Chapter Thirty: The Ring of Parting

A Hundred Years Ago, Beiping, the Wu Family.

“Wang Sheng, do you truly intend to leave?” The Third Miss of the Wu family, Wu Yuan, stood outside the door, gazing foolishly at the man she loved.

“Yes. The foreign invaders have violated our land; it is the duty of every man in this dynasty to stand upright and drive them out.” If one looked at his appearance alone, he was unmistakably Wang Zihao, though he wore a long braid down his back.

A hundred years ago, a movement sparked quietly by the peasant class began to spread. With each humiliating treaty signed, men across the country and abroad ground their teeth in anger and grief.

Wang Sheng was born into poverty. A scholar who succeeded at the imperial exams, he honored his teacher and secured a minor official position at the local yamen. He also gained the favor of the local cloth merchant, Master Wu, and was betrothed early to his third daughter, Wu Yuan.

“A man must put the nation before the family. If the country falls, how can a family stand?” With those words, Wang Sheng tore up the betrothal contract before the entire Wu family. Third Miss, who had admired him for so long, felt a torrent of complicated emotions as she watched the man she’d pledged herself to break their promise. There was sorrow, but also pride. In her heart, she had long since given herself to this ambitious man.

“Miss Wu, if I live to return, I will come for you with a grand procession and marry you for all eternity.”

“I will wait for you…” That night, the Third Miss and Wang Sheng pledged their lives to each other in secret. Though not husband and wife in name, they were so in truth. In olden times, this would have been a scandal, a blight upon the family’s honor. After Wang Sheng threw himself into the ranks of the Boxer Rebellion, Wu Yuan was locked away by her father. She could only learn of the war’s progress through the whispers of her maid.

The fighting dragged on for half a year. With the invasion of the Japanese, these passionate men were slaughtered and suppressed.

Wu Yuan waited six months, only to learn that Wang Sheng had been hanged on the spot. His name ruined, her beloved gone—who was left to fulfill their promise of forever? “Since ancient times, heroes and beauties are not permitted to grow old together.” Let the world curse you as a bandit; in my heart you will always be a hero. So be it, let me follow you—even as a wandering ghost, what meaning has eternity without Wang Sheng?

And so, Third Miss hanged herself from the locust tree in her own courtyard. At dawn, her maid found her lifeless on the branches, and, terrified of the master’s wrath, drowned herself in the well. Thus, mistress and servant, bound by lingering regret, became vengeful spirits, wandering the earth for a hundred years.

As for Wang Zihao—he was Wang Sheng reincarnated. Granny Hua, understanding the depth of the Third Miss’s resentment, made a pact: if Wang Zihao ever walked into this shop and drew the bamboo slip bearing Wu Yuan’s name among ten, the medium would be activated, and the marriage left unfulfilled in the last life could be completed in this one.

And so began the tale of love between man and ghost.

“Miss Wu, do you not know that if you wed a living man, after his death you will never be able to enter the cycle of reincarnation?” Old Liao rasped as he spoke, having listened to the story.

We could not see her expression beneath the red bridal veil, but her silence revealed the answer. For the sake of her vow—even for a single lifetime together—she was willing to endure the torment of never being reborn.

For Miss Wu, the answer was clear.

But what of Wang Zihao? I felt a deep inner conflict, pitying Wang Zihao for being drawn into this worldly entanglement, yet unwilling to see Miss Wu’s fate end in tragedy.

Beside me, Wang Zihao wept bitterly, reaching out as if to lift the red veil. Old Liao sighed deeply and turned away. But Wang Zihao’s hand froze midair, and he cried out, “I’ve already failed you in one life—how can I bear for you to suffer eternal wandering because of me?” Memories of his past life flooded Wang Zihao’s mind, so full of sorrow that everyone present was moved.

I saw Miss Wu’s delicate hand trembling, as if she would embrace Wang Zihao. Should tonight’s ceremony be completed, she would be cut off from reincarnation forever.

“Wait! Let me use the Embroidery of Yin and Yang to renew your bond!”

“There’s another way?” Old Liao asked, his face alight with hope.

“There is a design called the Ring of Parting. It’s a yang embroidery, capable of binding your fates for the next life. However…”

“However what?” Miss Wu asked, urgency in her voice.

“The Embroidery of Yin and Yang requires a spirit as the medium—it will be your essence, used as ink for a tattoo on his body. When his life ends, you will enter reincarnation together,” Old Liao guessed my thoughts and answered for me.

Wu Yuan and Wang Zihao fell silent. Granny Hua, blowing smoke rings, murmured, “Wu Yuan, without fate; Wang Sheng, a futile life. Perhaps only through the union of yin and yang can you both find peace.”

No longer hesitating, the two ill-fated lovers nodded resolutely.

Thus, we all returned to my tattoo studio. As I drafted the design, I spoke with Wang Zihao, asking how it felt to recall his past life.

“It’s both real and dreamlike. It’s as if something new has awakened inside me,” he replied, his gaze unwavering.

“This is the pattern I’ll give you today: the Ring of Parting. Have you decided? Will you choose a doomed love now, or the promise of growing old together in your next life?”

“Forever means forever—not a lifetime less, not a moment short. Bear with me for a while on my skin, and in the next life, I will fulfill my vow,” Wang Zihao said, shedding his light-hearted manner. He reached out to lift the bridal veil from the ghost bride.

Beneath the veil, the bride’s radiant face was revealed—no trace of ghostly pallor, only beauty in her wedding finery. “Clad in this wedding dress, I consider myself married to you in this life. Never again may you leave me.” With those words, she turned into a gust of wind and entered the jar I held.

This embroidery went smoothly, perhaps because their feelings were mutual. I could sense the growing intensity of their intertwined fates on the Ring of Parting. After more than an hour, an ancient, black-and-red ring-shaped pattern appeared on Wang Zihao’s left shoulder.

If you looked closely, the old characters for Wu and Wang were inscribed upon it—a final blessing from me, their tattooist.

Wang Zihao left. I did not charge for the work; the tale, so moving, had captivated even someone like me who’d never known love. Old Liao seemed lost in memories of the past. “Xugor, do you think the souls of the dead can ever be found again?” he asked softly.

I looked at Old Liao; his eyes were full of tender longing. I gave no answer. Outside, the cries of birds swept the sky. Tonight, sleep would not come for any of us.