Chapter Thirty-Eight: A New Song for Little Die

"Six fours..."
"Six sixes..."
"Add one... Seven sixes..."
"Reveal... I have a straight. Fatty, at most you have one six. I don't believe you have five sixes..."
The attic was alive with laughter and playful shouts, the atmosphere vibrant and wholesome, without a hint of impropriety.

"Hey, Magistrate Wang... You can't go in there..."
Suddenly, the carved wooden door was flung open with a loud bang from the outside.

"Old hag, is this what you meant when you said Little Butterfly was busy getting ready?"
At this moment, Meng Xiaodie had just lost at dice, and was only now raising her cup to her lips.
The rosy flush on her cheeks, tinged with a hint of intoxication, made her look even more beautiful than any elaborate makeup could achieve.

"Who are you? If you want a massage, turn left and leave."
Feng Jingzhe glanced at the toothless old man whose lustful gaze was fixed on Meng Xiaodie, as if he wanted to devour her whole.

"Madam Hua, I'll double the price we agreed on before. Two thousand taels, tonight I must have Meng Xiaodie as mine."
Wang Zongfu was completely hardened; he had never felt so determined in his life. If Meng Xiaodie's allure had been two hundred before, now it was a thousand!
What proof? His entire body burned with desire and passion—it was as if something had taken over his mind.
If not for the others present, in a different setting he would have thrown himself at her without hesitation.
Such a tender flower, especially one so alluring and exquisite, was Wang Zongfu's favorite—like an addiction, utterly irresistible.

Two thousand taels, if it had been two hours earlier, Madam Hua might have gritted her teeth and agreed.
After all, the popularity of "Slow Song" was nearing its peak, and without a new piece, Meng Xiaodie's value would gradually decline, settling at a reasonably high level.
But now things had changed; just moments ago, she learned from Little Dou'er that Feng Jingzhe, Third Young Master Feng, would present a new song tonight.
Though she didn't know its quality, even if it reached eighty percent of "Slow Song," Warm Jade Pavilion could easily earn two thousand taels.

Seeing Madam Hua hesitate, not outright refusing, Meng Xiaodie was instantly sobered—her drunken haze replaced by terror.
Being pinned beneath a toothless old man was a nightmare she dared not even imagine.
The fear on her face was clearly seen by Feng Jingzhe.

"You filthy old lecher, the coffin lid is halfway shut and you still lust after young girls!
Rain is coming—better find a hole to hide in, lest lightning strikes you dead..."
"Heh... Young man, sharp words are useless. In this world, strength matters. Competing with me for a woman—even if you're some worthless fourth-rank viscount—if you can't pay, you better lie down and accept it..."
With that, Wang Zongfu pulled out a stack of silver notes from his chest and slapped them onto the flower stand.

"Another three hundred taels! Two thousand three hundred in total—Meng Xiaodie will be mine tonight!"

Madam Hua, seeing the thick stack of silver notes, felt her heart pounding with temptation.
This was two thousand three hundred taels—not to buy her freedom, but simply for Meng Xiaodie's first night.
After all, every girl in Warm Jade Pavilion would eventually reach this point; the only difference was who paid more.
Now, Magistrate Wang’s offer was too high to resist! She didn’t immediately agree, only waiting to see how Feng Jingzhe would respond.
She’d witnessed countless quarrels among men vying for women over the years—hoping they’d get heated and drive the price even higher.

"Tch! So what if you have money? I'll pay three hundred taels... just to have Xiaodie drink with me tonight."
Sun Fugui, standing by, nearly burst out laughing.
When it came to being shrewd, none could match Third Brother Feng!
Wang Zongfu offered two thousand three hundred taels, but for the right to deflower her.
For a courtesan, once her innocence is gone, her value drops to another tier—no longer the "artist who sells talent but not body," but a fallen woman trading flesh.
There are stories of "courtesans" marrying into respectable families, but never of "fallen women" becoming legitimate wives.
Feng Jingzhe's offer of three hundred taels was truly infuriating—it meant Warm Jade Pavilion gained money without giving anything in return.
Compared to Wang Zongfu’s two thousand three hundred taels, which would diminish a cash cow’s value, these three hundred taels were pure profit.

"Two thousand six hundred taels... I'll raise by another three hundred..."
"Four hundred taels... just for drinks. Madam Hua, you’ve made another hundred taels for nothing."
Feng Jingzhe wasn’t afraid—the other’s starting bid was set, so who cared? After all, Fat Sun had money!

The old man's lustful mind was thoroughly doused with cold water.

"Good! Very good! Feng Jingzhe, you and I are now bitter enemies!"
Wang Zongfu gritted his teeth, uncaring if he lost a few more in the process.

"Bitter enemies? Do I look afraid? Do you know who my wife is? Eight thousand beats ten thousand—who else can match that?
Dig up your ancestors’ bones, all eighteen generations, and see if you can scrape together ten thousand!"

Feng Jingzhe sneered, snapping his fingers. Sun Fugui, with perfect timing, pulled out four hundred taels and handed them to Madam Hua.
As for whether the old man would cause trouble after tonight, it didn’t matter. Once Meng Xiaodie sang the new song tomorrow, unless the madam was utterly foolish, she’d never kill the goose that laid golden eggs.

With spirits high and courage swelling, Feng Jingzhe forgot the time in his joy. Only when his head grew heavy as he was about to leave did he remember he needed to teach the new song.

He called for Little Dou’er, but the girl was already fast asleep at the table.
Xiaodie herself brought the writing tools, leaning gently against Feng Jingzhe as she ground the ink.

"A song, 'Beaded Curtain,' for the youthful and lovely Miss Meng Xiaodie..."
Feng Jingzhe dipped his brush in ink, softly singing as he wrote out the lyrics:

Carving each line between brows and hearts,
Thoughts seep through the painting,
Stained with ink, flowing,
Thousands of verses yellowed with age,
Night’s silence, the window gauze faintly bright.

Rising with a flick of the sleeve, dancing amid dreams,
Longing entwined around the heart,
She cherishes tears beneath the pear blossoms,
Quietly paints her rouge, waiting for someone’s return,
Leaving only her fading beauty.

Ah, the scent of rouge.
For whom is the beaded curtain drawn?
Ah, the high carriage unseen,
Under the moon, emotions difficult to express,
Fine rain falls into the early spring morning.

Silently awakening the buds,
Hearing the breeze whisper by the ear,
Lamenting the stream and fallen flowers,
Who plays the zither amidst the clouds...

His voice was gentle, tinged with a magnetic quality—at the first note, Meng Xiaodie was lost in a dreamlike trance.
Each note carried an aching longing, etched into the bones.
A subtle melancholy, rising from the brows to the heart. Unknowingly, tears filled Meng Xiaodie’s eyes.

What had this man experienced, to write such poignant music?

Meng Xiaodie, overwhelmed, leaned her whole weight against Feng Jingzhe.
He continued to sing softly, trying to recreate the chorus.
Unaware, her red lips drew closer, until his song was suddenly cut short—a clatter echoed as something heavy fell to the floor.

"Oh dear..."
Meng Xiaodie climbed up from the floor, vexed, but before she could rub her aching backside, she burst out laughing at the sight of the figure fleeing through the door—taking care to drag Fat Sun along with him...