born from the chaos—but Rui's breath caught. The heat from the Guan Yin pendant faded completely, replaced by a warmth that spread from her chest to her fingers. Ye pulled back, his ears red, but before he could apologize, the shards in her pocket shot out, hovering in mid-air.
They spun around each other, merging into a small golden orb, and shot toward the costume. The orb hit the red silk, and Su Yurong's ghost appeared—no longer a hollow shell, but a woman with tears streaming down her face. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice clear now. "She's been using me… the woman in black. She said if I guarded the shard, I could rest. But she lied."
With a final smile, she dissolved into light. The costume crumpled to the floor, and a fourth Pivot Shard clattered out of the sleeve, landing at Rui's feet.
She reached for it, her heart racing. When her fingers touched the cold metal, she froze—the back of the shard was etched with a signature, faint but recognizable: Lin Mei—her mother's maiden name, the one she'd used before marrying Rui's father.
"Why would my mom's name be on this?" She held it up to Ye, her voice shaking.
Before Ye could answer, Rui's phone buzzed again.
It was an unknown number. The message was a photo: her mother, tied to a metal chair in a dark room, a cloth gag over her mouth. Behind her, a fifth Pivot Shard glowed on a table. The text below made Rui's blood run cold:
"Next shard is in Brooklyn Psychiatric Hospital. Be there by midnight, or your mother stays in her nightmare forever."
Ye grabbed her phone, his jaw tight. "It's a trap. Xuan Ying—she's playing us."
Dao Feng pointed to the window. "Look."
On the theater's roof, a figure stood. Tall, wearing a black cloak that billowed in the wind, their face hidden by a hood. They raised a hand, and for a second, Rui saw the glint of a Pivot Shard in their palm. Then, they turned, and a cold, mocking laugh drifted down—sharp enough to make her spine tingle.
"They're watching us." Dao Feng's hand tightened on his whisk. "And they know exactly what they're doing."
Rui clenched the fourth shard, the signature burning into her palm. Her mother was alive—trapped, but alive. And Xuan Ying was using her as bait.
She stood up, brushing dust from her blazer, and met Ye's eyes. "We go to the hospital."
Ye nodded, sliding his peachwood sword back into its sheath. He took her hand, his grip firm, and for a second, the warmth from their accidental kiss returned. "Together."
As they walked out of Tianle Theater, the first hint of dawn painted the sky pink. But Rui didn't feel the warmth—only the cold weight of the shard in her hand, and the certainty that whatever waited for them in Brooklyn, it would be worse than any ghost they'd faced yet.
On the roof, the cloaked figure pulled back their hood. Xuan Ying smiled, running a finger over the Pivot Shard in her hand. "One down," she whispered. "Three to go. And soon, the balance will be mine."