It didn't take long for the pool to fill completely. Dozens of golden lotus flowers floated gently on the surface, their delicate carvings catching the candlelight in a mesmerizing display. Yang Haoxuan couldn't help but admire the scene—but what caught his attention even more were the rows of candles now flickering to life atop the water.
Suddenly, all the lights in Wenxiang Pavilion dimmed, casting the entire building into shadow. The only illumination came from the pool, where two concentric rings of candles shimmered like stars on a still night. Petals began to fall from above, carried on an unseen breeze, drifting like snowflakes in spring.
And from within that cascade of petals… descended a girl.
She wore a flowing robe of soft blue-green, and her figure seemed to dance with the petals themselves as she drifted slowly down—completely unsupported—until her feet kissed the edge of the pool. A gentle melody from a zither began to echo through the air, and as if moved by the music itself, she began to dance.
Yang Haoxuan's breath caught.
She looked to be around eighteen, her beauty almost too perfect to describe—enchanting, ethereal, yet not distant. Her every motion flowed like water, and her faint smile carried the shyness of a young girl, soft yet devastating. Her waist swayed like a willow in the wind, and her voice—ah, her voice—was clear as an oriole singing from a mountain spring.
His heart pounded. His palms were sweaty.
He had seen beautiful women before—even someone like Yang Ruolan—but this? This was different. Every movement of the dancer tugged at his soul, stirred something deep inside. A simple thought took root in his heart, stronger with every heartbeat.
"I want her."
And judging by the dazed expressions around him, he wasn't the only one who thought that. The entire hall had fallen into a trance. The moment was like a dream—and just like dreams, it didn't last long. All too soon, the dance ended, and the girl drifted away as quietly as she had arrived.
"That's Qingxue for you," Huang Peng sighed with admiration.
Yang Haoxuan silently etched the name into his mind, though a tinge of disappointment crept into his heart. Was that it? No courtesans, no personal entertainment? All that elegance felt... frustrating. Wasn't this supposed to be a brothel?
"Let's go, Young Master Yang!" Huang Peng suddenly stood up.
Go? Now? Yang Haoxuan perked up instantly. Maybe things were finally getting interesting. He followed Huang Peng upstairs, his excitement building with every step.
They stopped at a private room right in the center of the second floor. Yang Haoxuan noticed Huang Peng handing over a very thick banknote to the doorkeeper—this place wasn't cheap. Eagerly, he peeked inside… only to see a bunch of people sitting around, drinking wine.
A private party?
Before he could ask questions, Qingxue herself appeared—somehow even more stunning up close. She took her seat silently, cradling a pipa in her arms. As her fingers danced across the strings, a soft melody poured forth, mesmerizing everyone present.
The room erupted into polite applause.
Yang Haoxuan's heart skipped another beat. Seated this close, he could study her properly. Every detail, every curve, every flicker of expression—it was all dangerously perfect. But she wasn't distant like a porcelain doll. No… she had this approachable warmth, a softness that drew people in.
"Young Miss Qingxue is truly a master of music," a handsome young man nearby said with starry eyes. "I, too, am a humble poet. May I dedicate a verse to you?"
Qingxue smiled demurely. "I wouldn't dare."
The man beamed and cleared his throat, ready to impress—but Huang Peng suddenly interrupted, clapping his hands. "Poetry! Excellent! Poetry is life!"
Yang Haoxuan raised a brow. What was this guy doing?
Predictably, the young poet glared. "Oh? Brother Huang is also a man of verse? Then why not share a poem of your own?"
A wave of chuckles swept through the room. Everyone knew Huang Peng was more famous for drinking than reciting anything remotely literary.
Backed into a corner, Huang Peng panicked—then his eyes lit up. "Ah, well, I may not be a poet myself, but my dear brother Yang Haoxuan? Now there's a man who can compose a brilliant verse!"
"W-what?" Yang Haoxuan, who'd just been daydreaming, snapped to attention. Did he just say he could write poetry?
The room burst into laughter.
Yang Haoxuan had a reputation in the capital—not for literature, but for being a rich, arrogant troublemaker. Nobody could picture him doing anything remotely poetic.
But then, Qingxue's gentle voice broke the laughter.
"Is that true, Young Master Yang? Now you've made me curious."
Her tone was light, her gaze soft. But in that moment, Yang Haoxuan felt every heartbeat echo like a drum in his ears. Her interest… felt personal. Real. Like she wasn't just indulging a guest—but him.
He thought of his ex-girlfriend, of the pain of their parting… and something stirred in his chest.
"I suppose… I could try," he said, standing up slowly. "Though I'll warn you—I might embarrass myself."
He cleared his throat and began:
"If only life were as it was when first we met…"
There was silence—then snorts of laughter.
What kind of poetry started like that? No metaphors? No rhyme? Just plain speech?
But Yang Haoxuan wasn't finished:
"…Why must the autumn wind grieve over a faded fan?
A lover's heart, once changed, never turns back.
On Lishan Mountain, sweet words whispered under starlight—
Yet in the cold rain, no complaints remain.
How fickle the silk-robed youth,
Who once swore to fly as one."
The room went dead silent.
Somehow, his simple beginning had led to something haunting, deeply emotional. Even those who didn't know poetry well could feel the pain behind the words—the heartbreak, the nostalgia, the quiet dignity. Many in the room had known loss. Many had fallen in love, only to be abandoned.
Yang Haoxuan's words had struck a nerve.
"Brilliant! Brilliant!" Huang Peng was the first to break the silence, clapping wildly—though it was clear he hadn't understood a word. He just didn't want his buddy to lose face.
Still, the others slowly joined in, eyes filled with disbelief. Was this the same Yang Haoxuan they knew?
Even the young poet looked shaken.
"Young Master Yang, your talent is… astonishing," Qingxue said softly. She moved a little closer, her smile now tinged with something deeper. "It seems the rumors about you were… exaggerated."
She leaned slightly, her fingers brushing against the back of his hand—smooth, warm, deliberate.
Yang Haoxuan felt electricity shoot up his spine.
"This is it. This is a real encounter," he thought, heart racing. "All thanks to… poetry?"
Qingxue giggled, then whispered, "I would love to speak with you more… perhaps in private. Will you meet me again? At Moonview Pavilion, on the fifteenth?"
"I… Absolutely." He barely remembered to breathe.
"I'll be waiting," she said, standing up gracefully. She offered the room a final bow and vanished like a dream.
The others were not pleased.
"Damn, Young Master Yang!" Huang Peng slapped his shoulder. "You actually pulled it off! The legendary Qingxue, agreeing to a private meeting? And on the full moon too?! That's insane!"
The rest of the guests muttered in defeat, finishing their wine before heading out one by one.
Yang Haoxuan sat there, stunned.
He had come here expecting… well, something physical. Now he was going home with a date and a reputation for poetry.
"I can't believe it…" he muttered. "I came here to score… ended up quoting Nalan Xingde."
He sighed, stood up, and followed his friend out.
"Guess I'd better go cultivate or something."
"Poetry cultivation," Huang Peng chuckled.