"Gentlemen, you praise me too highly. This melody is merely a humble creation of my own; I dare not accept such acclaim." Yurou smiled faintly, bowing gracefully to the crowd. Her modesty only fueled their adoration.
Moments later, Manager Liao Hong—Sister Hong—stepped onto the stage. She offered a practiced, elegant curtsy to the guests.
"This slave is Liao Hong of Qingyuan. I need no introduction, for I know you are all here for Miss Yurou," she announced, her voice carrying clearly through the hall. "Tonight is Miss Yurou's debut Flower-Picking Ceremony. The rules are simple. Miss Yurou will set a challenge. Only those who solve it will earn the right to bid for her. Furthermore, Miss Yurou will personally rank the top three solutions."
"In the end, isn't it just whoever pays the most wins?" a cynical voice shouted from the floor.
"Not entirely," Liao Hong replied with a professional smile. "It is a contest of both talent and wealth. The first-place winner of the artistic challenge receives four points. Second place receives three, and so on. The bidding works similarly: the highest bidder receives five points, the second highest four. We will combine the scores, and the gentleman with the highest total will claim Miss Yurou's red flower."
Xiao Yifeng raised an eyebrow. Clever.
Qingyuan knew how to play the game. By weighting the money (5 points) slightly higher than the art (4 points), they ensured that wealth was still the deciding factor, but the "cultural test" gave the proceedings a veneer of sophistication. It allowed rich men to pretend they were winning because of their refinement, not just their wallets.
"Excellent! Miss Yurou, please state the topic! We cannot wait to get close to such beauty!" an impatient guest yelled, eliciting a wave of knowing, lewd laughter from the men below.
"Yurou thanks you for your enthusiasm," Yurou said softly. "I believe you all noticed that the melody I played just now was incomplete. My request is simple: help me finish this song. I will select the compositions that resonate most with my heart."
The main hall erupted into chaos.
"This is impossible! We are merchants, not musicians!"
"Yeah, isn't this deliberately making things difficult?"
Those ignorant of music vented their anger, while the few scholars and refined guests beamed with joy. Arguments broke out instantly.
"Shut up! You uncultured swine!"
A roar thundered from the second floor. It was Crown Prince Dai Yun again. "You don't know music, yet you dream of touching a beauty like Yurou? Know your place, you bunch of dirt-eating bumpkins!"
The audience below glared up at the private booth. They wanted to curse back, but knowing the status required to sit up there, they swallowed their anger.
"Gentlemen, please begin. You have the time of one incense stick." Yurou sat down slowly.
A servant brought a stick of burning incense to the stage. Yurou began to stir her tea, looking detached, as if the frenzy below had nothing to do with her.
Paper and brushes were distributed. The hall became a scene of varied struggles: some scratched their heads in confusion, some frowned in deep thought, others wrote furiously, and the illiterate simply cursed their bad luck.
On the second floor, Xiao Yifeng shook his head.
He understood Yurou. She looked fragile, but her bones were made of iron. She knew she couldn't choose her fate as a courtesan, so she was trying to use this test to find someone she didn't despise—someone with a soul.
But she was too naive. The outcome was likely decided in advance. Someone like Crown Prince Dai Yun had almost certainly been placed on the list beforehand, regardless of how poorly he performed.
The incense burned down. Xiao Yifeng sipped his wine, watching the comedy of errors below.
"Young Master," Xiaoqing asked curiously, "didn't you come for Miss Yurou? Why aren't you writing?"
"Because I have a well-thought-out plan," Xiao Yifeng laughed. "Miss Xiaoqing, do you believe me if I say that no matter who is here tonight, I am taking Miss Yurou away?"
"Young Master speaks big words," Xiaoqing giggled, covering her mouth. "Although I like your confidence, I must be skeptical."
She knew the guest list. She knew the Crown Prince of Yuanhai was here. Against royal authority and treasury, what could a wandering cultivator do?
"Fine. Let's make a bet," Xiao Yifeng teased. "If I fail to take her, the silver notes in my pocket are yours. But if I succeed... what about you?"
"If Young Master truly wins the beauty," Xiaoqing leaned into him, her body soft as if boneless, her eyes silky with seduction, "then this slave is yours to do with as you please."
"You are a cunning one," Xiao Yifeng chuckled.
He finally picked up his brush. He didn't need to think. He simply wrote down the rest of the Yurou Melody—the version she hadn't written yet in this timeline, but had played for him a thousand times in his past life.
Xiaoqing ground the ink for him, her eyes widening as she watched the notes flow onto the paper.
The incense burned out. The servants collected the stacks of paper and brought them to Yurou.
Yurou sifted through them efficiently. Most were trash. She would glance at one and toss it aside. Occasionally, one would make her pause, and she would set it in a "maybe" pile.
Suddenly, she stopped. She held a sheet of paper, her eyes lighting up. She stared at it in a daze for a long moment before solemnly placing it to her right.
Xiao Yifeng watched closely. That wasn't mine.
She continued. Finally, she reached Xiao Yifeng's sheet.
Her delicate body trembled visibly.
She stared at the paper as if it were a ghost. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the edges. Slowly, bewildered, she lifted her head and looked directly toward Xiao Yifeng’s booth.
Through the bamboo curtain, Xiao Yifeng raised his wine cup and offered her a silent, distant toast.
The entire hall noticed her reaction. Xiaoqing looked at Xiao Yifeng with wide eyes.
"Ready to lose?" Xiao Yifeng winked.
Yurou took a deep breath, composing herself. She stood up.
"After reviewing the submissions, I have selected four melodies that resonate with me," she announced, her voice slightly unsteady. "They are Number Eight, Number Sixteen, Number Eighteen, and Number Twenty-Five."
Xiao Yifeng nodded. He was Number Twenty-Five.
"Wait!" someone shouted from below. "Three of the four were chosen from the honored guest seats! How do we know there was no collusion? This is unfair!"
"Exactly! Those honored guests may have had someone else write their scores for them!"
"Cheating! Cheating!"
The crowd, already frustrated, began to chant. Yurou looked flustered. She hadn't expected the mob to turn on her.
"Since everyone feels it is unfair," Yurou said, her voice trembling slightly, "then... I will ask the finalists to perform their pieces. Let the audience judge."
"Good! We agree to that!" the heckler shouted.
A servant brought a fine guqin to Table Number Eight.
The finalist stood up—a handsome young scholar. He wasn't shy at all. He sat down with poise, cupping his hands to the crowd. His elegant demeanor instantly won him a round of applause.
He placed his hands on the strings.
Clang...
A melodious tune flowed out. He seamlessly picked up where Yurou had left off. His interpretation was melancholic, mirroring Yurou's own sorrow. It was a weeping lament, technically proficient and emotionally heavy.
When he finished, the hall erupted in applause. "Good! That's real talent!"
Next, a qin was carried up to Private Booth Sixteen.
"Hey!" the crowd yelled. "The curtain is still down! Who knows if it's really him playing?"
"Well said," a deep voice replied from inside. "Then I shall remove the curtain. I will make a fool of myself."
The bamboo blind was rolled up.
A collective gasp went through the room. Sitting there was a man of striking martial beauty—star-like eyebrows, eyes sharp as swords, and an aura of nobility that could not be faked.
It was Zhang Tianzhi, the Crown Prince of the Heavenly Dragon Kingdom. Behind him stood a burly general, arms crossed.
Xiao Yifeng almost laughed out loud. Life really is full of strange reunions. Is the entire political landscape of the region gathering in this brothel tonight?
Zhang Tianzhi nodded politely to the crowd, then began to play.
His technique was similar to the scholar's, but the intent was different. Where the scholar saw sorrow, Zhang Tianzhi saw resilience. His melody was sweeping and majestic, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the despair.
When the last note faded, silence reigned for a heartbeat before thunderous applause broke out. No one dared question his qualifications.
Then, the servants carried the qin to Private Booth Eighteen.
"Get lost!"
A furious voice barked from behind the curtain. "Why should I show my face to you lot? I'll play from behind the curtain!"
It was Dai Yun.
"Tch," a voice mocked from Booth Twenty across the hall. "Is it because you don't have any real talent? Are you afraid we'll see your servant playing for you?"
"Definitely cheating."
"Yeah! Show your face if you can play!"
The crowd jeered mercilessly.