Chapter Thirty-Five: The Song of Guangling

Hearing this, Yang Lian looked closely at the young master of the Zhou family and exclaimed, “A few days ago, a few days ago, you…”

“That morning, I bought a bolt of cloth, but lost my purse. If not for your help, I would have been thoroughly embarrassed.” The young master of the Zhou family lowered her head, her long lashes veiling her eyes, her cheeks flushing crimson.

Yang Lian nearly slapped his own thigh. When he had just looked at the Zhou family’s young master, he’d felt something odd, thinking she ought to be a woman, not a man. He hadn’t expected his guess to be true, and that he had even helped her before. While he stood there in surprise, the Zhou family’s young master felt a trace of disappointment.

So, he doesn’t remember me after all. It’s only been a few days—does my appearance lack beauty, that he cannot recall me? She couldn’t help but sigh inwardly, disappointment showing on her face.

“So you’re a lady,” Yang Lian said with a soft smile, keeping his voice low, not wishing to expose her true identity in such a sensitive place.

“Thank you, sir. My name is Zhou Ehuang—please do not forget it.” As she spoke, Zhou Ehuang pressed her lips into a smile, her limpid eyes brimming with charm, as enticing as a fox.

Yang Lian swayed, nearly surrendering to her allure. Though he knew his mission, what man could remain unmoved before such a peerless little fox?

Zhou Ehuang said nothing more, lowered her head, and walked ahead, laughing softly to herself, clearly pleased to see the effect she had on men.

Yang Lian shook his head, reminding himself of his purpose in coming to Jinling. Zhou Ehuang was indeed a renowned beauty, known to later generations, but compared to the great cause of restoring the nation, she was of little consequence. He steadied his resolve and was about to move on when a voice called out.

“Sir, is this your invitation?” It was the young woman from the Xiaoxiang Pavilion who had helped him earlier, her face still veiled in white gauze, her features hidden from view.

Yang Lian reached into his breast and realized the invitation was indeed missing—he must have dropped it without noticing. He quickly cupped his hands in gratitude. “Thank you, miss.”

“No need,” she replied, handing him the invitation and gazing at him deeply, as if about to speak, but ultimately turning to leave.

Yang Lian watched her departing figure, narrowing his eyes. That silhouette—it seemed familiar, but before he could fathom why, Lin Renzhao called to him from ahead.

“Coming,” Yang Lian collected himself and headed toward the private box.

Inside, a dozen candles burned brightly, illuminating the room. Near the window stood several foreign-style chairs and tables, not much different from those of later generations, only lower in height. The tables were set with fruits: cucumbers, lychees, longans, and the like.

Li Congjia, Zhou Ehuang, and Lin Renzhao were already seated. Chen Tie, thick-skinned as ever, had found himself a seat as well. Yang Lian chose a spot and sat down. The private box was perfectly situated, with a direct view of the stage’s center. Glancing down, he saw the first floor packed to the brim, the crowd noisy and animated.

Li Congjia laughed, his youthful nature quickly forgetting past events. Pointing ahead, he said, “This is a prime spot; I reserved it half a month in advance.” He looked toward Zhou Ehuang, seeking approval.

Zhou Ehuang seemed not to notice, focused intently on peeling a lychee, which at that moment was her greatest foe. Li Congjia’s effort met only indifference, and he lost interest, instead turning to eat longan.

On the stage, several women danced gracefully, but no one paid them any mind. At the entrance, a man in blue continued checking invitations. After half an hour, the doors of the Xiaoxiang Pavilion were finally closed. Dozens of staff bustled about, settling everyone into place and reminding them not to wander or cause trouble, or they would never be allowed entry again.

The guests, however, were well-behaved. With a few words from the attendants, the crowd quieted, though Yang Lian could still hear the clamor outside—people desperate to get in, not unlike those in later times.

After waiting for the time it takes for half a stick of incense to burn, the madam of the house strolled onto the stage and began to speak loudly, though no one cared to listen. Suddenly, someone led the crowd in shouting, “Zeng Yiling!” The name thundered through the hall, nearly lifting the roof.

Yang Lian shook his head as he saw the madam. Though the Five Dynasties had inherited the Tang’s openness, and this was indeed a pleasure quarter, her attire was excessively provocative. Half her pale shoulder was exposed, her bodice pressed high, causing some men’s blood to race. Yet, she was still a madam—already over forty, her face lined with age, and no amount of powder could mask it.

Despite the deafening calls, the madam didn’t panic, but her words were drowned out by the cries of “Zeng Yiling.” The will of the crowd was overwhelming; she soon retreated, seeking out Zeng Yiling. “Lingling, Mama can’t hold them off!”

Zeng Yiling was dressed in light purple, a veil hat on her head, its tassels just concealing her face. Even so, her beauty was apparent.

As the madam withdrew, two large curtains were drawn together, sealing off the stage.

Yang Lian narrowed his eyes—Zeng Yiling was no ordinary woman, to have thought of such a way to present herself.

After a short wait, a steady melody began, and the curtains slowly opened. At the center of the stage sat a woman, legs folded, a guqin before her, playing with poised grace.

Around her, several women in red danced in harmony with Zeng Yiling’s music.

The melody began calmly, then gradually grew furious and mournful.

Li Congjia stroked the new whiskers on his chin, savoring the performance.

Though Yang Lian had been a brawler in his past life, he had always loved music. This piece resembled “Guangling San,” but he couldn’t be sure; after all, it was said to have been lost to history. Though later generations had reconstructed it, the music was different from the one played now.

In the audience, everyone seemed to hold their breath, and those with true appreciation quietly marveled. This “Guangling San” was truly a peerless melody, and with Zeng Yiling’s virtuosity, the notes lingered enchantingly in the air.

Beside him, Chen Tie clenched his fists. As the music grew urgent and heavy, like the relentless fury of the Yangtze River, the heroic, stirring melody collided with itself, channeling Nie Zheng’s anger. In his mind’s eye, Nie Zheng thrust a dagger into the King of Han’s chest, blood spattering and staining his own face.

Vengeance achieved, Nie Zheng slashed his face and took his own life. The clash of arms ceased, the music of slaughter faded; this “Guangling San” told the indomitable story of Nie Zheng’s rebellion against tyranny.

Chen Tie’s fists tightened—this was his own story. In his heart, Li Jing was the despot; Min had fallen, but his desire to restore his nation would not die. Yet, with the emperor imprisoned, he was powerless, brimming with frustration.

Yang Lian narrowed his eyes. “Guangling San” seemed simple, but its meaning was profound.

By Yang Lian’s reckoning, Zeng Yiling ought to have played something gentle, like “High Mountains and Flowing Water” or “Autumn Moon in the Han Palace.” Who would have guessed she’d choose “Guangling San,” a piece suffused with anger and murderous spirit, telling the story of the assassin Nie Zheng.

This Zeng Yiling was truly an enigma.

But others did not think so deeply. When the piece ended, silence reigned before the crowd erupted like a tidal wave. The lingering melody—once only spoken of—was now truly experienced by all.

Though Zeng Yiling’s performance had ended, the tune still echoed in everyone’s mind, stirring sorrow or inspiration as it lingered.

Jinling had known peace and prosperity for years, its people wealthy and indulgent, and as the Southern Tang’s capital, it was full of officials and the rich. Many there were connoisseurs of music and could not hold back their praise. Even if Ji Kang himself played “Guangling San,” it might not have been more moving than this.

Yang Lian’s heart was set ablaze by the music’s undertones of strife and heroism, as if he himself were Nie Zheng, come to Jinling to assassinate the “King of Han.” Yet in his mind, the “King of Han” was the world entire.

The cheers lasted a long while before calm returned to the Xiaoxiang Pavilion. Zeng Yiling bowed on stage, the dancers withdrew, leaving her alone.

“It is better to share joy than to enjoy it alone. I intend to choose someone from among you, honored guests, to play a duet with me.” Zeng Yiling’s voice was as lovely as her music.

The atmosphere in the pavilion ignited; many leapt to their feet, shouting excitedly, “Me! Me! Me!”

Yang Lian narrowed his eyes—Zeng Yiling was not only adept at presentation, but also understood human nature deeply. Though a woman, she was truly remarkable—pity she was only a woman.

Zhou Ehuang was tempted, but knew that with so many people, her chances of being chosen were slim.

At that moment, the door to the adjacent box opened, and a man of commanding presence, seven feet tall and well-proportioned, emerged. He walked to the stage, saluted Zeng Yiling, and said, “I am Li Hongji. I have long admired you, Miss Zeng. I have some knowledge of music—might I have the honor of playing a duet with you?”

Lin Renzhao was startled; glancing at Li Hongji, he exclaimed, “That’s Li Hongji?” For he recognized the man as the one he’d clashed with earlier.

Yang Lian smiled to himself—so you finally realized.

Li Congjia sighed. “That’s right. He is my elder brother—Li Hongji!”

Lin Renzhao was so surprised he could not speak. That young man was the emperor’s eldest son, and this one was his brother—another prince!

Yang Lian feigned astonishment as well. “Greetings, Your Highness.”

Li Congjia glanced at Zhou Ehuang, savoring his own elevated status, and waved his hand with a smile. “We’re here to enjoy Miss Zeng’s music. We are all friends—no need for formalities.”

Only then did Yang Lian and Lin Renzhao turn their attention back to the stage, though their hearts were in very different places.