By the time the sky started to darken, we headed out together to take part in the fire-cutting ritual.
As soon as we stepped onto the arch bridge, we could already see the massive bonfire blazing on the wide embankment, sparks bursting upward like glitter in the night. The heat rolled toward us as we approached, the dry air evaporating every trace of moisture.
Stars dotted the sky above; sparks danced on the ground below.
Only now did I realize—compared to this, the bonfire back in the Tongjiang Miao village was child’s play. Here, the flames rose nearly twice a man’s height, shooting straight toward the heavens, casting the whole area in daylight brightness.
A few men were playing lusheng flutes, completely absorbed, the melody shifting from mournful to rousing. Several women dressed in deep-black Miao outfits linked arms and danced around the bonfire as they chanted. Their movements weren’t graceful—if anything, they carried an eerie, indescribable strangeness. All around the fire, circles of villagers sat on the ground, silent and motionless as they watched.
A bamboo platform had been built on the embankment. The elderly man sat atop it with his hands folded, and the beautiful Wan Ying, as always, stood prettily beside him. Her eyes were fixed tightly on Shen Jianqing.
See? He wasn’t lacking attention from girls at all. There was no reason for him to waste his time on me. The thought made an unexpected sourness rise in my chest. I lowered my gaze, forcing myself to ignore the feeling.
When we arrived, everyone turned to look at us at the same time—their faces expressionless, solemn, even tinged with sadness. The firelight flickered in their eyes like hidden ghostly flames.
My heart lurched, and three words surfaced in my mind: a Hongmen banquet.
Hopefully I was just being paranoid.
As soon as we approached, a few villagers stood and guided us to “take our seats”—which really just meant sitting on the ground.
“Xu Zirong, I’m sitting next to you,” I said, patting his shoulder. Wen Lingyu naturally sat on my other side.
Shen Jianqing, already seated, didn’t even lift his head. His back was straight as a spear.
Xu Zirong grinned. “Sure! Can’t live without your bro, huh!”
I gave a small smile but didn’t respond.
Glancing around, I noticed that the man sitting on Wen Lingyu’s other side was the same one who had stared at her oddly the other day. When he saw her, his simple, honest face flushed with excitement. Wen Lingyu clearly recognized him too, her expression stiffening.
We’d already sat down—getting up and switching seats now would be too obvious, almost rude. So Wen Lingyu subtly edged away from the man… which meant the distance between her and me naturally shrank.
Before long, the dancing around the bonfire grew even wilder, and the flute music swelled in intensity.
No one spoke. Everyone stared at the flames with solemn, devout expressions.
“What are they doing?” I heard Qiu Lu whisper to Xu Zirong. “This feels… weird.”
Xu Zirong scratched his head. “I’ve never seen a ritual like this either. Doesn’t feel like a celebration, though—their faces are all stiff.”
Qiu Lu said, “Ask Li Yuze. He reads a lot of historical stuff.”
I shook my head. “I’ve never come across anything called a ‘fire-cutting ritual’ in the texts I’ve read. Maybe it’s something unique to the raw Miao.”
Wen Lingyu nodded. “Yeah. I’ve never seen it mentioned either.”
Xu Zirong said, “Lu-lu, you’re sitting closest to Xiao Shen. Ask him—”
He suddenly stopped mid-sentence when Qiu Lu shot him an exaggerated wink.
With her back slightly turned toward Shen Jianqing, she rested a hand inconspicuously on Xu Zirong’s arm, repeatedly flicking her gaze toward Shen Jianqing while mouthing silently, overly dramatically: He’s in a bad mood today.
Indeed, on the way here tonight, Shen Jianqing hadn’t spoken a single word to us. Every time Xu Zirong or Qiu Lu tried to talk to him, he either avoided them or replied with a few clipped, indifferent words.
“What’s up with him?” Xu Zirong whispered to me. “You two get along the best. What happened?”
“I…” My lips moved, but no words came out. I definitely couldn’t tell them what was going on between me and Shen Jianqing. So I said, “My stomach’s acting up. I need to take care of it.”
“Hey!” Xu Zirong waved me down. “There’s no bathroom here—”
I couldn’t help letting out a small laugh and headed alone toward the bamboo grove behind the embankment.
The bonfire on the embankment burned so fiercely that even the bamboo grove wasn’t dark; everything was still easy to see.
I didn’t actually need to relieve myself, but for realism’s sake, I climbed over a small mound and hid behind it.
After standing there for a while—long enough for them to get distracted with something else—I prepared to head back.
I had just gotten back up the little mound when I saw two figures not far ahead. One of them was holding a small clay wine jar; the other was lifting the seal on it. He leaned in close, either putting something inside, smelling it, or sneaking a taste.
Huh? My heart tightened. Instinct told me to stay completely silent.
A moment later, the two slipped out of the bamboo grove and walked toward the embankment. I climbed down the mound, unease knotting tighter and tighter in my chest.
What were they doing?
I returned to the embankment distracted and unsettled. Xu Zirong pulled me down to sit and whispered, “A-Ze, bad stomach? You were gone forever, and your face looks awful.”
I didn’t know whether I should tell them what I’d seen. What if it was nothing unusual? Then I’d just look like a paranoid jerk who doubted everyone.
“It’s not that—”
But before I could finish, the lusheng music suddenly surged, growing so sharp and intense it rattled the eardrums and shook the mind, as if the whole world had been swallowed by the sound. And right when the music reached its peak—unexpectedly—the players all froze mid-motion, and the music stopped dead.
Silence dropped like a stone.
After such overwhelming noise, the abrupt stillness felt even more desolate. The crackling of the huge bonfire sounded deeper and clearer than ever.
At that moment, the old man seated on the platform moved.
Supported by Wan Ying, he slowly stood and stepped to the front of the platform. His voice was raspy with age, but his posture was dignified, his expression authoritative. No one would dare dismiss him because of his years.
He began speaking in Miao language. We couldn’t understand the words, but we could read the mood. When his speech ended, two bare-chested men stepped forward.
One carried a wine jar. The other handed out rough porcelain cups, working in perfect coordination as they poured wine for the gathered villagers.
The two approaching men were the same ones I’d seen earlier in the bamboo grove.
They reached us quickly. One handed out cups, while the other tilted the clay jar, ready to pour.
I hesitated before taking the cup.
Everyone here was drinking from the same batch of alcohol. If something were wrong with it, wouldn’t it affect all of them too? Maybe I really was overthinking what I’d seen in the grove.
Feeling slightly more at ease, I raised my cup.
Once everyone had their drink, the chief—standing high on the platform—lifted his cup and called out, “Fuka!”
The Miao people circling the bonfire raised their cups as well. “Fuka!”
It had to mean “cheers.” The few of us exchanged uncertain looks, then followed their lead and shouted, “Fuka!”
The chief’s gaze swept over the crowd, sharp and searching, until it finally locked onto our group—onto Shen Jianqing. His eyes were like those of an aged falcon, old but still dangerous, as though no secret could hide from him.
Shen Jianqing looked back without flinching, face calm and cool.
It felt like a silent standoff between youth and age—the warning growl of a wolf king past his prime facing a young wolf ready to rise.
In the end, the chief was the first to look away. He raised his cup, tipped his head back, and drained the drink. Everyone else followed suit.
Qiu Lu took a small sip, her eyes widening. “It’s so sweet! Not harsh at all!” Then she polished off the rest.
The wine was good—sweet, smooth, cool on the tongue. It glided down like a soft mist, with a faint fragrance of young fruit.
Only Wen Lingyu looked completely lost. She couldn’t drink at all—she was allergic, so much as a drop could trigger a reaction.
Sitting beside her, I was about to suggest giving the drink to me, but the man next to her suddenly shifted. His left hand brushed her right hand just as she lifted the cup.
Caught off guard, her hand tilted, and the entire cup spilled onto her clothes.
Fortunately there wasn’t much in it, and her black coat hid the stain.
It happened so fast that Wen Lingyu didn’t even have time to gasp. The man didn’t notice a thing, still chatting with someone beside him. No one around us realized what had happened.
She glanced at me; our eyes met. Relief and helplessness flickered across her face before she simply shrugged—problem solved.
After the toast, the lusheng pipes started up again, and the dancers resumed their chanting and steps.
But the ritual felt… wrong. A celebration should be joyful, lively—children running around, elders smiling, people dancing for fun. Yet here, only strong adults were present. Not a single child.
The singing was somber, the movements stiff, the atmosphere heavy. Every face was solemn, almost on the verge of tears.
Suddenly, the chief stepped down from the platform, holding several dozen red silk ribbons.
Red mourning ribbons—symbols of Miao people who had passed away, each embroidered with a name.
The chief held them reverently as he approached the fire. In front of everyone, he cast all the ribbons into the flames.
The lusheng music surged, the singing rose, yet every dancer dropped to their knees, touching their forehead to the ground.
A realization hit me like a bolt.
This wasn’t a celebration at all.
It was a ritual of the dead.
The uneasiness that had been lurking inside me finally surged to the surface. Cold prickled along my back; goosebumps crawled over my skin.
I had no idea then that our misfortune had already begun.