Happy Valley in the Mortal Realm

The day was stifling, like a sealed soy sauce vat. The Start of Summer had just passed, and the real summer heat hadn't truly arrived, but in a place like Shanghai, once the crowds gathered, the warmth rose up on its own accord, like from a stove. Old Wang, Wang Deshun, retired for nearly five years, had been pestered endlessly by his little grandson today. Giving up his usual chess game at the alley entrance, he'd reluctantly trailed along to this confounded "Happy Valley."

"Grandpa, look quick! It's going to spit fire!" His little grandson, Bao'er, seven years old – an age notorious for being a handful – was flushed red with excitement, pointing and shrieking at a distant castle-like structure.

Old Wang followed his finger. Sure enough, from a spire on the castle-like structure, black smoke billowed furiously, with faint flames visible beneath, resembling festive signal smoke. The surrounding crowd began to stir, not with panic, but with a kind of delighted surprise, like someone who’d just stumbled upon treasure.

"Wow, these special effects are intense!" A young woman nearby, sporting a fashionable perm and a tight little top, held up her phone, filming and shouting, "Look at that smoke, it's just like the real thing! This ticket was totally worth it!"

The young man beside her chimed in: "Totally! Way more exciting than in the movies! You have to see it live—this immersive experience is awesome!"

"Immersive." Old Wang mulled over the word, finding it both unfamiliar and vaguely familiar. His daughter might have used it when she took him to that glasses-free 3D movie once. But this smoke, this fire... Old Wang sniffed the air. He seemed to catch a whiff of something scorching – not the sweet scent of roasted chestnuts, but the acrid, choking smell of burning plastic or wood.

"Bao'er, let's stand further back." Old Wang instinctively pulled his grandson. Having worked in a factory in his youth, he knew the temperament of fire—once it took hold, it wasn’t something that obeyed orders.

"Grandpa, don't go! We can see better up front!" Bao'er protested, unhappy, standing on tiptoe and craning his neck. "They said there'll be an 'explosion' effect later!"

"Explosion effect?" Old Wang felt a jolt of unease. He stared at the fire, now burning more fiercely, the billowing black smoke obscuring half the sky. No matter how he looked at it, it didn't seem like a planned performance. Around him, a sea of people craned their necks, faces filled with expectation, their raised phones like a dense thicket. The deafening music blaring from the speakers drowned out everything else, including the anxiety tightening in Old Wang's chest.

A few staff members in "Happy Valley" uniforms rushed about, their faces betraying some anxiety, but their voices were quickly lost in the din of the crowd and music. Someone attempted to put up a safety cordon, but laughing visitors simply pushed forward, treating it as part of the "interactive fun."

"Move it, move it, you're blocking my view of the 'blockbuster'!" someone shoved impatiently.

A chill went down Old Wang's spine. What on earth was happening? The old saying went, "Truth cannot be faked, and fakes cannot be true." But in this place, the boundary between reality and illusion seemed utterly muddled by the blaring music and flashing lights. It was fire, actual fire, burning away at the castle structure, whether it was wood or plastic. Yet, to these onlookers, it was merely "special effects," a "performance," a "bonus surprise" worth the price of admission.

He recalled decades ago when a neighbor's house caught fire; the entire alley had rushed out with buckets and basins, the urgency and panic bone-deep. But now? A fire blazed right before them, and the crowd watched as if at a theatre, commenting, analyzing, even applauding. Had people's hearts changed? Or did this place, this "Happy" Valley, possess some kind of numbing magic?

Old Wang took another deep sniff; the choking smell was undeniably stronger now. Hesitating no more, he scooped up Bao'er, still craning his neck to see, pushed through the cheerful crowd, and headed for the main gate.

"Grandpa, are we leaving? The 'show' isn't finished yet!" Bao'er squirmed in his arms, his small face full of grievance.

"It's finished, it's finished. This 'performance' is too dangerous. We'll go home and watch cartoons, that's safe." Old Wang didn't look back, his steps quickening. He felt like he was escaping from a vast, grotesque dreamscape – one where people applauded disaster, mistaking the real for the unreal.

Behind him, the music continued to blare, the crowd remained ecstatic. The black smoke and the glow of the fire illuminated faces that were both excited and blank. Faintly, Old Wang heard someone shout, "Look! Fire trucks are here! Wow, even the fire trucks are 'props'! It's so realistic!"

Old Wang shuddered and quickened his pace. Suddenly, the name "Happy Valley" struck him as morbidly fitting. What exactly hid behind this "happiness," he couldn't quite put his finger on. Perhaps, just like the onlookers described by Mr. Lu Xun, people are forever drawn to the spectacle. Whether the reality behind the commotion is comedy or tragedy, authentic or staged, seems secondary. The important thing is being "present," becoming part of this "worldly smoke and fire" – even if this particular fire was burning decidedly in the wrong place.

Outside the main gate, dusk had fallen. Looking back, Happy Valley remained brilliantly lit, faint music drifting out. But the column of black smoke rising against the night sky looked especially sinister. Holding his sleeping grandson, Old Wang stood by the road waiting for transport, a heavy feeling, like a wad of damp cotton, lodged in his chest. This world, he thought, was getting harder and harder to comprehend.