Chen Ling didn't stop running until the hill and the chasing yells were far behind him, his lungs burning and his boots caked in mud. He ducked into an alley between two old brick houses, pressing his back against the cold wall to catch his breath. The whisper—faint, insistent—still lingered in his ears, but now it wasn't saying "Run." It was saying a name: "Master Wei."
Master Wei. The original Chen Ling's opera teacher, the one he'd fought with a week ago—the same fight that had ended with his score torn to pieces. In the original's fragmented memories, Master Wei was a quiet, sharp-eyed old man who'd run a small opera troupe out of a converted warehouse on the edge of town. He was also the only person who'd ever seemed to understand the original's hatred for the red robe.
If anyone knew what the robe was, it was Master Wei.
Chen Ling brushed the mud off his jacket and set off, keeping to back streets to avoid being seen. The town was quiet, the post-rain air thick with the smell of damp earth. Every time he passed a window, he half-expected to see Li Xiuqin or Chen Daming staring back—but the streets were empty, as if the town itself was holding its breath.
The warehouse was easier to find than he'd expected. It was a weathered gray building with a faded sign above the door: "Lotus Opera Troupe." The windows were covered with tattered cloth, and from inside, Chen Ling could hear the faint strum of a guzheng—slow, mournful, like a song for the dead.
He pushed the door open slowly. The warehouse was dim, lit only by a few oil lamps hung from the ceiling. Rows of opera costumes—silks in deep blues, golds, and greens—hung from racks along the walls, their fabrics dust-covered. In the center of the room, an old man sat on a wooden stool, plucking the strings of a guzheng. He had a long white beard and wore a plain gray robe, and his eyes—sharp as flint—lifted to meet Chen Ling's the moment he stepped inside.
"Master Wei," Chen Ling said, his voice tight.
Master Wei set down the guzheng, his fingers still hovering over the strings. "You're not Chen Ling," he said flatly.
Chen Ling froze. "How did you—"
"Because the real Chen Ling would never step foot in here again," Master Wei cut him off. He stood up, his movements slow but steady, and walked over to a rack of costumes. His hand brushed past a blue robe, then a gold one, before stopping at a empty hanger—its hook still bearing a faint red thread. "He hated this place after I told him the truth about the robe. Hated me, too."
"The truth about the robe?" Chen Ling stepped closer. "What is it? Why did it take over him? Why am I in his body?"
Master Wei sighed, turning to face him. "That robe isn't just cloth and thread. It's a host—for the spirit of Madame Hong, the greatest opera singer this town ever had. She died eighty years ago, on stage, mid-performance as Hong Niang. Her last wish was to keep singing… so her students wove her spirit into her favorite red robe. They thought it would let her 'live' through the next generation of singers."
He paused, his gaze darkening. "But Madame Hong's spirit didn't stay kind. Years passed, and she grew greedy—she didn't just want to 'live' through singers. She wanted to replace them. To take their bodies, their lives, and keep singing forever. The robe chooses someone with a voice like hers… someone young, someone easy to overpower. The real Chen Ling had that voice. So did his mother, Li Xiuqin—before she gave it up to save herself."
Chen Ling's blood ran cold. "Li Xiuqin? She knew about the robe?"
"Knew? She was supposed to be its next host," Master Wei said. "Her mother—Chen Ling's grandmother—was Madame Hong's last vessel. When Li Xiuqin was 16, the robe started calling to her. But she ran. She married Chen Daming, had Chen Ling… and hoped the robe would forget about her bloodline. But it never does. It waits. And when Chen Ling's voice matured… it came for him."
Everything clicked. The original's fear of the robe, Li Xiuqin and Chen Daming's lies, the grave at the hill—they'd buried the original because they thought Madame Hong's spirit had fully taken him. They thought they were saving the town… and themselves.
But then why was Chen Ling here? In the original's body?
"What about me?" he asked, his hands shaking. "Why am I in his body? Am I… am I Madame Hong's next host?"
Master Wei's eyes softened. "No. You're a fluke. When Li Xiuqin and Chen Daming buried Chen Ling, his body was still clinging to life—Madame Hong hadn't fully taken over yet. The shock of the burial, the cold, the fear… it pushed her spirit out, just for a moment. And in that moment, you slipped in. You're a stranger, but you're keeping her at bay. For now."
"For now?"
Master Wei nodded, pointing to Chen Ling's chest. "She's still there. In the robe, in his body—waiting. Every time you hear her whisper, every time you feel that coldness… she's trying to push you out. And when she does, she'll go back to singing. To taking. And this time, no one will be able to stop her."
Chen Ling thought of the hand in the grave, the voice begging for help. Was that the original Chen Ling? Still fighting, somewhere inside his own body?
"How do I get rid of her?" he asked, leaning forward. "How do I save him? Save myself?"
Master Wei walked to a locked cabinet in the corner and pulled out a key. He unlocked it, revealing a small wooden box. Inside was a single object: a broken opera mask, its paint chipped, its eyes hollow.
"This was Madame Hong's mask," he said, lifting it carefully. "She wore it on the night she died. It's the only thing that can bind her spirit—if we can get her back into the robe, then seal the robe with the mask. But to do that… we need the robe. And it's still at your house, with Li Xiuqin and Chen Daming."
Chen Ling's stomach dropped. Going back to that house meant facing them—and the shovel. But if he didn't, Madame Hong would take over, and the original Chen Ling would be gone forever.
He took the mask from Master Wei, its wood cold in his hands. "I'll get the robe."
Master Wei nodded, his face grave. "Be careful. Li Xiuqin and Chen Daming aren't monsters—they're scared. But scared people do terrible things. And Madame Hong? She'll use their fear against you. She'll whisper to them, make them think you're the enemy."
Chen Ling slipped the mask into his jacket pocket. He walked to the door, then paused, looking back at Master Wei. "What if I can't do it? What if she takes me first?"
Master Wei's voice was steady. "Then we all lose. But I don't think you will. The original Chen Ling fought her. You're fighting her. That's more than anyone else has done in eighty years."
Chen Ling took a deep breath and pushed the door open. The sky was darker now, dusk settling over the town. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. And in his pocket, the mask felt like a weight—heavy, but not hopeless.
He had to go back. To the house. To the robe. To the truth.
And this time, he wasn't running away. He was running toward it.