Jiankang, a city reborn from ashes, now rivaled Lin'an in its vibrancy and ambition under the Southern Song. Its position on the southern bank of the great Yangtze River made it a crucial hub for trade and military defense, and wealth flowed through its canals and broad avenues. With prosperity came a thirst for culture and entertainment, and no project embodied this more grandly than the newly constructed Golden Phoenix Theatre. Built by the immensely wealthy, socially ambitious salt merchant Huang Wei, the theatre was a marvel of opulent design – soaring eaves painted in cinnabar and gold, intricate latticework screens, plush silk cushions for patrons, and a stage equipped with the latest mechanisms for dramatic effect. Huang Wei intended the Golden Phoenix to be his crowning achievement, a venue that would attract the finest performers and cement his place among Jiankang's elite.
Yet, weeks before its scheduled grand opening, the Golden Phoenix Theatre echoed not with harmonious melodies, but with discord and fear. Rehearsals for the inaugural opera were plagued by inexplicable troubles. Phantom music – sometimes discordant notes that clashed jarringly with the orchestra, sometimes fragments of an achingly beautiful, unfamiliar aria – would drift across the stage, unnerving the performers. Disembodied whispers, sharp and critical, seemed to correct actors' lines or mock their movements from the empty, shadowed galleries. Props shifted inexplicably backstage, lanterns flickered and died in crucial moments, and cold spots lingered on the stage, impervious to the warmth of the lamps. Accidents, minor but persistent, frayed nerves: a falling sandbag narrowly missing a lead actor, a trapdoor jamming shut, costumes found inexplicably torn.
The theatre's atmosphere grew thick with tension. The troupe, initially excited by the lavish new venue, became jumpy and demoralized. Many whispered of ghosts, of the theatre being built on cursed ground or using haunted materials. Huang Wei, a man whose jovial exterior masked a core of ruthless ambition, publicly dismissed the incidents as sabotage or pre-performance jitters, driving the troupe harder, his face flushed with anger and anxiety. His fortune and, more importantly, his mianzi were tied to the theatre's success. Failure was unthinkable.
Among the performers, none felt the theatre's wrongness more acutely than Xiao Cui, a young actress gifted with a remarkably pure voice, chosen by Huang Wei to sing the lead role in the inaugural opera – a newly 'rediscovered' piece Huang claimed was penned by an obscure master. Xiao Cui found herself increasingly targeted by the phenomena. The phantom aria seemed to follow her, sometimes sounding like a mournful echo of her own practice sessions, sometimes like a direct, sorrowful plea. She saw fleeting movements in the wings, the shimmer of unseen silk, felt cold breaths on her neck as she stood centre stage. The disembodied whispers were sharpest when directed at her, criticizing her interpretation of the lead role with unnerving accuracy. Sleep offered little escape, filled with dreams of a shadowy woman with eyes full of tears, trying desperately to sing, only to be silenced.
Observing all this with growing dread was Master Feng, the theatre's elderly, experienced stage manager. He had worked in Jiankang's performance circles for decades and knew Huang Wei's reputation – a man who climbed high by stepping on others. Feng remembered Lianxiang, a brilliant young songstress who had captivated Jiankang a year or two prior with her unique voice and original compositions, before vanishing abruptly. Rumours at the time were vague – illness, a sudden departure with a lover, an accident. But Lianxiang had been known to associate with Huang Wei, who had patronized her briefly before her disappearance. Feng also noted, with deep unease, that the signature aria Huang Wei had 'rediscovered' for Xiao Cui bore a striking resemblance in style and emotional depth to Lianxiang's known work. He suspected a darker story lay beneath the surface, and that the theatre's troubles were not random hauntings, but the specific, targeted rage of a wronged spirit.
Fearing for the troupe, for Xiao Cui, and perhaps even for his own safety should he voice his suspicions directly to Huang Wei, Master Feng sought outside help. He had heard of Xuanzhen, the wandering Taoist whose path occasionally brought him through Jiankang, a man reputed to understand the echoes of injustice and the sorrows that bind spirits to the mortal realm. Locating Xuanzhen at a quiet riverside temple, Feng poured out his story, his voice hushed with fear and conviction.
Xuanzhen listened intently, the familiar elements weaving a new pattern: ambition, artistry, potential betrayal, and phenomena centered around performance and sound. A theatre, a place designed to amplify emotion and illusion, was a potent vessel for lingering psychic energy, especially if tied to a violent or unjust end. The spirit seemed intelligent, focused, its actions suggesting not just random disruption, but a specific grievance.
Posing as a travelling musicologist researching regional opera forms, Xuanzhen gained access to the Golden Phoenix Theatre, expressing particular interest in the 'rediscovered' opera and requesting permission to observe rehearsals. Huang Wei, eager for any scholarly validation of his production, readily agreed, though his eyes held a watchful, calculating glint.
Stepping onto the magnificent stage, Xuanzhen immediately felt the discordant energy. It wasn't uniformly spread, but concentrated centre stage, in the wings, and near a specific dressing room – later confirmed by Feng to have been assigned to Xiao Cui, but originally intended, perhaps, for a star. The qi felt cold, sorrowful, yet vibrated with an undercurrent of fierce, frustrated rage. It resonated strongly with the themes of performance, silenced expression, and stolen artistry.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
He observed the rehearsal. The phantom sounds manifested subtly at first – a discordant string note from an unseen instrument, a sighing whisper that seemed to mimic the wind but carried distinct emotional weight. Xiao Cui, performing the lead aria, faltered as a wave of cold swept the stage, her voice tightening as if constricted by an unseen hand. Xuanzhen saw the flicker of genuine fear in her eyes, contrasting sharply with Huang Wei's impatient glare from the darkened auditorium.
Speaking later with Xiao Cui under the pretext of discussing the aria's nuances, Xuanzhen gently probed her experiences. She hesitantly described the dreams, the whispers, the feeling of being watched, the sense that the phantom music was trying to teach her something, or perhaps warn her away. She confessed the aria, while beautiful, felt imbued with a profound sadness that didn't match the triumphant narrative Huang Wei insisted upon.
Xuanzhen then focused his senses on the stage itself, particularly the central area where the energy felt strongest. He extended his awareness, seeking the core of the disturbance. He felt the presence coalesce – not a terrifying monster, but the distinct, sorrowful energy of a young woman, filled with artistic passion tragically cut short, bound by injustice and the theft of her voice. He felt her desperate need to communicate, her rage directed primarily at Huang Wei, and her complex, almost protective concern for Xiao Cui, who was unknowingly performing the stolen legacy.
Through quiet conversation with Master Feng and subtle questioning of older stagehands, Xuanzhen confirmed the connection between Huang Wei and the vanished Lianxiang. Huang had been her patron, obsessed with her talent and beauty. He had pressured her for exclusive rights to her compositions. She had refused, planning to debut her masterpiece opera herself. Then, she disappeared. Huang Wei soon after announced his plans for the Golden Phoenix Theatre, featuring a 'lost' masterpiece. The pieces clicked into place with chilling certainty.
Xuanzhen knew a simple exorcism wouldn't suffice. The spirit, Lianxiang, wasn't merely haunting; she was seeking justice, acknowledgement, the return of her stolen voice. To simply banish her would be another form of silencing, compounding the original injustice. The resolution required exposing the truth and appeasing the spirit through recognition.
He decided to use the theatre itself as the stage for resolution. He spoke with Master Feng, outlining a plan that involved subtly altering the staging elements during the next full rehearsal, incorporating items and symbols known to facilitate communication with spirits and reveal truth – strategically placed mirrors, specific incense blends, perhaps altering the lighting cues at a critical moment. He also prepared a special talisman, not for banishment, but for amplifying truth and compelling confession.
During the next rehearsal, with Huang Wei watching impatiently from the auditorium, Xuanzhen, ostensibly advising Master Feng on 'acoustics', put his plan into motion. As Xiao Cui reached the climax of the stolen aria, the phantom music swelled, clearer now, perfectly harmonized but filled with unbearable sorrow. The lights flickered, casting long, dancing shadows. The air grew deathly cold. From the wings, a shimmering, translucent figure began to emerge – the spectral form of Lianxiang, beautiful but radiating grief and anger, her eyes fixed on Huang Wei.
Xiao Cui screamed and stumbled back. The orchestra faltered into silence. Huang Wei leaped to his feet, his face a mask of terror and rage. "What trickery is this, Feng?!" he roared.
"It is no trickery, Merchant Huang," Xuanzhen's voice cut through the chaos, calm yet commanding, as he stepped onto the stage. "It is an echo demanding to be heard. The true composer of this aria seeks acknowledgement." He held up the truth-compelling talisman, its characters seeming to glow faintly in the unnatural light. "Lianxiang," he addressed the spirit gently, "your suffering is felt. Your artistry is known. Tell us what justice you seek."
The spirit turned its sorrowful gaze towards Xuanzhen, then back to Huang Wei. It didn't speak in words, but a wave of psychic images and emotions flooded the stage, perceptible to all sensitive enough to feel it – images of Huang Wei arguing with Lianxiang, pressuring her, his face contorted in fury when she refused him; a flash of violence near the canal behind the old theatre district; the theft of her music scrolls; her body consigned to the dark water. The phantom aria swelled again, now a clear, undeniable accusation.
Huang Wei staggered back, his face ashen. "Lies! Illusions!" he stammered, but his eyes darted around like a trapped animal.
Xuanzhen held the talisman towards him. "The truth resonates, Merchant Huang. Your ambition silenced a voice, but echoes remain. Confess your crime. Restore her name. Only then can harmony return to this place."
Under the combined pressure of the spirit's presence, the talisman's power, and the weight of his own guilt, Huang Wei broke. He collapsed, sobbing, confessing his obsession, his rage at Lianxiang's refusal, the argument, the accidental (he claimed) push that sent her into the canal, the subsequent theft of her opera to salvage his ambitions.
As the confession spilled out, the spectral form of Lianxiang seemed to sigh, the intense anger draining away, leaving only a profound sadness. She looked towards Xiao Cui, a gesture almost like blessing, then faded slowly, dissolving like mist under the stage lights, the phantom music fading with her. The oppressive cold lifted.
The aftermath was swift. Master Feng and the horrified troupe members ensured Huang Wei's confession reached the city magistrate. The merchant was arrested, his reputation ruined, the Golden Phoenix Theatre shuttered before it ever truly opened. Xiao Cui, though shaken, felt a sense of release, understanding the source of the haunting and the tragic legacy of the music she almost performed.
Xuanzhen oversaw a small ceremony by the canal where Lianxiang's spirit was finally appeased with offerings and prayers, her stolen opera manuscript respectfully burned to release her artistic soul. He left Jiankang soon after, reflecting on the potent connection between art, passion, and the spirit world. The Golden Phoenix Theatre stood silent, a monument to ambition turned sour, haunted not by a vengeful demon, but by the tragic echo of a silenced songstress, a reminder that true artistry demands respect, and injustice, no matter how deeply buried, will eventually find a way to make its voice heard.
