Afternoon in Xiapi had a way of pretending it was harmless.
The sun lay warm on the roof tiles. The sparrows argued over crumbs like petty officials. From the street outside Jade Scale Escort, you could hear the usual chorus—vendors hawking steamed buns, the clack of carriage wheels, the occasional shout from a gambler who'd just discovered fate had teeth.
Inside the training ground, Shen Yan made all of it sound far away.
He ran with weights.
Not the pretty wrist rings rich young masters wore as fashion, and not the clumsy stone slabs the escort veterans tied to their ankles when they wanted to show off. His were… wrong, in the way that made old instructors squint and mutter.
A pair of iron bars hugged his forearms, strapped with layered cloth so the edges wouldn't chew skin. The weight sat close to the bone, balanced so it didn't wreck his joints—tight enough to punish, not enough to cripple. Around his waist was a belt with small metal discs sewn into the lining, distributed like scales.
A man who knew nothing would call it extravagance.
A man who knew training would call it obsession.
Shen Yan called it Tuesday.
He rounded the dirt track for the last lap, breath controlled, footfalls steady. Sweat darkened the collar of his practice robe and ran down the line of his spine. His lungs burned. His thighs screamed. The weight tried to drag him into laziness.
He refused.
Twenty-one years.
Twenty-one years since he'd opened his eyes in this world and recognized the names on maps. Recognized the way officials spoke of "order" while counting other people's rice. Recognized the pattern: famine, bandits, soldiers, taxes, and then the hero stories that followed like flies after blood.
History. Familiar and ugly.
He finished the lap, slowed to a walk, and rolled his shoulders until something in his back popped. For a moment, the training ground spun with heat haze. He tasted iron on his tongue.
"Third Young Master."
The voice was calm, close, and annoyingly timed—like a blade that always arrived when your guard dropped.
Xu Qingluan stepped onto the packed earth with a towel folded over her forearm and a small clay teapot in her hands. She didn't hurry. She never hurried. Hurrying was for servants who wanted to look useful.
Qingluan looked useful by existing.
Her hair was pinned neat, her sleeves modest, her face soft enough that strangers would assume she was harmless. Shen Yan had seen her stop a kitchen boy from switching a tray simply by watching him breathe.
She offered the towel first.
Shen Yan took it and wiped his face, then his neck. "If you keep appearing like this," he said, "people will think I'm a cherished young master."
Qingluan's mouth twitched. "If I stop appearing like this, people will think you're dead."
"That's also a kind of cherished."
She poured tea into a cup without spilling a drop. The steam rose clean. The scent was plain and honest—cheap leaves, a slice of dried citrus to cut bitterness.
He reached for it.
Qingluan didn't stop him, but her eyes flicked to the rim, the scent, the way the steam curled.
Only then did she nod.
"Still afraid I'll be poisoned by afternoon tea?" Shen Yan asked.
"I'm afraid you'll be poisoned by your mouth," Qingluan replied smoothly. "Tea is the lesser risk."
He laughed once—short, real, then gone. He drank. Warmth slid down his throat and settled his stomach.
"Did Madam send you to scold me?" he asked.
"Madam sent me to keep you from doing anything stupid," Qingluan said. "I volunteered to scold you for free."
Shen Yan lifted his brows. "Generous."
A shout rose from the far gate.
The escort men were spilling out of the pay office like a river breaking a dam. Coins clinked. Belts were tightened. Someone was already bragging about buying wine. Someone else was already complaining about how wine was a scam and women were a better investment.
Then they saw him.
"Third Young Master!"
"Oi, Little Flame!"
"Third Young Master, your legs look thicker—did you finally stop lying in bed all day?"
Shen Yan turned, wiping sweat from his jaw like a bored aristocrat humoring peasants. "Careful," he called back. "If you compliment me too loudly, my reputation will recover."
Laughter rolled across the yard.
They should have called him formally. They were trained for it. Jade Scale Escort survived because it respected lines—between client and escort, between captain and subordinate, between a lord's anger and a common man's life.
But Shen Yan had never wanted that line between himself and the men who bled for the Shen name. He did his training with them. Ate with them when he felt like it. Paid debts for widows quietly. Remembered names.
Respect grew in odd soil.
A broad-shouldered man pushed through the group, hair tied back, jaw stubbled as if he'd lost a fight with sleep. His steps were easy, confident, like he'd measured the ground once and decided it was his.
Captain Guo Dalu.
Dalu's eyes flicked over Shen Yan—weights, sweat, breathing—and something like approval crossed his face before he covered it with a grin.
"You're still at it," Dalu said. "If I didn't know you, I'd think you were trying to cultivate."
"If I could cultivate," Shen Yan said, "I wouldn't need you people. That would be a tragedy."
The men booed him on principle and laughed immediately after.
Dalu hooked a thumb toward the gate. "Payday. Spirits are high. You know what that means."
"That you'll all get drunk and sing off-key?" Shen Yan guessed.
"That too," Dalu said. "But also—Plum Rain Pavilion."
The crew made appreciative noises like hungry dogs hearing a bowl set down.
Dalu leaned in a little, conspiratorial. "Several sisters must miss you. Especially the ones who only smile when you walk in."
Shen Yan clicked his tongue. "Ah. So this is an escort mission."
Dalu blinked. "Escort mission?"
"You're using me as bait," Shen Yan said, dead serious. "Bring the handsome young master. Lure in the courtesans. Then you lot drink free and pretend you're refined."
A roar of laughter.
"Shameless!" one escort shouted.
"Third Young Master, you wound us!"
"Bait? We are men of dignity!"
Qingluan, who had been pouring Shen Yan a second cup, made a small offended sound. "You are men of dust," she said. "Don't flatter yourselves."
That only made them laugh harder.
One of the younger escorts—fresh scar on his brow, grin too wide—nudged Dalu. "Captain, look. The maid is jealous."
Qingluan's head snapped toward him. Her smile stayed polite, but her eyes went sharp. "Say that again," she said sweetly, "and I will ask the kitchen auntie to season your porridge with laxative for a week."
The young escort recoiled dramatically. "Cruel woman!"
"I'm a maid," Qingluan corrected. "Cruel is free."
The men scattered a step, cackling, suddenly fascinated by the sky and the state of their boot laces.
Shen Yan sipped his tea and watched them retreat like children who'd thrown a stone at a tiger and realized the tiger could read.
Dalu didn't move. He just smiled at Qingluan. "We'll bring him back alive," he promised.
Qingluan's eyes narrowed. "Bring him back in one piece."
Dalu considered that. "Two pieces, but neatly arranged?"
"Dalu," Shen Yan said.
"Yes, Third Young Master?"
"If you die in a brothel, I will not pay your funeral costs," Shen Yan said. "I'll tell your mother you died heroically protecting a rice merchant."
Dalu put a hand on his chest like he'd been stabbed. "Heartless."
"Economical," Shen Yan corrected.
Dalu laughed, then sobered just enough to make the invitation real again. "So? You coming?"
Shen Yan glanced at Qingluan.
She pretended not to watch him and failed. Her fingers tightened on the teapot handle.
He could have stayed in the manor. He could have trained until his bones hated him. He could have done the dutiful thing and played the useless son who never caused trouble.
But trouble came whether you invited it or not.
Plum Rain Pavilion wasn't just pleasure. It was rumors, soft alliances, faces seen in lanternlight—names that mattered before swords ever did. And Shen Yan had learned, over two lives, that the first man to hear a secret was often the last man alive.
"I'll go," he said. "I need to wash first. If I arrive smelling like a stable, Madam Mei will charge you extra."
Dalu grinned. "We'll go before dinner. Don't be late, Third Young Master. The sisters truly will miss you."
Shen Yan waved them off with two fingers. "If they miss me, they can write me poems."
As the escort crew filed out, still laughing, Qingluan leaned closer, voice dropping so only he could hear.
"You're going because you want to," she said.
"I'm going because Dalu will cry if I don't," Shen Yan replied.
Qingluan snorted. "You're going because you like the Pavilion."
"I like not being bored," Shen Yan said.
"That too," she allowed. Then, quieter: "Be careful."
He looked at her over the rim of his cup.
Qingluan's face stayed composed, but the worry wasn't for show. It was the kind of worry that came from seeing knives hidden in sleeves, from knowing how quickly a rumor became a noose.
Shen Yan smiled, softer than his usual mask. "Always."
Qingluan didn't smile back. "That's what scares me."
---
Plum Rain Pavilion was warm in the way money could be warm.
Lanternlight softened every corner. Silk screens turned private conversations into shadows and silhouettes. The air was perfumed just enough to make you forget the street outside smelled like fish guts and mud.
In an inner room away from the stage, the warmth didn't matter.
Lu Ruyin lay curled beneath three quilts like a girl trying to hide from winter itself. Her lips were pale. Her fingers—long, elegant, trained on zither strings—trembled as if the bones inside had turned to ice.
A courtesan pressed a warm towel to her hands.
Another girl rubbed her feet, whispering, "It'll pass, it'll pass," as if words were medicine.
Ruyin's breath came thin. Each inhale felt like swallowing snow.
"It's… colder," she managed, teeth clicking against each other. "It's getting… deeper."
One of her fellow disciples—hair hastily pinned, eyes red from sleepless nights—leaned over her. "Don't talk," she said. "Save your strength."
Ruyin tried to nod and failed. The cold didn't just sit on her skin; it slid under it, threaded itself along her meridians, and tightened like a cruel hand.
When she shut her eyes, she saw her master's face—stern and kind in the same breath—pushing her forward into the night.
Go to Xiapi. Find the madam. Protect the younger ones.
Ruyin had done it. She had run until her lungs burned. She had begged shelter from a woman she'd never met. She had swallowed pride like bitter herbs.
And the poison had followed her anyway.
The door opened without a sound.
Madam Mei entered the room like a rumor wearing perfume. Ink-black hair pinned with plain jade. A warm voice she could sharpen into a blade. Soft hands that had signed contracts and broken men.
The girls in the room straightened instinctively.
Ruyin tried to rise.
Madam Mei lifted a hand. "Don't." Her eyes took in Ruyin's condition in one glance—skin, breath, tremor, the faint bluish tint at the nails.
She sat beside the bed and placed two fingers on Ruyin's wrist.
Pulse.
Pulse.
Pulse.
Madam Mei's expression didn't change, but her gaze darkened.
"It's flaring again," one of the disciples said, voice cracking. "We tried warmth. We tried—"
"I know," Madam Mei said. She let go of Ruyin's wrist and drew a slow breath, as if weighing whether truth would hurt more than lies.
Ruyin swallowed. The motion made her throat ache. "Madam…" she whispered. "Can I… hold on?"
Madam Mei studied her. Not like a madam studying a performer. Like a woman studying a soldier with a cracked spear.
"How many did you bring to me?" Madam Mei asked softly.
Ruyin blinked, confused. "Six," she rasped. "Six of my sisters. And two juniors… they were— they were separated on the road, but—"
"And you kept them alive," Madam Mei finished. "Good."
Ruyin's eyes stung.
Madam Mei's voice remained calm. "The poison has a name," she said. "Cold Yin Shiver Venom."
The disciples went still.
"That's…" one began, then stopped, as if the words were too ugly to say.
"A poison used by cowards," Madam Mei said. "It doesn't kill quickly. It humiliates first. It freezes your meridians little by little until your body forgets how to be warm."
Ruyin's breath hitched. "Is there… an antidote?"
Madam Mei's silence was the answer that made hearts drop.
The courtesan closest to the bed set her jaw. "Madam," she said, "tell us what it costs."
Madam Mei's eyes flicked to her—approval, faint and brief. Then back to Ruyin. "It's nearing your core and organs," she said. "You're feeling it, aren't you? The cold that sits beneath the ribs. The ache that doesn't leave when you swallow warmth."
Ruyin's hands clenched beneath the quilts. Her fingers shook harder. "Yes."
"If it reaches the heart meridian," Madam Mei continued, "you won't die beautifully. You'll become a statue that still breathes."
One of the disciples made a small broken sound.
Ruyin forced herself to speak. "If there's a way… Madam, please. I… I can't leave them."
Madam Mei looked at the girls in the room—the disciples, the courtesans, the women sheltering women in a city that would happily chew them all to bone.
Then she sighed, like a person who hated the world for being predictable.
"There is a way," she said. "But it isn't clean."
The room held its breath.
"For a virgin girl poisoned this way," Madam Mei said, voice controlled, "the cold yin seals tighter because there is no yang inside to oppose it. The remedy is… to deliver yang essence into the womb. Not on the skin. Not in a cup. Not through incense. Inside."
Ruyin's face went red so fast it looked like warmth returned—until her tremors betrayed her.
The disciples stared. One looked away immediately, like she'd been struck.
A courtesan swallowed and spoke carefully. "You mean…"
Madam Mei nodded once. "Sex," she said plainly. "And semen. With enough vitality to melt the ice-lock."
Silence.
Not the polite silence of a performance hall. The stunned, young silence of girls raised on orthodoxy and then forced into survival.
Ruyin closed her eyes.
Her cheeks burned. Her body shook. Shame tried to rise like bile.
Then she remembered her master dying with blood on her lips, pushing her forward anyway.
Necessity was its own kind of righteousness.
A soft laugh came from the corner.
Hao Lianhua—Jade Lark—had been there quietly, leaning against the screen as if she belonged to the shadows of silk. Her face held sympathy, but her eyes were sharp, already turning options into pathways.
"If Sister Ruyin has no preference," Lianhua said gently, "why not choose someone safe?"
One of the disciples stiffened. "Safe?"
Lianhua nodded toward Madam Mei. "Someone discreet. Someone who doesn't force. Someone who won't turn this into a chain around her neck."
Ruyin opened her eyes despite herself. "Who…"
Lianhua's smile carried a hint of mischief, like she enjoyed twisting fate when it deserved it. "Third Young Master Shen," she said. "He'll come tonight. His escort men already booked a room—before dinner, as usual."
Madam Mei's gaze sharpened. "Lianhua."
"What?" Lianhua spread her hands innocently. "He's kind to our girls. He pays and leaves dignity intact. He doesn't brag about what happens behind the screen. And—" her eyes flicked to Ruyin, gentler now "—he won't treat her like spoil."
Ruyin's throat tightened.
She had heard of him. Of course she had. Xiapi loved gossip the way hungry men loved meat.
Third young master of Jade Scale Escort. Pretty face. Brothel regular. Can't cultivate. Waste.
And yet… the courtesans spoke his name without that brittle, forced sweetness they used for predators. There was a warmth there, like a man who could laugh with you and still keep a knife for anyone who tried to hurt you.
Ruyin swallowed. "If… if it can save my meridians…" she whispered.
Her disciple sister reached for her hand. "Ruyin—"
Ruyin squeezed back, trembling. "I want to live," she said, voice shaking but clear. "I want to keep you safe. If this is the price… then I will pay it."
Lianhua's eyes softened, proud despite herself. "Then let me arrange it," she said. "Tonight. Quietly."
Madam Mei studied Ruyin for a long moment.
Then she nodded once, slow. "Very well," she said. "But understand this, Lu Ruyin."
Ruyin held her gaze.
Madam Mei's voice turned iron beneath velvet. "If you choose this, it becomes a secret inside our walls. Anyone who tries to use it against you will vanish from Xiapi. I don't care whose son they are."
Something in the room loosened—fear, maybe, or despair.
Ruyin exhaled a breath that came out white.
Outside, somewhere beyond the screens, a zither note rang—clean and bright—like a thread being drawn tight.
And across the city, at Jade Scale Escort, Shen Yan was washing sweat from his hands, unaware that tonight's invitation was about to turn into a door he could never close again.