The four hurriedly fled toward the high ground on the riverbank, but Mei Sijun, usually aloof and elegant, seemed reluctant to leave. He stared blankly at the river and murmured:
"A stage for the living, a Dead-Person Opera for the dead... tying up lanterns, crafting paper figures, white paper filling the sky, turning into money as it hits the water... that's the Southern Branch Troupe's ghost opera. It's them... it's the Southern Branch Troupe!"
Yang held him back. The handsome young master from a family of opera performers seemed possessed. Even as the river churned and Corpse Remains climbed ashore, he still wanted to rush toward the water for a proper look.
"Mei Sijun, do you want to die?!"
Yang gripped his hand tightly. Though his body showed no bulky muscles, he was extremely well trained, and his strength was more than Mei Sijun could resist.
Pinned down on the high riverbank, Mei Sijun kept struggling and talking nonstop. "The Mei family's ancestors drew on the strengths of a hundred schools to establish a style of their own. They mastered every opera of the living, but the opera of the dead, the true Dead-Person Opera... only the Southern Branch Troupe knew it. They wouldn't teach it, and outsiders couldn't understand it..."
"Now this grand performance is unfolding before my eyes. For an opportunity like this, what does it matter if I lose my life? Don't stop me. I need a proper look..."
"And what good would getting a proper look do? If you die, who's going to tell everyone else how to perform Dead-Person Opera?" Yang held him down, refusing to let go. "You have to survive first if you want to see more operas!"
Mei Sijun finally stopped thrashing, and Qin Manjiang and Nie Yunzhen stopped running as well.