Looking at the three options, Yu Renwan let out a breath, her expression relaxing a bit.
This time the answer was obvious: pick 3.
Both “Option 1” and “Option 2” would violate taboos.
Since ancient times, opera troupes have had a rule: as long as the stage is set and singing begun, even if no audience is present, the show must be finished; never interrupt a performance.
Whether applause or joining in, both would disrupt the singer’s rhythm—especially now, when the song was mid-verse; it was not the time for cheering. As for jumping in with the next line, that was even ruder.
The performer was singing beautifully; if you joined in and fell short, you’d ruin their act and violate the unspoken rules. In the end, how could they possibly let you into their troupe if you interrupted their show like that?
In chaotic times, opera singers had a low status—seventh among the lower professions, even beneath brothel workers. All they wanted was respect.
Since their aim was to stay, the most important thing was to show respect and not leave a bad impression.
With this in mind, Yu Renwan stretched her finger toward “Option 3.”
But just centimeters away, her hand suddenly stopped.
Yu Renwan pressed her lips together, rereading the prompt—or rather, pausing at the final line before the choices.
—The theater is your last chance.
That one line changed everything. If she made the wrong choice now, not only would she die, but so would everyone else.
After all, they’d already been rejected by every shop in the village. That line strongly suggested that no matter how many times they revisited the shops, they would not be accepted. Entering the theater was a set plot event.
The moment she realized she was carrying other people’s fate, Yu Renwan froze, too nervous to make a choice. She started scrambling for more justification for picking “Option 3.”
But she noticed that too much analysis made her anxious.
Because “Option 3” was simply the option she, as Yu Renwan, most wanted. She hated showing off, hated being impolite, hated disrespect—she thought the performer was excellent and just wanted to quietly listen to the whole show. But that was only her own aversion, her own desire, not necessarily her assigned role’s.
She still didn’t know her character’s personality.
Realizing this, she glanced at the countdown—still three minutes—and felt a chill run through her. Her mind churned, recalling Shen Huanhuan’s earlier experience and Jiang Yan’s analysis.
—Shen Huanhuan had been assigned a question when she was nearly stepping out of character, about to take her storyline off course. The field spirit had yanked her back.
Was Yu Renwan in the same position now?
She started replaying her actions. Earlier, Jiang Yan had specifically said they should revisit the shops; given Yu Renwan’s trust in her, she should have followed, even if she heard a favorite opera piece. But what had she done?
She’d realized she’d stopped following—her feet had moved “subconsciously,” and by the time she realized, she was already peeking through the door.
That was her character.
Someone who had learned opera, loved opera, could appreciate it, and longed for the artist on stage.
It just happened to overlap perfectly with her real self, so she didn’t immediately notice.
Understanding, she glanced at the minute and a half left, controlling her shaking hands, pressing them to her racing heart.
If her assignment and her true self were so aligned, why the quiz?
The answer was clear.
Even if they shared a love for theater, in this situation their choices might diverge: if Yu Renwan stood at the door, she’d be silent and just listen—that wouldn’t fit this environment’s assigned character.
So her character was the opposite.
That meant either “Option 1” or “Option 2.” Comparatively, “Option 2” made the most sense—rude, but a show of skill, fitting the “last chance” desperation after days on the road, afraid of being kicked out.
Her character was a gambler.
Even knowing it would annoy people, she had to attract the singer’s attention—because what good did quietly listening do? Performers in character on stage rarely spare a glance for someone at the door.
With fifteen seconds to go, Yu Renwan forced her stiff finger to tap “Option 2.”
Maybe to convince herself, as she chose she whispered, “I’m a refugee, I just want to live.”
She squeezed her eyes shut the moment she finished.
Half a second later, she was forced to open them by an invisible power.
She saw herself outside, longing and struggling on her face, and as soon as the final note fell, she took a sharp breath and sang out the follow-up lines.
Travel and exhaustion left her voice hoarse, and Yu Renwan cringed inwardly, but her pitch rose line by line.
“Hate only the tyrant Qin for burning the world,” she clutched the doorframe, singing out, “bringing the people endless sorrow and hardship—”
When she finished, she saw two tracks of tears stream down her dusty face—absurd and pitiful.
Once she settled her breath, she looked up at the stage. But the artist on stage didn’t return her gaze.
That woman, with a voice a hundred times more harmonious and resonant, finished the very same lines, then continued without missing a beat. As Yu Renwan watched, her embarrassment deepened; she was mortified. Even after long days without water, so she couldn’t sweat, her back felt drenched.
She knelt on the ground for a long while, until the “Yu Ji” on stage fell to the floor, then stood, bowing to a vacant audience.
Afterward—
She walked toward her.
Yu Renwan abruptly regained control of her body, remaining kneeling, chin up.
“My name is Xi Jueyun,” said the artist.
Yu Renwan started, then quickly nodded.
“Your singing is unstable, your breath weak, and your transitions are off,” Xi Jueyun said. Although her costume was striking and her stage voice full, her actual tone was chilly.
“You sang terribly.”
She said it bluntly, her gaze as cold as if she were examining an object.
I made the wrong choice, Yu Renwan thought. Her face blanched, her long-fasting body nearly toppling.
But Xi Jueyun’s next words stopped her—she jerked her head up.
“But you conveyed emotion,” said Xi Jueyun, lowering her gaze.
“Breath can be trained; emotion must come from yourself.”
“I understand your intent; you can stay.”
Yu Renwan didn’t even have time to feel joy. Relief and fear swept over her so completely that she nearly collapsed. Jiang Yan hurried to steady her.
Xi Jueyun looked over the rest, pausing on Shen Huanhuan.
“What’s with the blood on your face?”
Shen Huanhuan thought for a moment and answered carefully, “I killed a refugee who tried to hurt me and my sister.”
Xi Jueyun raised her brows.
After a pause, she glanced into the theater, then beckoned to the upstairs. “Shaochun, come down.”
Within a minute, a woman with a broadsword hurried down.
“Boss, what is it—is someone causing trouble again?”
Xi Jueyun nodded to Shen Huanhuan. “Test her.”
Clearly, this was a familiar ritual. Lü Shaochun immediately understood.
She stepped toward Shen Huanhuan and, with lightning speed, swung her leg at Shen Huanhuan’s knee. Shen Huanhuan dodged by instinct, caught her by the shoulder, vaulted behind her, and pinned her with her knee.
Liu Shaochun didn’t bother continuing.
She nodded to Xi Jueyun.
Xi Jueyun asked, “Have you killed anyone you shouldn’t have?”
Shen Huanhuan let go and instinctively shook her head.
Xi Jueyun made a sound of acknowledgment. “You can stay as well. Shaochun is our martial lead; you’ll train with her.”
“You, and you,” she gestured to Jiang Yan and Shen Xiaoxiao, “since you’re acquainted, you can stay. The theater’s not lacking in food or lodging for two more. Shaochun will find you work.”
“As for you,” she looked at Pingping, “this place isn’t for you.”
It was a cold verdict.
Pingping turned away sulkily.
But Xi Jueyun continued, “I’ll find you another suitable place. The patrol will be driving people out soon. For now, come inside.”
Pingping’s face lit up. “Really?”
Xi Jueyun said nothing more, turning and heading inside.
Except for Yu Renwan (who’d answered), none of them had expected Xi Jueyun to take all of them in.
After being so efficiently allocated, the group exchanged glances.
Yu Renwan explained, “I just answered a question. The prompt said the theater was our last chance, so if you answered correctly, everyone would be able to find work here.”
Shen Xiaoxiao clapped her on the shoulder in admiration, “You’re the best!”
Once inside, Xi Jueyun went upstairs to get the contracts. At that moment, a woman in purple descended the stairs, her phoenix eyes tilted, brows slanting handsomely toward her temples. Upon seeing the group, she gave a cold huff and said nothing.
After Xi Jueyun returned, the purple-robed woman dipped a small bow and stood at the table. Once everyone had signed the contract, she bent and retrieved a paddle from a wooden box at her feet.
“I’m Xiao Congye, the second master here,” she introduced. “Just now, who joined master’s performance with another line?”
Yu Renwan pressed her lips together and reluctantly raised her hand.
Xiao Congye smirked, strode over, and grabbed Yu Renwan’s right hand, immediately smacking it hard with the paddle.
She raised the board high and brought it down with force. Yu Renwan watched her palm turn red and swollen, but didn’t make a sound.
After twenty strokes, Xiao Congye finally stopped.
“Master’s too kind. She loves bringing in refugees—cost us a lot over the years. She promised me she’d stop, and then she finds someone as disrespectful as you!”
“Crying as you sing, acting pitiful, now crying some more!”
She landed five more hard strikes, then tossed the paddle aside.
“You may speak now.”
Yu Renwan paused and quietly said, “Thank you.”
Xiao Congye froze, shot her a fierce glare, and then stormed upstairs.
After seeing this demonstration, Xi Jueyun finally introduced the staff.
“I am the boss and lead master.”
“The one who just left is the deputy boss, the second master. She manages the finances and discipline—don’t anger her. She hits hard and I can’t stop her.”
She then pointed to a gentle woman who hadn’t spoken.
“This is our third master, Fang Xuyu, who handles all purchasing.”
The woman looked only seventeen or eighteen, with long hair to her waist, exceptionally beautiful, her voice soft as if wreathed in flowers. She greeted them kindly, “Don’t be nervous. From now on, we’re like family. I’ll show you around.”
They all responded gratefully.
After the meeting, Fang Xuyu led them to the courtyard, showing them the practice spaces.
Pingping couldn’t hold it anymore and raised her hand. “I need to use the bathroom.”
At this point, only Fang Xuyu knew where to go.
Pingping took it upon herself to hold the woman’s hand, trying to earn some points.
Fang Xuyu hesitated, but turned and took Pingping upstairs. Seven or eight minutes later, Pingping came running back down alone.
She looked stunned, as if she’d witnessed something unbelievable.
Jiang Yan asked, “What happened?”
Pingping glanced back, lowering her voice guiltily, “Fang Xuyu went into the men’s bathroom—she ran straight into a guy in there and didn’t seem embarrassed at all! Just calmly went in!”
“She’s so pretty—she must be a pervert!” Pingping kept sneaking looks back, and when Fang Xuyu came down in the distance, she quickly shut up.
Jiang Yan was silent for a long while.
She reminded her quietly, “Maybe he’s actually a man.”
Fang Xuyu approached, and Pingping instinctively glanced at his neck, then lowered her eyes, trying to peek at his pants. Shen Xiaoxiao quickly covered her eyes.
“Little kids shouldn’t look there!”
Pingping batted away Shen Xiaoxiao’s hand, looking away in confusion.
Fang Xuyu, unaware, saw her come back and lost some of his worry.
“I thought you’d run off,” he said softly. “It’s dangerous outside. The boss will find you a safe place—don’t go wandering.”
Pingping gazed thoughtfully at his gentle, beautiful face, nodding slowly.
Half an hour later, they’d all gotten to know the theater’s various spaces. Fang Xuyu led them to their rooms, then reminded them, “The boss has a performance tonight, and I need to double check the costumes. Lunch is at noon—don’t forget to come down and eat.”
Before leaving, he seemed to remember something and turned back solemnly—
“Don’t be shy. You’ve had it hard on the road—the theater prepared plenty of food, so please eat your fill.”
Pingping gazed at his face, lost in thought again.
“Thank you, Sister.” A moment later, she tried carefully.
Fang Xuyu froze, then turned away with a smile. “It’s Brother, not Sister.”
Pingping blinked furiously and finally accepted Jiang Yan’s claim.
After Fang Xuyu left, the group discussed what they knew.
It seemed their activities would mainly revolve around the theater now, and it was highly likely the field spirit was one of these people—maybe one of the four who’d appeared so far.
Xi Jueyun, Xiao Congye, Fang Xuyu, Liu Shaochun.
“Their names are beautiful,” Shen Xiaoxiao remarked, “like storybook protagonists.”
Yu Renwan nodded in agreement.
But there was too little information—trying to guess the field spirit’s identity was pointless for now; it was better to work on understanding their own roles.
Yu Renwan described her question in detail.
“Looking back, my problem wasn’t actually hard,” Yu Renwan explained. “As long as I did the opposite of what I’d naturally do, I could find the assigned character’s choice.”
“Quizzes only show up when you’re about to step out of character.”
But at that, Jiang Yan shook her head quickly.
“Don’t fall into that mindset—trying to find patterns in energy fields is suicide,” she said gravely.
Shen Huanhuan agreed: “That’s right.”
“A couple rounds is okay, but what if we have to take a dozen, or dozens of quizzes? The spirit is just waiting to catch us off guard once we get used to it.”
“And besides, my question just proved that if one person gets it wrong, everyone dies.”
“I used to think each person’s choice only affected themselves, but now I see that collective punishment is in play. That means every question carries serious pressure for the whole group.”
Hearing this, Yu Renwan agreed, “It’s really stressful—my fingers froze; I couldn’t answer at all.”
While Shen Huanhuan and Yu Renwan discussed, Jiang Yan leaned back and thought.
After some contemplation, she straightened and shared her view.
“Based on the difficulty, this field is much harder than the previous ones, but to eliminate all psychics in a single day doesn’t add up. Of course, if by this afternoon we get round after round of quizzes—then let’s revisit this.”
“But most importantly, collective punishment is suspicious.”
Jiang Yan said quietly, “An energy field shouldn’t assign certain death. Every person’s demise should stem from their own mistake. If that’s the case, there shouldn’t be a scenario where one person’s error dooms everyone.”
Shen Huanhuan considered. “So you’re saying, Sister Jiang Yan…”
Jiang Yan said directly, “We’ve misunderstood how punishment works.”
“I suspect that even if Yu Renwan had chosen wrong, we wouldn’t have all died. There would have been some other penalty.”
Pingping was quickest on the uptake, and promptly looked at Shen Huanhuan’s right eye.
Jiang Yan did the same.
“I’ll deliberately trigger a quiz soon and pick the wrong answer on purpose,” Jiang Yan said.
“Check now—see if I’m dead or alive in three minutes.”