By the time the first lantern outside Plum Rain Pavilion was refilled, the hall downstairs had become a small city of its own.
Tables filled in layers, as if status had weight.
Closest to the stage sat the men who wanted to be seen: young masters with new silk, merchants with thick rings, wandering warriors whose laughter was louder than their money. Further back were the ones who preferred shadows—minor officials with neat moustaches, clerks who drank slowly and listened quickly, an old scholar with a cheap fan and eyes that had survived three administrations.
Plum Rain Pavilion fed them all the same stew, poured them all the same wine, and smiled at them all like each was important.
Only fools believed that smile meant equality.
Upstairs, behind a screen that dampened sound just enough to make secrets feel safe, Shen Yan's VIP room smelled of braised pork and pepper oil.
Guo Dalu sat with one leg half-folded, cup in hand, already flushed. He was the kind of man whose cheer looked natural and whose caution was learned the hard way.
"Slow," Dalu said, pointing his cup at the youngest escort like it was a weapon. "Don't drink like you're trying to drown your debt."
The young escort—still excited by payday and warm lights—grinned. "Captain, we're in Plum Rain Pavilion. If we're going to drown, this is the best water."
Rui Shanjin snorted from across the table, cracking sunflower seeds into a dish meant for peanuts. "He says that until he wakes up tomorrow with his tongue tasting like ash and his purse tasting like regret."
"Your mouth always tastes like regret," the young escort shot back.
Shanjin's eyes gleamed. "Because I don't sweeten it with lies."
Dalu grunted, but he didn't stop smiling. He liked them loud; loud men were alive men.
Shen Yan sat with his back angled toward the wall, fan open in one hand. He didn't drink much. He tasted. He watched.
The escorts ate like wolves pretending to be civilized. Their chopsticks moved fast; their jokes moved faster. They spoke of routes and bruises and women in the same breath because escorts lived in a world where blades and beds were only a street apart.
From time to time, a courtesan passed along the corridor outside. Silk whispered. Perfume drifted in and vanished. A laugh—soft as a sleeve—sparked and disappeared.
One of the escorts leaned forward, restless. "Third Young Master," he murmured, eyes tracking the corridor, "should we call for the girls?"
Dalu smacked the table lightly. "Eat first."
"But Captain—"
"You'll forget your own name if you drink on an empty stomach," Dalu said. "Then you'll call the wrong girl and start a fight you can't afford."
The escort pouted and glanced at Shen Yan like a man seeking permission from the one person who never scolded properly.
Shen Yan's fan swayed once. "Relax," he said. "It's not like women evaporate after midnight."
Shanjin clicked his tongue. "Spoken like a man women chase."
Shen Yan smiled over the fan. "It's a burden."
Another escort laughed. "Then why aren't you calling one now? We saw the peach-sleeve sister hovering around earlier."
"Because," Shen Yan said, folding his fan halfway with a quiet snap, "I have the feeling something interesting is about to happen."
They stared at him.
Dalu frowned. "What feeling?"
Shen Yan lifted his cup and sniffed the wine as if the answer lived inside it. "The Pavilion is full," he said. "Madam Mei hasn't sent a single girl to start a proper rush upstairs. That means she's saving attention. Attention is silver here."
Shanjin leaned back, impressed despite himself. "You talk like a merchant."
"I was raised by escorts," Shen Yan replied. "We sell safety for money. That's a kind of merchant too."
Before anyone could argue, the music downstairs shifted.
It began as a single note, plucked clean, like a drop of water hitting a still pond.
Conversation in the hall softened. Cups paused mid-air. Even the warriors turned their heads, faces smoothing into that familiar hunger men wore when they were about to be made to feel something.
The curtain on the stage lifted.
Hao Lianhua stepped into the lanternlight with a zither tucked against her like a secret.
She wore pale jade silk that looked modest until you noticed the way it clung at her waist, the way her sleeves hid her wrists and made you imagine what they concealed. Her hair was pinned with something simple—too simple. It made her face the focus: delicate lines, steady eyes, lips like a smile waiting to be spent.
She sat with grace that wasn't trained in a month. It was trained in years—how to move without showing fear, how to look at a room full of hungry men and make them believe they were the ones being judged.
Her fingers touched the strings.
The first phrase of the song fell out like moonlight on water—beautiful, cold, and somehow aching.
The melody wasn't cheerful. It didn't beg. It didn't flirt the way lesser courtesans did when they wanted tips.
It mourned.
The notes curled through the hall and wrapped around every man who'd ever pretended he didn't understand loneliness. The song spoke of a reed bending in wind, of a boat drifting too far from shore, of hands held out and never taken.
Upstairs, the escorts quieted without noticing they were quiet.
Dalu muttered, almost reverent, "Damn."
Shanjin's seed-cracking stopped. "She's good," he admitted grudgingly.
Shen Yan watched Lianhua's hands.
Not just the beauty of them, though they were beautiful. The control. The tiny shifts of pressure and angle. The way she could make one string sound like a sigh and another sound like a knife being unsheathed.
She played, and the hall leaned in.
Downstairs, young masters began doing what young masters always did when they felt moved by art they didn't deserve—trying to purchase ownership.
A boy in expensive brocade stood and called, "Jade Lark! My father is Magistrate—"
Another shouted over him, "I'll pay a hundred taels for a private performance!"
A third waved a gold ingot like it was a flag. "Come to my table tonight!"
Lianhua didn't stop playing.
She didn't even glance at them.
Her fingers continued, smooth and indifferent, as if their wealth and power were flies buzzing at the edge of her song.
Somewhere in a VIP room across the hall, Tao Kang leaned forward with a predatory smile. His gaze crawled over Lianhua's wrists, her throat, the curve of her shoulder. His silk fan flicked once, impatient.
Beside him, Xu Biao's jaw tightened. He didn't look like a man appreciating music. He looked like a man thinking about conquest.
Kong Shijing sipped his tea, eyes cool. He watched Lianhua the way scholars watched rare books: admiration mixed with the belief that ownership was inevitable.
Their eyes were knives.
Lianhua finished the final phrase with a soft downward sweep.
The last note lingered. Trembled. Died.
For a breath, the entire hall held silence like it was sacred.
Then applause crashed in like a wave.
Coins clinked onto trays. Men shouted praise. A few even stood, pretending their standing meant something.
Lianhua rose, bowed once—graceful, unhurried. Her smile was gentle enough to make men think she was kind. Her eyes were steady enough to remind them kindness wasn't weakness.
Upstairs, one escort leaned toward Shen Yan. "Third Young Master," he whispered, "say something."
"What?" Shen Yan asked lightly. "From here? Do you want me to shout poetry like a drunk scholar?"
The escort grinned. "She's looking this way."
Shen Yan didn't look at the stage immediately. He let the moment breathe.
Then he turned his eyes downward, calm as if he'd seen a thousand performances like this.
"She always looks everywhere," Shen Yan said. "Don't mistake it for favor."
Dalu snorted. "You're jealous."
Shen Yan's fan hid his mouth, but his eyes smiled. "I'm patient."
Downstairs, Lianhua lifted her hand for quiet. The hall obeyed more quickly than it would for an official.
"My lords," she said, voice carrying without strain, "your praise warms me more than wine."
A few men laughed as if she'd flirted with them personally.
Lianhua continued, "A song is half the musician, half the listener. If tonight's melody touched you, then you have something inside you worth touching."
That line landed. Even the rougher warriors quieted, embarrassed by their own throats tightening.
She tilted her head slightly. "Since your hearts are open, let your ink follow. A poem, then—one that answers the song."
The hall murmured, pleased.
Poetry was a sport among the wealthy: a way to show education, status, wit. A way to dominate without drawing a blade.
An old scholar near the front chuckled and lifted his fan. "A challenge from Jade Lark? How can we refuse?"
A minor official stood and recited something polished and safe. It earned polite applause.
A merchant tried next. His poem was clumsy, full of expensive metaphors and cheap longing. It earned laughter and pity.
Another scholar stood, voice trembling, and offered a decent verse that made his friends clap hard enough to hurt their palms.
Then Kong Shijing rose.
The room shifted.
He was young, but he carried himself like a man already praised by important mouths. His robe was simple in the way scholars pretended to be humble while wearing better silk than merchants. He bowed toward the stage, expression composed.
"My lady," Kong Shijing said, voice smooth, "your song deserves clean ink."
He recited.
The words were elegant. The structure flawless. The imagery clear as river water.
And beneath it—beneath the "praise"—was a subtle blade: a moral lesson. A gentle condemnation. A reminder that a courtesan's beauty was fleeting, that virtue was higher than silk, that a woman like her should yearn for redemption.
He didn't call her dirty.
He didn't need to.
The implication did the work.
Applause came quickly—loud from the young masters who admired him, firm from the officials who wanted to align with a rising scholar. Even some merchants clapped because clapping was safer than thinking.
Lianhua's smile remained.
But the courtesans at the edge of the hall—girls who'd heard a thousand "clean" insults—exchanged glances that were sharp enough to cut thread.
Upstairs, Shanjin muttered, "He's praising her like she's a mistake."
Dalu grunted. "That's scholars. They insult with pretty words."
The young escort who'd asked for girls earlier frowned. "But the poem was good."
Shen Yan's fan swayed once. "A knife can be well-made," he said. "That doesn't make it kind."
Downstairs, Lianhua bowed graciously to Kong Shijing. "Master Kong's ink is truly refined," she said. "A poem that makes one reflect."
Kong Shijing smiled, satisfied. He sat.
The room settled into that comfortable cruelty where men believed the best verse was the one that kept women in their place.
Then Lianhua turned her gaze upward—toward Shen Yan's VIP room.
Not openly at first. Just a slight tilt. A flicker.
But Shen Yan felt it as if she'd tapped his shoulder.
She raised her voice just enough to carry. "Third Young Master Shen," she called, amusement threading her tone like gold. "Will you join the fun tonight? Or will you hide upstairs and let scholars do all the talking?"
The hall rippled with laughter.
The "waste" writing poetry? That was entertainment.
Across the hall, Tao Kang's eyes narrowed with irritation, like someone had offered the stage to the wrong dog.
Upstairs, the escorts leaned in, grinning.
Dalu slapped the table softly. "Oh? She called you out."
Shanjin's smile turned wicked. "If you refuse, Third Young Master, we'll remember forever."
Shen Yan sighed theatrically, as if burdened by fate. He stood slowly, opened his fan, and stepped to the edge of the balcony where he could be seen without shouting like a street performer.
"If Sister Lianhua wants it," Shen Yan said, voice carrying with surprising clarity, "then this young master will make a fool of himself tonight."
More laughter.
He let them laugh.
Then he spoke.
His poem wasn't structured like a scholar's. It didn't smell like classrooms and teacher's approval. It smelled like streets, like lantern smoke, like the hands that poured wine and held secrets.
He praised women who worked unseen. Women who smiled so men could pretend they weren't lonely. Women who carried family debts on their backs and still put music in the air.
He didn't call them saints.
He didn't call them fallen.
He called them human—and honored the cost.
As he finished, the hall had gone quiet in a different way.
Not reverent.
Uncomfortable.
Because he'd put words to something everyone knew and preferred not to acknowledge: that courtesans were labor, not decoration.
Shen Yan raised his cup. "I've spoken too boldly," he said lightly, breaking the tension with a grin. "So I'll punish myself."
He drank in one smooth swallow.
The room exploded.
This time, the applause wasn't just polite. It was loud, hungry, real.
An old scholar near the front stood with a delighted laugh. "Good!" he shouted. "Good! That's a poem with bone! Young Master Shen, you've opened my eyes—there are verses outside the academy walls!"
He lifted his cup in a cheer.
Other guests followed, emboldened by the old man's reputation for fairness. Merchants clapped harder. Warriors grinned. Even a few officials nodded, pretending they hadn't been moved.
On stage, Lianhua's smile finally became real.
She murmured so softly only the nearest courtesan heard, "I wasn't wrong."
Then she bowed to the crowd. "Thank you," she said. "For your ink, your hearts, and your patience."
She paused, letting anticipation build like a held breath.
"And since Young Master Shen's poem pleased me…" her eyes lifted again toward the balcony "...I would like to compare notes with him."
A ripple ran through the hall.
Tao Kang's smile vanished.
Xu Biao's fingers tightened on his cup.
Kong Shijing's gaze cooled, the scholar mask cracking just enough to show irritation.
Lianhua stepped down from the stage.
Her silk sleeves drifted like water.
She moved through the hall with the ease of a woman who knew every gaze was on her and used it as armor. As she climbed the stairs toward Shen Yan's VIP room, patrons watched like wolves watching a deer walk toward a particular tree.
Upstairs, Dalu let out a low whistle. "Third Young Master," he murmured, "you've done it now."
Shanjin clicked his tongue, amused. "He didn't do it. She did."
Shen Yan watched Lianhua approach the corridor, fan half-open, expression calm.
But his eyes sharpened, just a fraction.
Because when Jade Lark chose you in front of the whole Pavilion, it wasn't only invitation.
It was also declaration.
And declarations, in Xiapi, always drew blood.