QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 53: Ritual

Chapter 53 -

Han Li’s POV

I watch her.

Jiang Yuxi is radiant under the golden afternoon sun, her expression lit with delight as she drifts from stall to stall at the open-air market, eyes wide with curiosity. She’s absolutely enamored by every handmade trinket and artisanal craft she lays her eyes on, and I, being the indulgent fool that I am, carry her growing mountain of souvenirs without complaint.

Bracelets, shells, beaded anklets, woven scarves that we’ll probably never wear—it’s all hers.

>"Han Li, co quick!"

She calls out, motioning for to hurry.

I shift the bags in my arms, sighing dramatically as I follow her deeper into the market. It doesn’t matter how absurdly touristy this all is. She’s smiling. Laughing.

For a brief mont, I forget why I even brought her here. Was it for my birthday? To escape the system’s interference? To be away from the city, from Jiang Wei, from the tightening grip of the plot?

Maybe.

But right now, it just feels like I’m here for her.

Yuxi beams at , grabbing my hand and tugging toward an older man waiting by a shaded stone path. Our guide, who’s been translating for us all day, gestures ahead.

>"This way."

He says in a broken accented voice.

We follow him around a corner, through a winding trail between trees and rocky walls, until we co upon a circular hut. It’s dimly lit inside, the scent of incense already thick in the air. An open fire crackles at the center, surrounded by rugs and low wooden benches. Trinkets and bone charms dangle from the ceiling like offerings.

At the center of it all sits a woman. Old, tattooed, regal in her silence. Her eyes lift lazily to observe us as we enter.

The guide kneels in front of her and begins to speak.

I glance over at Yuxi, confused.

>"Where have you brought ?"

She just smiles.

>"Shh. You’ll ruin it."

I squint at her. Sothing about that smile is far too innocent.

***

Jiang Yuxi’s POV

She has no idea.

Serves her right for not listening last night. I told her about this.

Well, I tried to.

But soone had her mouth far too occupied with... other things.

Now here she is, blinking like a confused puppy beside as the guide finishes his conversation with the old woman. She shifts her attention toward us, eyes gleaming with sothing ancient, sothing sharp. Slowly, she reaches for sothing behind her—a pair of white strings.

The guide turns to us.

>"She says: give one to your partner. Tie the strings together. It is to bind your souls."

Han Li raises an eyebrow as I pass her one of the strings.

>"Cent? Bond? Souls?"

She repeats, skeptical.

>"I told you yesterday. It’s a local custom. A soul-binding ritual. You agreed."

Her jaw drops slightly.

>"I was a little preoccupied, rember?"

I raise my brow and narrow my eyes.

>"So you’re backing out now? You don’t want to do a soul binding ritual with ?"

She raises her hands up in surrender.

>"Of course I do."

She snatches the string, muttering under her breath. We sit facing each other and begin tying the cords into intricate knots, fingers brushing with every loop and pull.

>"I’m telling you now."

I say, threading another knot.

>"You made fall in love with you. So you’re stuck with . Every life, every world. You’re mine."

>"I guess... I’ll take responsibility."

She says softly, her voice low and warm with affection.

I glance at her, and for a mont, I forget the room, the people, everything. The way she’s looking at —half amusent, half sothing far more tender—makes my heart flutter.

My cheeks flush, and I have to look away before I lt under her gaze.

We tie the knots—together—one after the other, slow and deliberate. It almost feels ceremonial already. With each pull of the thread, I feel like sothing unseen is settling into place. Or it may be my wish.

When we’re done, we hand the knotted string back to the old woman.

She studies it for a long mont, her lined fingers gently turning it in her palms as if weighing its aning.

She says sothing in the local dialect, her voice gravelly and deep.

The guide listens and translates, his tone respectful.

>"She says... are you sure?"

>"Yes."

I answer imdiately, the word slipping out faster than I expect. My voice is steady, but my heart isn’t.

Han Li’s eyes slide to . She raises an eyebrow, amused.

>"Yes," she echoes, less hurried but just as certain.

The woman examines us closely, her eyes narrowing like she can see right through us—to our pasts, to our choices, to the threads of fate we’re tying together with this ritual.

She nods once, then leans forward and places the joined string into a shallow clay bowl.

Another phrase is spoken, and the guide steps forward, producing two tiny, sealed needles.

>"She asks for a drop of blood from each of you," he explains.

I hesitate only a fraction of a second.

Han Li doesn’t pause at all. We prick our fingers and hold them over the bowl, letting our blood sink into the white string. The red blooms like a slow flower across the knots, curling into the fibers, binding them tighter.

The old woman begins to chant—words I don’t recognize, in a language that sounds older than ti. The air shifts.

It feels heavier.

Thicker.

And then—she throws the blood-soaked thread into the fire.

The flas leap, hissing as if they’ve been fed sothing potent. The scent of burning cloth and iron fills the hut.

Then.....silence.

I guess the ritual is complete.

The guide bows. We do the sa, following instinct more than instruction.

And just like that... it’s over. How anticlimactic, well I don’t know what I was expecting anyway.

***

Unbeknownst to the trio as they exit the ceremonial hut, laughter soft between them and hands brushing as they walk back into the golden light of late afternoon, the old woman does not move.

She stares into the fire, her eyes narrowed, unreadable.

The flas flicker higher—just slightly—as if stirred by a force unseen. Then, slowly, the smoke rising from the burning bowl begins to shift. At first, it’s just two thin wisps, curling lazily upward.

But then—they change.

The smoke straightens into two parallel streams, steady and unwavering. They hover above the fire like silver ribbons dancing in silence. And then, slowly, deliberately, the two lines begin to bend.

Twisting.

Turning.

Knots begin to form—tight, clean, symtrical. One after the other, in perfect mirror of the motions Han Li and Jiang Yuxi made only monts ago. The smoke weaves itself together as if echoing their promise, their shared will carved into the air itself.

Then, just as suddenly, the smoke vanishes.

No wind. No sound. Gone.

The fire calms.

The old woman lets out a breath, deep and knowing. She dips her head once—toward the fire.