The lead singer's voice, that first clear thread of melody, had tethered the crowd's spirit. Now, the remaining five members of The Waning Song Troupe emerged from the shadows, their transformations complete. Two voices to carry the tale, four bodies to give it flesh and motion. The true drama began.
From his vantage, Li Daoxuan leaned closer, his divine boredom forgotten. They were weaving a Taoist parable—a tale of a wandering ascetic battling spectral horrors, seeking a glimpse of the celestial ladder. The narrative unfolded, intricate and layered.
So that's the heart of it, he mused. Daoqing. The 'Sentiment of the Path.' It's not just song. It's doctrine given breath and bone.
In the throng, Taoist Master Ma Tianzheng sat motionless, ensnared. And the villagers of Gaojia, for whom Dao Xuan Tianzun was not just a name but the very cornerstone of their strange, new faith, felt a deep, resonant kinship. This was the lore of their own belief, sung back to them.
"Yes!"
"The voice!The voice!"
"And the dance—see how it speaks!"
For these people—calloused hands, sun-beaten backs, lives measured in harvests and hardship—professional theatre was a rumour, a story told of distant, glittering cities. Of the thousand souls gathered, perhaps ninety had ever witnessed such a thing. For the rest, it was a revelation. It carved a new chamber in their understanding of what a human life could contain.
And the old ballads are tales of sorrow. As the story spiraled to its close, the wandering priest, in a final act of grace, embraced a demon, sacrificing himself to purge its poison from the world…
A wave of grief broke over the crowd. Two hundred, three hundred faces dissolved. Not the quiet tears of private woe, but the raw, unashamed weeping of a shared heartbreak. Children wailed against their mothers' shoulders; hardened men scrubbed at their eyes with grimy sleeves.
As the last, haunting note faded, The Waning Song Troupe assembled at the front of that impossible, electric stage and bowed as one.
Tan Liwen was the first on his feet. A patron in the truest sense, he understood the contract between artist and audience. He fished a jagged piece of silver from his purse—a fragment of his own new prosperity—and cast it onto the stage. It struck the plastic with a sharp, definitive tink.
"A cascade of blossoms!A flood of tears!" he declared, his scholar's voice carrying. "Such craft demands its tribute!"
Captain Cheng Xu, ever a man of decisive action, followed suit. Another piece of silver spun through the air.
A spark had been struck.
Oh!The understanding flashed through the crowd. This is the rite. This is the completion.
To witness was to receive.To receive was to give back. A sacred economy of wonder.
Old Village Chief Gao, his face still wet, nodded solemnly and produced his own offering. A sliver of silver flew.
Then, the sky above the stage fractured.
It began to rain wealth.
Shards of silver,whole and broken. A hail of copper coins—some thrown in fistfuls, others, the single, cherished coin of a labourer, tossed with a prayer. The plastic deck of the stage became a drumhead, beaten by a frantic, jubilant percussion of metal.
Tok-tok-tok-taka-tok-tok…
The villagers of Gaojia were obscenely rich.
They had traded mountains of salt,rivers of strange sweets, and lakes of pure fat through Xing Honglang, their coffers swollen with a currency that had, until tonight, lacked a worthy object. To spend a sliver of that dormant fortune to honour this beauty? It was not an expense. It was a sacrament.
The newer arrivals, the day-wage men with earth still under their nails, watched with wider eyes. The better-off among them emptied their meagre pouches of copper. The truly destitute clenched a single coin until their palm sweated, then threw it as an act of faith, buying their share in this communal miracle.
In moments, the stage was a beggar's dream—a scattered field of silver and bronze.
The ten players stood as if turned to salt.
What bizarre, blessed, terrifying place is this?
Even the poorest here could conjure a coin from the air?In the county town, such an act would be followed by a riot, or a swift arrest for public madness.
Master Zhang's composure, held together by paste and willpower, finally shattered. Tears cut fresh canals through his make-up. He turned, a slow, trembling circle, pressing his palms together in a luoquan bow—a gesture of profound, bewildered gratitude to every corner of this impossible village.
"We…we thank you…." His voice was a ragged whisper, then a broken cry. "This humble troupe, these wanderers… you shower us with such… such kindness… I have no words…"
"Save your words! Give us another!"
"Yes!Again!"
"Start the next tale!"
"Wah…that one was a knife to the soul. Have you no tale of joy?"
Master Zhang waved his hands, laughing through his weeping. "Yes! Yes! We will sing again! But this next… it is a gift! You have given too much! No more! This one is from us to you!"
"Yes!"
"Ha!"
The night, already bright, now burned with a second, purer fire.
[Internal Monologue – Li Daoxuan]: Well, that escalated from 'cultural event' to 'spiritual payday' real fast. Talk about a satisfied customer base. The dopamine hits in this village are something else.
The revelry stretched on, bleeding into the unthinkable hour of ten in the evening. For people governed by the sun, this was a temporal rebellion. Stumbling out from the cradle of light and song, many wavered on their feet, bodies heavy with a delicious exhaustion, yet their spirits hovered somewhere near the electric lights. Their world of full bellies and sturdy roofs had just been imbued with a soul.
Li Daoxuan saw them then. Not with his eyes, but with that other sense. From the hearts of the villagers—from the weaver, the blacksmith, the woman who had wept for a fictional priest—tiny motes of light, like golden dust, began to rise. They swirled on an unfelt breeze, drawn upwards, and siphoned into the very walls of his diorama.
The Salvation Index didn't just tick upward.
It surged.
A hundred points.More.
A waterfall of divine credit where before there had been a drip.
There it is. The thought was quiet, profound. Keeping them breathing was a transaction. This… this is an investment. In joy. In meaning.
We don't just survive in the world. We have to build a world worth living in.
The curtain of noise fell, leaving a ringing silence. The crowd dissipated, melting back into the labyrinth of colorful huts, their laughter echoing like distant chimes.
On the stage, the ten members of The Waning Song Troupe were left alone in the corpse-glow of the fairy lights. Their task now was not performance, but harvest.
They moved slowly, reverently, gathering the scattered fortune. Not cleaning. Gleaning. Each coin, each silver fragment was lifted with care, the cold metal a shocking contrast to the night's warmth. They piled the bounty into a worn hemp sack, its mouth gaping like a hungry throat finally fed.
Every face was a map of disbelief, etched with tracks of dried tears and dawning, fragile hope.
Tan Liwen stepped back into the circle of light, his smile gentle. "So? Has the journey proved its worth?"
Master Zhang nearly fell into a kowtow. Tan Liwen caught his arm. "None of that. Speak as a man to his friend."
"Friend… you have pulled us from the grave," Zhang choked out. "This… this one night… it is a year of life. We will not know hunger."
Saintess Yiye moved to stand beside Tan Liwen, her presence causing a different kind of hush. "Dao Xuan Tianzun has words for you."
Master Zhang blinked. "The… Tianzun?"
"The voice from which all this flows," Tan Liwen said softly, gesturing to the stage, the lights, the very air of plenty.
Zhang's spine straightened. Here, finally, was the architect of this madness. He bowed deeply. "This unworthy player listens."
"The Tianzun wishes to know," Saintess Yiye said, her tone not of command, but of offering, "if you would plant your roots here. In Gaojia."
The question hung in the air, more bewildering than the lights.
Stay?
He had come expecting a single meal,a patron's whim. He was being offered a world.
Desire warred with disbelief. Who would ever leave?
"We…we would be permitted?"
"The village has many empty homes—the bright ones you saw. You may borrow one. For three moons, it costs you nothing. After, a small rent. The stage…" She looked at the glorious, gaudy structure. "You may claim its hours. The two after sunset, for example, for fifty coppers."
Master Zhang's breath hitched. "This palace… for fifty coppers? It is… a joke of kindness."
Saintess Yiye's smile turned thoughtful, as if she were listening to a voice only she could hear. "The Tianzun says the kindness will be yours to earn. At first, the rewards will be great. Fifty coppers will be nothing. But…" She paused, letting the warning settle. "If you only sing the same three laments, the crowd's heart will grow cold. Soon, the seats will be empty, and fifty coppers will become a stone around your neck."
A sliver of ice pierced Zhang's joy. He saw it instantly—the fickle nature of wonder.
"Therefore," she continued, her gaze clear and direct, "the Tianzun suggests you perform by night. And by day… you must forge. Compose. You must fight to keep their hearts, not with repetition, but with renewal." She delivered the final phrase with deliberate, puzzling weight. "You must lift the art of the Northern Ballads… into a higher dimension."
Master Zhang stared. The words were stones he could not lift. "A… higher… dimension? Of art?"
Saintess Yiye simply shrugged, the gesture suddenly that of a young girl burdened with mysteries too large. "I do not know. I am only the messenger. Much of the Tianzun's will is a language I cannot read. You… will have to learn to listen for its meaning yourselves."
She turned and stepped off the stage, leaving the ten players standing amidst their fortune, at the foot of a silent, electric mountain, with a divine ranging as their new commission.