Chapter Sixty-Seven: Nightmare Cycle

The melody from the Kunqu opera Farewell My Concubine was unmistakably coming from this person, who not only sang but also occasionally raised his hand in a delicate gesture, striking poses with an air of awkwardness that was almost unbearable to watch. I drew a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm. As I blinked and looked again, I saw that his entire body was shrouded in a thick aura of coldness; I could almost be certain that this man was a ghost.

The villager’s words echoed in my mind—he had told me that Qingfeng Temple bore another name, the Grave of Sichuan Opera Performers. I hadn’t understood at the time, but now it was clear this was related to Sichuan opera. Despite reminding myself that I had no reason to fear, given my current strength made dealing with ordinary wandering spirits a simple task, I couldn’t help but feel a chill creep through me.

By now, the man had reached the temple gate. He clearly noticed me and examined me from head to toe with an odd, unsettling gaze. His stare made my skin crawl; I was just about to draw a talisman to strike him when, unexpectedly, he greeted me politely with a smile and asked, “Are you lodging here as well, little brother? Where are you headed?”

Instinctively, I stopped drawing the talisman. Though he was enveloped in a potent chill, I sensed no threat from him; in fact, it seemed he was utterly unaware that he was dead. My curiosity was piqued. The villager had mentioned the temple’s ruin had lasted nearly a century, and that locals had heard this eerie Kunqu singing decades ago. Could it be that this performer had been singing here for more than half a century?

But that didn’t add up. If he had truly lingered here for so long, how could he still not realize he was dead? The more I considered this, the greater my curiosity grew. After weighing my options, I decided not to confront him yet—my fascination compelled me to unravel the truth.

Wiping away the talisman from my palm, I smiled and nodded. “Yes, what a coincidence. Are you lodging here as well, brother? Where are you headed?”

He smiled, set down the case of scripts from his back, took a seat, drank a sip of water, and daintily wiped the moisture from his lips with a delicate gesture. He replied, “I am bound for Dayi County in Sichuan, to wish General Liu a happy birthday. My troupe left a day early due to family matters, so I’m hurrying to catch up with them.”

His words astonished me, and I quickly asked, “Brother, is the General Liu you speak of the renowned warlord Liu Xiang of Sichuan?”

He nodded. “Yes. General Liu turns thirty-nine in three days, and our troupe is performing at his grand celebration.”

A storm of thoughts swirled within me. Liu Xiang was a famous warlord of the Republic era, later celebrated for his courageous deeds in the war of resistance—a legendary hero whose stories were well-known in our region. He was born in 1888 and died in 1938. If this man spoke of General Liu’s thirty-ninth birthday, then to him, it must be the year 1927.

My suspicions were confirmed: this performer had been dead for nearly ninety years. My intrigue deepened. “Brother, earlier you were singing while walking—was that Farewell My Concubine from Kunqu?”

His face lit up. “You know Kunqu? You’re absolutely right, that was a section from Farewell My Concubine, and I play the role of the female lead.”

I exclaimed, “Isn’t the female lead usually played by a woman? But you—?”

He smiled again. “Well, our last female performer was taken by a local squire a year ago, and the troupe master couldn’t find a suitable replacement, so I filled in temporarily.”

I looked him over once more—no wonder he was so delicate, his entire presence exuded feminine grace, all for the sake of the role.

We chatted for a while longer. Though I knew he had been dead for many years, I soon found myself no longer afraid. I learned much from him about Sichuan opera and notable events of the Republic era, listening as one would to a story.

That night, the performer and I slept in Qingfeng Temple. I knew he bore no ill will—indeed, he seemed unaware of his own death—but I remained cautious. Yet, by dawn, he had done nothing to threaten me.

Around five in the morning, he woke me. “I must be on my way. Would you like to join me?”

I quickly replied, “No need, I’m not in a hurry; I’ll leave when it’s light.” He bid me farewell and left the temple.

After he departed, I rose and watched his figure disappear in the distance, a faint smile on my lips. Then I went to meditate atop a large stone on the mountain, and spent the day studying the Book of the Underworld and the Maoshan Secrets.

Night fell. As before, I ate some dry rations, washed my face, and prepared for sleep. But to my astonishment, at the same hour as the previous night, the familiar strains of Farewell My Concubine echoed in my ears.

Startled, I jumped to my feet and rushed to the temple gate. There, clad in white robes, carrying a makeup case, and wearing a phoenix crown, the performer appeared before me once more.

He was dressed just as he had been yesterday, coming up the same path, humming the same tune, heading toward Qingfeng Temple.

I was bewildered—he had left last night, so why was he appearing again at the same time, in the same manner?

I was about to ask why he had returned, but he spoke first, repeating exactly what he’d said the night before: “Are you lodging here as well, little brother? Where are you headed?”

He didn’t recognize me.

A chill swept through me. Instinctively, I replied as I had yesterday: “Yes, what a coincidence. Are you lodging here as well, brother? Where are you headed?”

To my surprise, he repeated his actions exactly—smiling, setting down his script case, sitting, drinking water, delicately wiping his lips, and replying, “I am bound for Dayi County in Sichuan, to wish General Liu a happy birthday. My troupe left a day early due to family matters, so I’m hurrying to catch up with them.”

I quickly asked again, “Brother, is the General Liu you speak of the renowned warlord Liu Xiang of Sichuan?”

He nodded. “Yes. General Liu turns thirty-nine in three days, and our troupe is performing at his grand celebration...”

By this point, my mind was thoroughly muddled. The performer had no recollection of meeting me the day before, and everything he did today mirrored his actions from yesterday.

So, I repeated my conversation with him, chatting late into the night. Again, at around five in the morning, he woke, packed his things, roused me, and asked if I would join him on his journey.

I shook my head, “No need, I’m not in a hurry; I’ll leave when it’s light.”

He descended the mountain, humming that hair-raising Kunqu melody. As before, I went to meditate atop the stone and studied throughout the day.

On the third night, at the same hour, the performer’s voice drifted through the path once more. Dressed as before, he came to the temple.

Everything was exactly as it had been the previous two nights. Watching this performer, who set out on his journey each day only to meet me anew, I felt a profound sorrow rise within me.

The fourth day...
The fifth day...
The sixth day... he appeared each evening at the same hour, introducing himself as if we were strangers.

Suddenly, I understood why the villagers called Qingfeng Temple the Grave of Sichuan Opera Performers. Each night, perhaps, they could faintly hear the voice of a ghostly performer singing Sichuan opera from the temple. They supposed a spirit was residing there, passing time by performing opera—a notion not entirely wrong. But what they did not realize was that this ghostly performer had no idea he had become a ghost.

Day after day, he would journey up the mountain, rest in the temple, then depart before dawn, repeating the cycle for nearly a century.