By the time night fell, I was done.

  Lian had taken his herbal medicine and was resting quietly, breath slow and even.

  Hua, meanwhile, had sprawled across the inner bed like he owned the place, declaring, “A gentleman doesn’t steal good Feng Shui from the sick,” right before snoring loud enough to summon mountain spirits.

  Not wanting to disturb either of them, I quietly fished a few silvers from the bottom of my bundle, slipped them to the innkeeper, and asked for a small side room—and a pot of wine.

  “Scholars laugh through sorrow, dreaming after they drink…”

  I muttered, mimicking those pretentious poets, pouring myself another cup.

  They all think I’m useless, don’t they?

  Fine.

  The first cup—for good wine.

  The second—for beauty.

  The third… for myself.

  By the time that third cup hit bottom, my face was burning, my chest hollow, and my legs had forgotten how to cooperate.

  I slammed the cup down and hissed, “System! Any chance I can slip out of here without alerting the other two? Come on—throw me a stealth quest or something! Don’t you dare play dead on me!”

  The system replied in its usual emotionless drawl:

  “Main storyline incomplete. Unauthorized departure may cause plot instability. Consequences: unpredictable.”

  My vision blurred. I drained the last drop, clicked my tongue, and muttered, “So basically—‘run if you want, but if you die, that’s on you.’ Nice.”

  And then—

  I blacked out.

  Face-first into the bed.

  Somewhere between consciousness and oblivion, I managed to pull the curtain over myself and mumbled, “The Great Immortal has communed with all spirits today. You may… all… withdraw…”

  I don’t know how long I slept before the sound woke me.

  Was that… wind?

  Or hallucination?

  “Hey, someone’s in here!”

  A rough voice, low but excited.

  “Keep it quiet. The inn boy said there’s a lone beauty sleeping in this room. Might be our lucky night—”

  The door creaked open.

  Two shadows slipped inside.

  Through the bed curtain, half my face was showing—flushed, hair down, lips half-parted, softly humming something about peach blossoms in the rain.

  The intruders froze.

  Then—pure delight.

  “Grab her—uh, her! Hurry!”

  Now, for the record, I was awake. But the wine still had me paralyzed, my limbs were jelly, and my eyelids weighed more than my dignity.

  So yes—I got rolled up, bedsheet and all, stuffed into a sack, and carried out of the inn like a particularly useless corpse.

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  Onto a wagon.

  Rattling wheels.

  Cold air.

  Gone.

  When I came to, my blood was rushing the wrong way.

  Head pounding. Stomach hollow.

  First came the smell—

  Boiled mutton. Burnt tofu soup. And… smoked beef?

  Thick enough to choke on.

  I forced my eyes open.

  Ceiling: dried chili peppers, two tattered goatskin rugs, and—oh great—a pair of red lanterns that read Eternal Matrimony.

  I blinked.

  Then looked down—

  Correction: up—since I was hanging upside down from a beam, feet bound tight with rope, body dangling like a salted goose.

  My mouth was gagged with something damp that smelled faintly of old sauce.

  My gut gurgled. My skull buzzed.

  Last night—right, last night I was drinking, just three and a half cups—

  and now I’m the special of the day on the rotisserie of fate.

  “MMMPH!!”

  I screamed into the gag. Muffled. Pathetic.

  Outside, someone shouted,

  “Who told you idiots to hang the bride upside down?! Put her down—now!”

  The voice was sharp, commanding, and, oddly enough… polite?

  “Move her to the main room! Bed, carpet, aroma—make it nice!”

  Steps rushed closer. Then another voice snapped,

  “What were you thinking? She’s supposed to marry the chief, not be marinated for dinner!”

  I barely had time to feel relief before the world went black again.

  When I woke next, sunlight was spilling through a wooden lattice window.

  I was lying—properly this time—on a massive red wedding bed.

  My ropes were gone, the gag removed, and I was dressed in a bright red embroidered wedding robe.

  The mattress was soft. The air smelled of sandalwood.

  Everywhere—paper charms, good-luck banners, “Blessed Union,” “Heaven’s Match,” “Have a lovely baby soon.”

  Even the bedposts had baby stickers on them.

  I stared.

  Expression flat.

  This… was so disrespectful.

  A line of burly men stood near the wall, holding trays of fruit and wine like nervous bridesmaids.

  At their head, a broad man in crimson silk clapped his greasy hands together and grinned like he’d just met the gods.

  “Brothers!” he bellowed. “Our clan’s fortune-teller said that before next fullmoon, if we find a heaven-sent spirit to bless the mountain, our fires will calm and the beasts will sleep! And behold—the gods sent us this divine bride!”

  He clasped his hands in reverence.

  “Madam—no, my lady—allow me, the second chief, to offer my bow!”

  “…Huh?”

  My voice cracked. My soul detached.

  Bride? Me?

  My limbs were still numb, my stomach empty, my head pounding. I probably looked like a drowned ghost, but apparently that was “divine aura” now.

  The second chief beamed. “You’ve suffered a bit, but rest assured—we treated you well! Hot wine, fresh sheets, and the wedding porridge’s got jujubes and peanuts. Real auspicious!”

  I twitched. “You’ve got the wrong person!”

  He blinked. “Eh?”

  I clenched my teeth. “I’m a man!”

  The room fell silent.

  Even the paper couple on the wall seemed to stare.

  The second chief frowned, turned to his men. “A man?”

  “Yes!” I snapped. “Sworn bachelor. No wives, no concubines, no women—just pure cultivation and the study of, uh… yin-yang reinforcement techniques!”

  “…A man,” repeated the third chief, brow furrowed.

  Then the second chief brightened and slapped his thigh.

  “Even better!”

  “WHAT?!”

  He leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Our mountain doesn’t discriminate! Spirit power’s spirit power. You’ve got the aura, that’s all that matters. Besides…”

  He coughed. “You’re prettier than half our brides anyway.”

  I stared at him. “…How many brides do you have, exactly?”

  He scratched his head. “Not many. Two in the east wing, three in the west, a few washed away in last year’s flood… a couple divorced, his bride ran away—so maybe ten? Give or take.”

  “Oh wonderful,” I said flatly. “You’re not running a bandit fortress—you’re running a bridal exhibition.”

  Before he could answer, a slow, heavy tread echoed outside.

  Boots. Steady. Cold.

  The second chief straightened instantly, tugging his silk shirt down, barking to the others, “The big boss is here! Perfect timing—he can pick the wedding date himself!”

  My blood ran cold.

  The color drained from my face.

  Just my luck—a “husband.”