Festival street at night. Lanterns glow red and gold above crowded hanfu bodies. The Matchmaker Temple is visible in the distance, its multi-tiered roof silhouetted against the star-scattered sky. Red ribbons hang from every eave.

Qing He and Ling Suyin pause at a narrow intersection. The crowd flows around them like water around stones.

In the crowded festival, a woman appears — translucent, flickering, her face blurred like a half-remembered dream. She smiles and reaches toward Qing He.

Qing He forces himself to look away. The illusion flickers. He walks forward, jaw tight.

Across the festival street, Ling Suyin stops. Before her, a village materializes — small wooden houses, paper lanterns, smoke rising from cooking fires. Children play in the dirt. A woman calls a name.

Ling Suyin closes her eyes. She walks forward, directly through the illusion. The village dissolves around her like morning mist.

A young man in Crimson Abyss disciple robes pushes through the crowd toward Qing He. His face is tear-streaked. He calls Qing He's name.

The false Xiao Feng reaches Qing He and grasps his arm, pleading. Qing He looks down at the hand on his arm.

Qing He pulls his arm free and walks away. The false Xiao Feng's expression crumbles — and then the illusion dissolves like wet paper.

A festival official runs toward Ling Suyin, waving a summons seal. 'Holy Maiden! Demonic cultivators are attacking the temple district! We need your blessing!'

The official's form flickers and dissolves. Ling Suyin walks on without breaking stride. The second trap crumbles to red ribbons.

The festival crowd becomes impossibly dense. Red ribbons tie themselves around ankles. People cannot move.

Qing He and Ling Suyin release qi pressure. The crowd parts instinctively, people stumbling back with wide eyes.

A merchant's cart appears blocking the street — it wasn't there a moment ago. Qing He stares at it.

Qing He lifts the cart with one hand and hurls it aside. Wheels spin. The oxen bleat. The cart crashes into a shopfront.

A gate that should be open is locked. Iron bars. Heavy chains. Ling Suyin examines it.

Qing He steps forward and punches the gate. The iron shatters. Divine threads unravel with a sound like breaking strings.

An alley. The Wandering Matchmaker kneels in the street. Around her, love-charms are dying — turning black, crumbling, falling.

The Wandering Matchmaker rises unsteadily. Her voice breaks. 'You are destined. You are the chosen ones. The god chose you because you are meant to be together.'

Ling Suyin takes the old woman's hands. 'Love is not a resource to be harvested for a prophecy. You deserve to love freely — not as a servant to a god's plan.'

The Wandering Matchmaker's face crumples. She looks at the ash in her hands — the crumbled remains of a love-charm. 'Then what... what was it all for?'

Qing He walks past without stopping. He does not look at the Wandering Matchmaker. He does not look at Ling Suyin.

Behind them, the Wandering Matchmaker slowly rises. She looks at the ash in her hands. Something shifts in her eyes — the first crack in sixty years of faith.

High above the festival district, the sky turns the color of a fresh bruise. A sound like breaking strings echoes from somewhere divine.