Lin'an, the Southern Song capital, was a city obsessed with appearances. From the carefully tended gardens reflected in its canals to the precise etiquette governing interactions in its teahouses and government offices, maintaining face – mianzi – was paramount. Nowhere was this pressure felt more keenly than in the household of Secretary Qiu Zhengde, a mid-level official in the Ministry of Rites whose ambition far outstripped his current station. His modest but respectable residence, tucked away in a lane not far from the Imperial Palace, had recently become the setting for a quiet, insidious disturbance, one that threatened the carefully constructed facade of the Qiu family itself.

  The catalyst was a piece of furniture: an extraordinarily beautiful, eight-panelled lacquer screen. Acquired at considerable expense from a dealer specializing in items from disgraced officials' confiscated estates, the screen was a masterpiece of craftsmanship. Its surface gleamed with layers of deep black lacquer, intricately inlaid with mother-of-pearl and painted with scenes of idyllic courtly life – elegant ladies playing music, scholars composing poetry under blossoming trees, officials engaged in dignified conversation. Qiu Zhengde had placed it prominently in his main reception hall, intending it as a symbol of his refined taste and aspirations for higher office.

  Initially, the screen brought only admiration from visitors and a surge of pride to Secretary Qiu. But soon, subtle anomalies began. Qiu himself noticed it first. Catching his reflection in the screen's polished, almost mirror-like surface, he found himself looking... subtly enhanced. His posture seemed straighter, his features sharper, his robes appeared richer, imbued with an aura of authority he desperately craved. This flattering reflection became addictive. He found excuses to linger near the screen, preening subtly, his ambition stoked, but also tinged with a growing paranoia – if he looked so impressive, surely his rivals must appear equally formidable, their reflected flaws perhaps hidden from his view.

  His wife, Lady Qiu, experienced the opposite. A woman whose quiet beauty had faded under years of her husband's ambition and neglect, she saw her reflection in the screen subtly distorted in cruel ways. A new wrinkle seemed deeper, the grey strands in her hair more prominent, her expression perpetually weary or discontented. Sometimes, she thought the elegant court ladies painted on the screen smirked at her reflection, their perfect composure a silent mockery of her own anxieties. The screen amplified her insecurities, deepening her melancholy and fostering a quiet resentment towards her husband and his prized possession.

  Their daughter, Qiu Ling, a bright but introspective young woman overshadowed by her parents' preoccupations, found the screen utterly bewildering. Her reflection seemed unstable, shifting unpredictably. One moment, she might see herself as monstrously plain, her features exaggerated into caricature; the next, she might appear with an ethereal, impossible beauty that felt alien and disturbing. These fleeting, contradictory images left her confused, distressed, questioning her own identity and worth.

  Even the servants felt the screen's strange influence. They reported catching glimpses of distorted faces in its surface – fleeting expressions of malice on colleagues, grotesque features momentarily superimposed on their own reflections. An atmosphere of suspicion and unease permeated the household. Tempers frayed, whispers started, old grievances resurfaced. The house, once orderly if somewhat tense, now felt charged with a discordant, negative energy, strongest near the magnificent, silent screen.

  It was Qiu Ling, increasingly distressed by her shifting reflections and the growing tension in the house, who sought help. Having heard tales of a wise Taoist priest, Xuanzhen, known for resolving unusual afflictions of place and mind, she discreetly inquired after him and arranged a meeting, ostensibly to seek blessings for her upcoming studies.

  Xuanzhen met the troubled young woman in a quiet temple courtyard. He listened patiently as she described the strange reflections, her parents' altered behaviour, and the pervasive unease in her home, focusing her account, wisely, on the screen's arrival as the point of change. Xuanzhen recognized the signs – not of a conventional haunting, but of a psychic disturbance linked to an object, feeding on and manipulating human emotion, particularly vanity and insecurity. The screen, likely imbued with potent energies from its creation or previous ownership (perhaps the disgraced official from whose estate it came), was acting as a distorted mirror, reflecting not reality, but the viewers' own inner states, amplified and twisted.

  Posing as a distant relative of a scholar known to Secretary Qiu, Xuanzhen gained entry to the household, expressing admiration for Qiu's collection and requesting to view the famed lacquer screen. Qiu Zhengde, eager for an appreciative audience, readily agreed.

  Stepping into the reception hall, Xuanzhen immediately felt the screen's presence. It radiated a cold, parasitic qi, subtle yet pervasive, that seemed to hum with latent emotional energy – ambition, envy, insecurity, desire. It felt slick, illusory. He observed Secretary Qiu straighten his robes almost unconsciously as he approached it, saw Lady Qiu avert her gaze, noted Qiu Ling flinch slightly when her father gestured towards it.

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  "A masterpiece, is it not?" Qiu Zhengde beamed, his reflection in the screen looking particularly imposing. "The artistry is unparalleled. It speaks of a more refined era."

  "Indeed," Xuanzhen replied, his gaze sweeping over the inlaid figures, sensing the faint, predatory awareness behind the polished surface. "Such objects often carry the weight of their history, and the intent of their creators. Do you know its origins?"

  Qiu mentioned the disgraced official, but knew little more. Xuanzhen suspected the screen's power might stem from the artisan himself – perhaps someone consumed by envy of the courtly life he depicted, pouring his resentment and desire into the lacquer, creating an object that reflected and fed upon similar emotions in its owners.

  Xuanzhen spent time "admiring" the screen, subtly probing its energy. He confirmed it acted as a psychic amplifier and distorter. It didn't simply show illusions; it took the viewer's own dominant emotions – Qiu's ambition, Lady Qiu's insecurity, Ling's confusion – and reflected them back in a visually compelling, subtly altered form, creating a feedback loop. The entity, if it could be called that, wasn't actively malevolent, but parasitic, feeding on the intensified emotional energy generated by the distorted reflections. It was a "Visage Leech," stealing true reflections and replacing them with emotionally charged phantoms.

  He knew he couldn't simply destroy the screen; that might release the bound energy unpredictably. He needed to break its hold on the family, to make them see the screen for what it was – an empty surface reflecting their own inner states – and neutralize the parasitic energy clinging to it.

  He requested permission to perform a small blessing for the household's harmony, focusing particularly on the reception hall, citing the recent tensions as a sign of unbalanced qi. Secretary Qiu, concerned about maintaining appearances and perhaps vaguely sensing the need for intervention despite his pride, agreed.

  Xuanzhen chose an auspicious hour. He gathered the family – Qiu, Lady Qiu, and Ling – before the lacquer screen. He didn't prepare for a violent exorcism, but for a ritual of clarity and revelation. He lit incense known for dispelling illusion and promoting mental clarity. He placed a simple, unadorned bronze mirror – a true mirror – facing the lacquer screen.

  "This screen," Xuanzhen began, his voice calm and resonant, "is an object of great beauty. But beauty can sometimes reflect more than just light. It can reflect the heart. Look now, not into the lacquer, but into the true mirror, and see yourselves."

  He guided them one by one to look into the bronze mirror, which he held so it reflected both their face and, behind them, the lacquer screen. He instructed them to focus on their breath, to quiet their minds, and to observe without judgment.

  Secretary Qiu looked first. In the true mirror, he saw not the imposing figure from the screen, but a man whose face showed lines of stress, whose eyes held a flicker of insecurity beneath the bluster. The contrast was jarring.

  Lady Qiu looked next. The mirror showed not the subtly aged or mocking face from the screen, but a woman of quiet dignity, her sadness visible but not overwhelming, hints of her former beauty still present beneath the veil of anxiety.

  Finally, Qiu Ling looked. She saw not a monster, nor an impossible beauty, but a thoughtful young woman, her features clear, her expression reflecting a mixture of intelligence and uncertainty. A normal face, her own face.

  As they each confronted their true reflection against the backdrop of the screen's known distortions, the psychic connection began to fray. The screen seemed to shimmer slightly, the parasitic energy within it agitated by the intrusion of unvarnished reality.

  "This screen," Xuanzhen continued, turning his attention fully to the object, "has fed on the reflections you offered it – your ambitions, your fears, your uncertainties. It showed you what you wished or dreaded to see. But its power comes only from what you give it."

  He then produced a small vial containing purified water mixed with powdered pearl – materials associated with clarity and dispelling illusions in Taoist alchemy. Chanting a mantra of severance, he flicked droplets of the water onto the surface of the lacquer screen.

  Where the droplets landed, the polished surface seemed to momentarily cloud over, the painted scenes blurring. A faint, sighing sound, like escaping air, emanated from the screen. The cold, parasitic qi pulsed erratically, then rapidly diminished, losing its focus, its coherence. The Visage Leech, deprived of the emotional energy it fed on and disrupted by the purifying agent, dissolved, its influence evaporating.

  The screen became just... a screen. Beautifully crafted, yes, but inert. Its surface now reflected normally, showing only the room and the people within it, without enhancement or distortion. The heavy, charged atmosphere in the hall lifted, leaving a feeling of emptiness, but also clarity.

  Secretary Qiu stared at the screen, then at his own reflection in its now-neutral surface, a complex mixture of deflation and dawning awareness on his face. Lady Qiu touched her cheek, looking into the screen with tentative relief. Qiu Ling let out a long, slow breath, a small, genuine smile touching her lips for the first time.

  Xuanzhen advised the family that while the screen's unnatural influence was gone, the feelings it had amplified – the ambition, the insecurity, the confusion – were their own. The screen had merely held up a distorted mirror to their inner lives. True harmony, he suggested gently, would come not from acquiring beautiful objects, but from cultivating inner balance and honest communication.

  He left the Qiu residence the next day. Whether the family would truly learn from the experience remained to be seen. The Lacquer Screen's Stolen Faces served as a potent parable about the dangers of vanity and the seductive power of illusion. Appearances, especially in a city like Lin'an, could be deceiving, and sometimes the most beautiful surfaces hid mechanisms that fed on the very insecurities they promised to conceal, leaving individuals trapped in a gilded cage of their own making until confronted with the simple, unadorned truth.