[August 22. 1998–Jiangsu Province]
Zhang lies in his bed, carefully tucked in. The smell of the incense pot fills the room with its floral scent. The room was perfectly organized, books carefully lined up in order on the shelves around.
The stars rained down like falling comets.
"Always be respectful to the spirits, Zhang," his mother told him, reading from a book. "We should always give them our offerings and light incense every night for our safety."
Zhang listens, watching the flickering paper lantern on his paper and the rows of porcelain pots scattered in his room.
The door slightly creaks.
"Don't fill his head with old tales," his father says as he walks into the room. He had short hair, black as a raven's wing, but gray streaks slashed his temple. A faded blue work shirt clung tight to his lean frame, shoulders rolled up past his elbows.
He leans his body against the doorway, just returning from work. "They're just urban traditions meant to scare kids. Your mother already does that with her cooking."
His mother's eyes flicked with annoyance.
Using a lantern, his father casts a long, deep shadow across the room, stretching his arms forward to create unnatural shapes. "Focus on what's real, Zhang. And always respect your mother."
He smiled slightly—warm—cutting through the heaviness. He stands next to his wife with a cold warmth between them like fire and ice.
Slipping away with the door closing quietly behind them, they shared a chilly silence. The smell of dry floral lingers in the air like a ghost, billowing up into a small cloud.
He hears his parents talking in the hallway, their voices reverberating to his room.
"We should be lucky we can still afford his tuition," his father says worryingly. "I'm working hard every day and still not meeting ends meet."
He sighs.
"We'll work it out," his mother responds. "Let's try to get him to grow up safe. That's all we want."
Zhang curls up in his bed, overhearing their muffled voices.
"I'll have to be by the factory by seven tomorrow," his father says gruffly. "Work has been hard these days, and the pay just isn't keeping up."
When it was breakfast, he sat with his parents at the wooden table. His father didn't speak. His mom kept refilling his bowl of rice. The only sound heard was the tapping on the bowls.
"I'm not hungry," Zhang quietly says.
"Eat. You have school today," his father bluntly says, looking at the newspaper.
"You're still a growing boy," his mom assures. "You need as much energy."
"Can I help with the dishes?" Zhang suggests.
"You just need to study. Your mom will do the chores," his father says as he rises from his seat. He grabs his lunchbox and makes it to work.
Zhang drops his gaze to his bowl of rice.
School wasn't any better than his situation at home.
"Study hard! You should all strive for good grades!" the teacher reprimands.
Zhang stands at the back of his class for ten minutes after forgetting to bring his vocabulary notebook. No one mocks nor defends him. The teacher smacks his wooden ruler on Zhang's desk, causing the boy to wince.
He looks at the crooked collars and loose shoelaces of his classmates. Everyone blended together with their standardized uniforms.
Zhang sits rigidly at his lone desk, switching attention between the blackboard and the stern teacher.
His backpack felt heavier than usual, and he was carrying that weight on his shoulders.
His ink spilled slightly on his paper, a black splotch covering his paper. The teacher's eyes dart in his direction.
"Zhang! Careful. You must write with precision."
The boy bows his head, cheeks flustered bright red. His heart sank. With trembling fingers, he wrote the character again. The teacher nodded, but he knew it wasn't enough.
He wonders if the chalk carries the spirits that his mother prays to protect him from.
As soon as school ends, he runs to the local market, helping with restocking their ingredients. He helps the local ladies carry buckets of water from the nearby river.
The dogs barked loudly as cyclists crossed through the area. The children laugh as they chase one another.
He moves carefully to carry the heavy bags of rice and fresh vegetables, making sure not to drop a single item.
The elderly ladies cast reassuring smiles as they catch their breath.
Zhang pauses at the children playing and darting around him. He had to work hard, knowing his efforts helped his community's balance remain intact.
"Here's some food, Zhang," one of the sellers says. "The food in the box should be used for offerings later tonight."
"It's a lot of food just to go to waste," he frowns, picking up a sticky rice ball.
"It's not going to waste," she gives him a patient look. "We're feeding the hungry spirits for good luck and safety."
"Do you really believe in those stories?" Zhang questions.
"Of course you should," the woman arches her brow. "It's a tradition around here. It keeps us safe, remember."
The boy stays quiet. The evening sun draws over the distant moon as the sky darkens. His father clicks the lighter, bursting a small flame.
The soft sound of its crackle rings in Zhang's ear.
As the sticks catch on fire, his father softly blows them out. Smoke bellows in shallow wisps.
He gives Zhang and his wife three incense sticks. The three stand before a memorial shrine–flowers and rice bowls scattered around as offerings.
At the same time, they raise the sticks up to their foreheads before putting them back down to a prayer. They softly shake their hands three times before placing one stick into the pot. They repeat this motion two more times.
The crickets chirp.
His father walks out to take a smoke break. The ring of smoke drifts into the air like a fluffy cloud. He leans on the railing, eyes distant and thoughtful. On the other hand, he cradles a cup of baijiu, indulging in its sweet, smoky flavors.
His mom sits on the couch, looking at the stars above. Being the last one to leave, Zhang looks over his ancestor's memorial.
He steps forward cautiously towards the shrine, eyes fixated on the cradle. He didn't notice the uneven plank flooring or the random pebbles scattered on the floor. A sudden gust of wind whistles in the air.
Just to make sure the sticks are placed right, he thinks. Feel closer to the spirits, like mom said.
As he steps forward, his leg twists unexpectedly on a loose plank. His body jerks forward. Instinctively trying to catch himself, he grabs the tablecloth covering. The force yanks the pot off the table, tumbling through the air before shattering into a million glass shards.
Some of the food offering bowls cracked and spilled everywhere on the floor below.
They crack like a harsh, splintering gunshot.
Zhang stares in disbelief. His chest tightens. A cold sweat trickled down his back.
He looks over the broken incense pot, its porcelain shard broken like a cheap puzzle piece. Ash and sand clung to the wooden floor as the young boy trembled from what he had done. He couldn't catch his breath.
"No. No. No," Zhang stammers, slapping his temple. "The hungry spirits! They're angry now."
His father's words echo in the back of his mind: They're just urban traditions. Zhang watched the ring bend inward, wondering if any spirits saw.
His mother's tired eyes flash in his head. I can't tell her.
He tucks the pieces underneath the cloth desk, swallowing the knot in his stomach. He walks through his house, and the image of the broken pot lingers in his head. He looks at his mother. She was staring at the windowsill, watching the stars above.
The soft lines on her face depended on every worry that Zhang knew but didn't want to say.
"Mom," he mutters, hesitating.
She barely looks up. Her fingers trembled slightly on the window still. "What do you need, Zhang?"
"Nothing, I'm just tired." Zhang stares, swallowing his words–the incense, the fear. This was all just superstition at the end of the day. He didn't want to burden her.
Later that night, the full moon shines over the village, illuminating its presence. The Elusives outside snap and growl at each other, pacing against each other. Following the scent of humans, their attention turns to the village.
They inhaled in ragged breaths.
It drives them into a frenzy like a shark to the whiff of blood.
[Incense–an ancient tradition originating from mainland China, used to ward off evil spirits using dry floral scents. It involves a joint connection within a village to maintain its barrier.]
As the cursed spirits approach the barrier, the air around them crackles. Its saliva drips and drools onto the floor, wilting the luscious grass below. Snarling at the invisible wall, it walks closer to the barrier.
The fragrant plume causes many of the spirits to twist and contort violently, recoiling from the smell. Some slink backwards to the floor on all fours, low to the ground.
[When one incense is forgotten to be lit or broken, it causes the barrier to fail and collapse in on itself.]
The Elusive puts its lanky, deformed arm through the barrier, watching as it seemingly passes through. The barrier flickers like broken glass. With one deathly cry, it sends a horde of cursed spirits into the area, shattering the village's fragile peace.
Zhang wakes up from the sound of distant screaming. Sweat trails down his temple. His breath hitched. His heart is hammering against his chest.
He peeks through the curtains, seeing the villagers walk outside. Holding their lanterns, they illuminate the darkness, leaving harsh shadows on the walls. One villager peered into the distance, squinting at what looked more like shadows moving against the moonlight.
Zhang, however, saw them clearly. The spirits clawing against each other, eyes glowing like pitch white lanterns.
"It's a false alarm, everyone," the villager assures. "It's safe for you to return——"
Before the man could finish, something launched him to the side of a building. He turned his head, seeing nothing in the distance. Something clenched.
The villagers look out of their windows, out of their houses, to see the man dragged by something out of this world, disappearing into an alleyway. His screams caught and fragmented.
The walls caught it instantly.
Zhang flinched, cowering in his bed. He wraps the warm blanket over himself.
"What was that?" another villager says, staggering back.
Suddenly, his body buckled and yielded as if something was gnawing on his shoulder. Crimson led the world. One by one, the villagers ran and screamed away as the Elusives charged after them.
Lanterns drop to the floor as the flame catches the wooden houses around. Shadows twisted on the wooden walls–not ones humans can make. Bodies crash and flail in the air as if they were puppets being yanked on a string.
"It's the spirits," one mother screams, clutching her children. She peeks through the curtains, seeing a body crash right through.
Many pushed each other back, trying to buy enough time to save themselves.
Zhang bursts through the front door, heart pounding. He sees his father helping a family escape the chaos. Fighting back the guilt, he runs towards his father, helping him. He dodges the falling debris and lanterns on the floor.
"Zhang," his father says. "We need to get everyone to the mountains–the monks always light incense there."
For now, action is more important than regret, and Zhang knew that.
Spotting an old man struggling to stand, he wraps his arm around the man's shoulder, and they start moving to the gates.
Another villager spots the two and takes the man's other side. Zhang glances back, rushing back to the village now engulfed in an inferno of guilt and sorrow.
He redirects nearby survivors to the gates–the elderly, women, and children–urging them on.
"Carry your incense pots," he shouts, lips parched and throat hoarse. "It'll ward them off–long enough to reach the monks."
Even as the flames consumed everything, the old stories rang out in his head. All the things he never took seriously now came true.
Directing the last of the survivors, his father hugs his son in a tight embrace. Ash and smoke lingered in the air, drawing over the full moon.
Zhang's lips tremble slightly as if trying to hold something that's already spilling out of his eyes.
"Did you see your mother?" his father says, voice dripping with fear. "Is she still in the house?"
Zhang tries to speak, but his throat clenches his words. He clenches his hands, knuckles turning pitch white.
He goes utterly still. Frozen. Scared. It is as if he had become a statue. His silence is too heavy.
His word, however, would suddenly snap him out of his trance.
"Zhang," his father says, worry drawn over his eyes. "What did you do?"
"What?" Zhang's eyes dilate. His expression drops, not knowing what was happening.
"What did you do?" His father grabs his shoulders, rocking his body back. "Were you trying to hide something?"
The distorted screams of villagers grew louder and louder as they approached the father and son duo. Only a sound an Elusive can make.
"I saw the incense broken when I rushed to help," his father's voice staggers. "I'm not angry–please tell me, did you break it?"
"I-uuhh. I," Zhang's eyes swell up. His hands shake uncontrollably. "I don't know."
A shadow creeps up on his father. Zhang saw the cursed spirit clench its gaping jaw on his father's leg. In one last fatherly protection, he pushes his son out of the way before being launched into the air.
His body ravaged and consumed by the cursed spirits–Zhang watched. He stares wide and frozen, unable to accept his reality. His pupils had shrunk.
Smoke billows in a thick, choking wave. The fire kept raging mercilessly, consuming everything in its path. It fills his lungs with the never-ending heat.
Zhang walks over to his home, feet dragging against each other, expression blank. He ignores the danger and screams around him as he stares at his house, now enveloped in fire.
Snapping out of his trance, he rushes inside to find his mother.
The heat blurs his vision as he pushes falling debris, trying to find her. Turning his head, he finds her lying on the ground.
"Zhang?" She questions. "What are you doing here?"
Zhang rushes forward, hugging his mom.
"Mom," Zhang exhales, hitching every syllable. "I-I broke the incense. I caused all of this."
"I know, sweety," His mother assures. "It's going to be okay."
An Elusive senses the two in the burning building, claws digging into the ground.
"You knew about the incense?" Zhang's heart drops, wiping away his tears. "When? How?"
"When we woke up from the screams," she says, gently holding his shoulders. Embers popped and scattered like fireflies. She embraces Zhang in a tight hug, seeing an unnatural shadow moving on the roof.
The Elusive crawls on the roof, drool melting the wooden floorboards.
"Zhang, listen to me," she says, placing her warm hand steady on his head. "Don't be sad or afraid. You are a brave boy, and you did nothing wrong."
Zhang's eyes widen, swallowing the knot in his throat. He staggers back. Seeing the Elusive on the burning roof, he instinctively runs away.
"Zhang…" his mother says, her voice too quiet for him to hear. "I love you."
Turning his head, he sees the Elusive pouncing on his mother, as the roof caves in on itself.
It swallows them whole, forgotten under the wreckage.
The older Zhang blinks. The memory cuts back to the present as if it were a film tape. The sun's harsh rays contrast with the cold moon from that night.
I did everything wrong.
The past harshly cuts back into his head. The young boy dashes to the gates, narrowly dodging and weaving from the pouncing cursed spirits.
Once reaching the forest, he sees the devastation that he caused. Everything he once called home is now in flames.
He watches, eyes dry but not dull. He stares alone at himself. The Elusives' howl under the shining moonlight, sounding more like a high-pitched death cry. His stomach churns as if the guilt is eating him up.
The world felt like it was spinning around the young boy, disorienting him. Each howl reminded him of his mistake—the incense.
Why didn't he tell his parents? They had plenty of pots they could have replaced it with. All he had to do was say something.
The wind carries distant cries. The monks up in the monastery lit their own incense, one by one in harmony, carrying smoke into the stars. The screams became distant thuds.
Zhang could almost hear the shimmering barrier enveloping his village crackling and shattering like fragile glass. Zhang's heart pounds.
It wasn't a mistake. It was his choice.
I was a terrible son, the older Zhang narrates. His eyes flicker from the past back to the present, unable to linger for too long. His eyes were red, almost as if he was crying. I failed my community. I failed my parents. I failed my traditions.
What happiness did I deserve?
The young boy walks through the wreckage the next day. The once colorful village is now grey, desolate, and full of ash.
I did not deserve to be with my people. It was best if I disappeared from their lives.
He lies all alone in the wreckage, sitting on a destroyed house. His mind is a cacophony of what happened last night. He looks at shards of the pot near his feet. It followed him, almost insulting him.
As the boy contemplates, an Elusive buried under the wreckage slowly reveals itself.
Loose boards and splintering wood groan.
A low, muffled crack from glass shards pushes through the wreckage.
Zhang turns his head, seeing the Elusive pounce towards him.
"Aahhh!"
A soft clink rings out.
In the blink of an eye, the Elusive separates into two separate pieces, exploding into a cloud of dust and ash.
Zhang looks around, his eyes darting to see who did that.
Two Wardens stand a few meters away from Zhang, one of the men holding his katana.
Zhang's eyes widened, amazed at what he saw.
One of the men notices Zhang in the distance, pointing directly at him.
"What is your name, kid?" A tired grizzly man gently walks forward. His eyes carried deep eye bags, and his silky black hair was tied in a knot. His presence felt warm and humane, contrasting the wreckage around Zhang.
The young boy takes a step back, unsure whether to trust the man.
"My name is Conroy," the man kindly utters, nearly a whisper. "My partner's name is Edward. What's yours?"
"Zhang," the boy says.
The Elusive slowly dissolves and shatters into shards of spiritual energy. Zhang shifts his body sideways, glancing at the dying, cursed spirit.
"I want you to come with us," Conroy suggests. "You'll meet a lot of people just like you."
"Why would I?" Zhang wonders.
"You have heart," Conroy smiles. "I promise I'll protect you….Want to come along?"
Zhang stares, too still for someone his age. His eyes glance sideways before locking back to Conroy. Edward kneels beside Conroy, gaze steady on the young Zhang.
"You don't just have a heart," Edward continues, "You have a skill."
Zhang's jaw sets firmly, taking notes of Edward's words.
"The way you see the world–that's what we need more of," Edward compliments. "You know what it's like to care when others don't. Don't ever unlearn that."
Zhang's eyes light up, glistening with something unfelt before. Conroy let go of his hand.
Zhang looks at the monastery perched high in the mountains, his gaze drawing over to Conroy's hand. It was more than a sanctuary. It was hope. Everyone who survived was in that building. Neighbors. Children.
The ashes of his village still clung to his clothes and skin.
Without hesitation, he accepted the man's hand on an unknown path ahead.