Since all these rules and superstitions are outdated, what's wrong with me indulging in some me

The author "Zhuogu Ranxi" recommends reading "All the Rules Are Strange Tales, What's Wrong with Me Talking About Metaphysics?", which can be downloaded and installed using the "Renren Bookstore" APP.

The woman next to Xiao Yuheng. The one with a forehead score of 83.

The woman sitting next to Xiao Yuheng at the banquet that day was wearing a dark blue long dress with a low neckline that revealed a section of her fair collarbone and a thin pearl necklace around her neck.

"You stole hers?" Lu Changsheng asked.

An Zhiyu glanced at him.

"Borrow," she said.

His tone was flat, as if he were correcting a trivial word choice error.

Lu Changsheng's lips curved slightly.

"When did this happen?"

"During dinner tonight."

Anzhiyu pressed the button on the short stick.

Blue light shone, a bright, A bright blue light, as if it had just been fully charged, emanated from the short stick. The light seeped out from the grooves of the stick, spreading along An Zhiyu's fingers to the back of her hand, wrist, and arm, like a thick film of water covering her skin.

Then the blue light spread out and enveloped Lu Changsheng.

She blocked him from her view.

"How long can it last?" Lu Changsheng asked.

An Zhiyu glanced at the small blue circle at the top of the short stick.

"One night."

One night.

enough.

Lu Changsheng nodded.

"Walk."

The two turned around and swam towards the surface of the water.

This time, An Zhiyu didn't lead the way. She swam side by side with Lu Changsheng, their shoulders almost touching. Blue light enveloped them, like a thin, transparent cocoon, separating them from the lake water and darkness.

They burst out of the water.

Lu Changsheng climbed ashore, water dripping down his body and forming a small puddle on the rocks. An Zhiyu followed behind him, silently making her way ashore and standing beside him.

The blue light also enveloped the two people.

Anzhiyu did not turn off the short stick.

Because there are people on the shore.

In the East Garden, the slaves were still working. Moving stones, pulling weeds, leveling the road. Just like before—heads down, backs bent, not uttering a word, just working incessantly.

Old man Meng Boyuan squatted by the roadside pulling weeds.

He moved slowly, but he pulled each one out cleanly.

Lu Changsheng looked at him.

The old man did not look up.

But Lu Changsheng noticed that his fingers, which were pulling weeds, paused for a moment.

Just for a moment.

Then continue pulling.

It seems like it never stops.

Lu Changsheng stopped in his tracks, and An Zhiyu cast a questioning look at him.

Lu Changsheng pointed to the old man pulling weeds beside him. He didn't say anything, but he knew that the old man could see or sense his presence.

An Zhiyu instantly understood, and the blue light spread out, enveloping the old man who seemed to be intently pulling weeds on the ground.

"Is it okay now?" Lu Changsheng asked.

The old man raised his head.

"You're smarter than I thought," the old man said.

His voice was low and hoarse, like that of someone who hadn't drunk water in a long time. But every word was enunciated clearly, as if each word had been held in his throat for a long time, chewed repeatedly, and only spat out after he was sure he wouldn't make a mistake.

Lu Changsheng squatted down to be at eye level with the old man.

"You can see the people in the blue light," Lu Changsheng said.

It is not a question.

The old man nodded.

"You can not only see people in the blue light," he said, "you can also see the blue light itself."

He stretched out a hand, his fingers drawing a circle in the air. The circle was positioned precisely at the edge of the blue light-encased area—the boundary of the thin, transparent cocoon created by Anzhiyu's short stick.

"Do you know what this layer of blue light is?" the old man asked.

Lu Changsheng remained silent.

"It's space," the old man said, "private space."

His finger paused at the edge of the blue light for a moment, then withdrew.

"Every short stick is given by the 'audience.' It's not issued by the castle, nor bestowed by the master, but by the 'audience'—those who are above the rules, above the scores, above everyone else—giving each 'high-ranking person' their private space."

He paused for a moment.

"The higher your score, the more time you accumulate each day. The more time you have, the more personal space you have. The more personal space you have, the more things you can do."

He looked at Lu Changsheng.

"Who are you? Why do you know so much? And why are you helping me?"

Although the old man helped Lu Changsheng time and time again, Lu Changsheng did not completely trust the old man because of this; the old man had quite a few secrets.

"My name is Meng Boyuan," he said. "Sixty-seven years ago, I came to this ancient castle. Like you, I was a slave, climbing the ranks step by step."

His voice had changed. It was no longer that aged, hoarse voice, as if he hadn't drunk water in a long time, but a younger, more powerful voice, as if it had been dug directly from the depths of his memory.

"It took me thirty years to climb from the ninth class to the first. From slave to servant, from servant to steward, from steward to master, and from steward to master."

He paused for a moment.

"From master to—99 points."

Lu Changsheng's breath caught in his throat for a moment.

99 points.

Xiao Qingniao's score.

That was also his score back then.

"Do you know what 99 points means?" the old man asked.

Lu Changsheng remained silent.

"It means that there's only a thin layer between you and the audience," the old man said. "You can feel them. Not 'know' they're there, but 'feel' them. You can feel them watching you, you can feel what they like and dislike, you can feel when they're laughing, when they're sighing, and when they're clapping."

He stretched out one hand, his fingers making a grasping motion in the air.

"You can feel them right in front of you, within reach. But you just can't touch them. Because of that layer of paper—that thin, transparent, glass-like paper—you can't tear it."

His fingers tightened, his knuckles turning white, as if he were grasping something invisible, something only he could see, only he could feel, but something he could never grasp.

"I tried for ten years," he said. "Ten years. I tried every single day. I killed people, I set fires, I created disasters, I staged tragedies. I used the people in the castle as pawns, their lives and deaths as scripts, their tears and blood as paint. I painted one picture after another, and acted out one play after another."

He looked at Lu Changsheng.

「观众很喜欢。我的分数从90涨到95，从95涨到98，从98涨到99。然后——停了。」

His voice suddenly became very low, as if he were telling a secret that only he could hear. (Chapter 172, "The Old Man," latest chapter available here.)

"99 points. Unmoved. Ten years. Unmoved."

He looked down at his hands, which were covered in mud.

"I don't understand. I've done my best. I gave the audience everything they wanted—violence, gore, plot twists, tragedy, comedy, farce. Every scene was meticulously designed, every detail was repeatedly polished. I thought the audience would like it. And they did. My score rose to 99, but it just wouldn't reach 100."

He raised his head and looked at Lu Changsheng.

"Later I found out why."

Why?

"Because the audience doesn't want me to get 100 points," the old man said. "It's not that I can't, it's that they don't want to. They feel—I'm not good enough. It's not that my performance isn't good enough, it's that I'm not a good person. My fundamental nature is wrong. Everything I do is for the score, it's all to please them. They can see that. They don't like being flattered."

He smiled. The smile was bitter, as bitter as chewing bitter herbs.

"Audiences like sincerity. Even if you're a murderer, as long as you kill sincerely, they'll like you. But I'm not sincere. I calculate everything I do—will the audience like it? Will the score go up? Is it worth it? Every thought is calculated, every action is a performance."

"What happened to you afterward?"

"And then?" The old man smiled, but the smile was even more bitter. "Then Xiao Qingniao appeared."

He stood up. His movements were slow, his knees clicking like rusty hinges turning. Once he stood upright, his back was slightly hunched, like an old tree bent by the wind.

"I have to admit, she is much more talented than I am at acting."

His voice cracked slightly.

"Or rather, she wasn't acting at all; she was being real. But the more real she was, the more despicable and ridiculous I seemed."

The old man's lips were trembling.

It wasn't the kind of shivering from cold, nor the kind of shivering from fear, but a deeper, more hidden kind of shivering, like the tender flesh that's left exposed after someone has ripped a layer of skin off your heart.

"She was only nineteen when she first came to the castle," he said. "She was wearing a white dress, her hair was draped over her shoulders, and her eyes shone like two stars. Xiao Yuheng brought her to see me and said, 'Master, this is my sister.' When she called me 'Master,' her voice was very sweet, like she had a piece of candy in her mouth."

He paused for a moment.

"At the time, I thought—she was a promising talent. Clean, pure, without any impurities. The audience would definitely like her."

He looked at Lu Changsheng, his eyes filled with a complex light.

"But I didn't expect the audience to like her so much."

His fingers unconsciously drew circles in the soil, one circle after another.

「她来的第一年，分数就从40涨到了80。第二年，从80涨到了90。第三年，从90涨到了95。第四年——99。」

His fingers stopped.

"Four years. It only took her four years. It took me thirty years to reach 99 points. She did it in four years."

He raised his head and looked at Lu Changsheng.

"Do you know what that feels like?"

Lu Changsheng remained silent.

"Do you know what it feels like when a nineteen-year-old girl in a white dress, singing and skipping, walks past you and reaches the summit in just a tenth of your time—you know how that feels?"

His voice cracked slightly.

"It's not jealousy. It's not hatred. It's—"

He paused, as if searching for the right word.

"It's looking in a mirror."

He looked at Lu Changsheng.

"She's like a mirror. Standing in front of her, I can see all of my own—despicableness. Everything I do is calculated, everything she does is because she wants to. I kill to please the audience, she doesn't kill because she doesn't want to. I wear one mask after another, and her face is her face."

His voice grew softer and softer, until it sounded like he was talking to himself.

"It took me a long time to figure it out—it's not that the audience dislikes me. It's that they've never seen the real thing before. They've seen fakes their whole lives, and suddenly seeing the real thing—that feeling isn't 'liking,' it's 'finally,'"

Lu Changsheng remained silent for a moment.

"What happened to you afterward?"

"And then?" The old man chuckled, a smile more bitter than before. "Then Xiao Qingniao came, and Xiao Yuheng came too. The siblings, one was the light, the other the shadow. One was real, the other an actor. One was hailed to the heavens by the audience, the other watched from below, his eyes filled with—"

He didn't continue.

But Lu Changsheng saw it.

He saw Xiao Yuheng as a child—standing behind his sister, watching her be loved by the audience, praised by her master, and the center of everyone's attention. In his eyes was not pride, not joy, but something darker, deeper, as if it wanted to absorb all the light.

"He's jealous of her," Lu Changsheng said.

The old man nodded.

"He was jealous of her. He'd been jealous since he was little. But he never said it. He never said no. He was always gentle and kind to her, and when he called her 'sister,' his voice was sweet, like he had a piece of candy in his mouth."

He paused for a moment.

"But I could see it. I saw that thing in his eyes, growing day by day. Like a seed, buried in his heart, watered, fertilized, and basked in the sun. It grew bigger and deeper year by year. By the time he discovered it, that seed had grown into a tree. A tree that eats people."

He looked at Lu Changsheng.

"I didn't stop him. Not because I didn't want to, but because I couldn't at that point."

"Meng Boyuan is dead. What survives is an old man with no name who pulls weeds in the East Garden every day and has a score of only 20."

He looked down at his hands, which were covered in mud.

"Seven years. I've been pulling weeds here every day. Watching him throw people into the lake one by one. Watching his scores rise little by little. Watching Xiao Qingniao—my other apprentice—slowly turn into something inhuman in the coffin."

He raised his head and looked at Lu Changsheng.

"I can't help her. There's nothing I can do. My score is too low, the audience can't see me. No one listens to what I say, no one watches what I do, I'm living like I'm dead."

"But now Xiao Qingniao is ruined. She successfully reached 100 points, but she still cannot escape the shackles of this world. Xiao Yuheng's plan has failed."

The old man's eyes widened suddenly.

It wasn't surprise, it wasn't fear, but a more complex, more intense reaction, like the kind that comes after being stabbed in the back—pupils constrict, eyelids lift, and blood vessels on the surface of the eyeballs become congested for a moment, turning the whites of the eyes a pale red.

"What did you say?"

His voice had changed. It was no longer the aged, hoarse voice that sounded like he hadn't drunk water in a long time, but a sharp, rapid voice, as if it were being squeezed out after someone had choked him.

Turn the page, and you'll find yourself in another world.