Chapter 13

Sang Fanyu’s entire persona had been personally crafted by Meng Xizhao.

Her identity as a courtesan leader gave her many advantages, yet it also confined her within many limits.

There were plenty of men willing to throw away a fortune for a courtesan leader. But if one were to speak of men who truly loved them to the point of life and death, among a hundred men, it would be difficult to find even one.

Men were people too. They possessed intelligence above a certain baseline. They knew what sort of woman was suitable to marry and what sort of woman was suitable merely to admire from time to time to relieve their stress.

Where did sayings like “actors are heartless” and “prostitutes are faithless” come from? They came from exactly this. If these women had not been deceived by men’s sweet words time and time again, how could they have ended up presenting only a cold and faithless side of themselves?

That was the truth.

But no one liked hearing the truth. In fact, people often preferred the opposite. The more one said “heartless and faithless,” the more they wanted to find someone who truly possessed loyalty and affection.

Thus, the devoted and talented courtesan Sang Fanyu was born.

They wanted to see someone capable of love and loyalty? Fine—then one would be created for them. This woman would not only be loyal and affectionate, but also grateful and full of talent. At the same time, she would be uninterested in fame, and even her fate of becoming a courtesan leader would not be her own choice—it would simply be Heaven’s cruelty.

Cough. Although people in this era loved keeping a confidante beauty, they also knew that a courtesan leader could never stand on respectable ground. No matter how one put it, these women still relied on beauty to serve others.

So Meng Xizhao gave Sang Fanyu the background of having been kidnapped and sold as a child. He even left a subtle hint—she vaguely remembered that her childhood home had been filled with the fragrance of books and ink. In other words, she might once have been the daughter of a scholarly family.

Her origins were not low—perhaps even noble. She possessed talent, yet had been forced to drift into Baihua Street.

Not to mention ancient people with limited experience—even modern people, upon hearing of such a figure, would feel uncontrollable sympathy. Whether men or women, anyone with a bit of status carried some sense of unrecognized talent. Shared suffering was the fastest way to bring two hearts together.

Now Sang Fanyu had already attracted their attention.

The next step was to enrich her persona.

Strong, intelligent, self-sacrificing, and possessing the courage to stake everything—although this did not match the era’s aesthetic preference for fragile women, novelty had its appeal. Besides, was she not currently “ill”? That made her look quite delicate anyway.

As for why Meng Xizhao had created the character of the scholar, it was naturally because of human weakness.

Men loved to conquer. Women loved to rescue.

Yet in truth, the two impulses were similar. Both involved the desire to win someone over through one’s own abilities.

The more Sang Fanyu’s heart belonged to someone else, the more people would hope they themselves could become the special one—the person who could redirect her feelings toward them.

Perhaps those with a certain moral fastidiousness would hesitate.

But they would not forget: this scholar and Sang Fanyu had never actually developed a romantic relationship.

This created the illusion that Sang Fanyu might still be pure.

Good. That meant they still had a chance. They could still make their move.

…

To prevent curious people from investigating, Meng Xizhao decisively arranged for both the scholar and the madam to have “sudden deaths.” With no living witnesses, no one could uncover Sang Fanyu’s background.

Of course, a story was only a story. It could not withstand careful scrutiny. If someone truly examined it closely, they would eventually notice inconsistencies.

But that would happen much later.

If Meng Xizhao’s plan succeeded, then even if someone dared to investigate in the future, no one would dare speak about it.

Meng Xizhao had come today to check the progress personally. At the same time, he wanted to inform Sang Fanyu that she could now “weakly” go outside—perhaps to admire the peach blossoms or feed the goldfish.

But she still could not receive guests.

In a few days, when his restaurant opened, she could gradually begin to recover.

Sang Fanyu was actually very anxious. The story Meng Xizhao had fabricated perfectly suited the tastes of scholars and literati.

They did not only like the Sang Fanyu in the story—they also liked the scholar in the story.

If the scholar were still alive and they had to share Sang Fanyu with him, they would probably still be willing. Not only willing—they might even call it a beautiful tale.

Great Qi was prosperous, and scholars had plenty of money. To Sang Fanyu, every visiting card she received looked like shining silver.

Watching piles of silver be left untouched every day made her heart ache so much she nearly fell genuinely ill.

But Meng Xizhao remained firm.

Sang Fanyu also knew that everything she had today had been given by him.

Suppressing her impatience, she sighed.

“Second Young Master still refuses to tell this servant who wrote that line?”

Meng Xizhao looked at her and thought she was being a bit stubborn.

The lyric currently circulating outside had indeed been written by Sang Fanyu herself. But she had never experienced life-and-death separation, so she could not write anything so moving.

Seeing that this would not work, Meng Xizhao had recited a famous line by Su Shi for her, letting her feel the emotions behind it before composing her own lyric.

 

Tears glimmered in Sang Fanyu’s eyes.

“The world knows the name Sang Fanyu, yet no one knows I am merely casting out a piece of jade to draw forth a brick. Ten years in life and death, both vast and boundless; I do not think of you, yet it is impossible to forget. Once such a line appears, it would surely become famous throughout the land. Yet the one who wrote it remains unknown—what a strange thing. If Second Young Master were not so young, I might think you were the one who composed it.”

Meng Xizhao: “……”

Did she forget that he could barely even recognize the dishes on a menu?

It seemed that if he did not give her a name, Sang Fanyu would never let him off. So Meng Xizhao said, “That line was written by a gentleman surnamed Su. Unfortunately, Master Su is no longer in this world.”

Sang Fanyu sighed mournfully when she heard that.

Meng Xizhao silently drank his tea.

He had not lied. The man was not in this world—he was in that world. If she understood parallel universes, she would know what he meant.

…

After leaving Sang Fanyu’s place, Meng Xizhao went to Baihua Street to check on the restaurant that was under renovation.

When he first said he wanted to do business, his parents had seemed less than supportive. Yet that very day they drove out all the madams and pimps who had been running the establishment before. The madam wailed and cursed in the street, throwing a full tantrum. But after receiving a generous compensation payment, she happily took the girls and opened another house nearby—just across the street at a diagonal.

When Meng Xizhao arrived, Jin Zhu stood there with an abacus in her left hand and a long smoking pipe in her right. The way she commanded the accounts with an air of absolute authority made her look more like the proprietor than the madam across the street.

When she saw Meng Xizhao, she quickly set down the pipe and hurried over.

“Master, the inside is still a mess. Why did you come here personally?”

Meng Xizhao asked, “Can it open within five days?”

Jin Zhu smiled. “Three days I would not dare promise. But five days—we will definitely open.”

Meng Xizhao nodded in satisfaction. “Excellent. I like that confidence.”

Jin Zhu: “……”

Although Master had become smarter than before, that habit of occasionally flirting without warning had not changed at all.

She took Meng Xizhao around to inspect the progress. When no one else was nearby, Jin Zhu suddenly lowered her voice and asked, “Master, should we also invite a Changxian?”

“Changxian” meant a snake.

Because the current emperor was obsessed with raising snakes—and extremely superstitious about them—he had forbidden the people from calling them “snakes.” They had to respectfully refer to them as “Changxian,” meaning “Long Immortal.”

The common folk still were not used to it. After all, just a dozen years ago people had still called them “long worms.”

The emperor kept a massive python in his imperial garden. In order to please him—and to show their loyalty—many officials also began raising snakes at home. Even prestigious temples and restaurants followed suit. Now snakes were not only symbols of taste but also symbols of status. If you did not keep a snake, it meant your household was not first-rate, and officials would not even bother visiting.

The Meng family did not keep one, because Madam Meng was terrified of them. But they did place stone snake statues and jade coiled-serpent ornaments in the front courtyard—far away from where Madam Meng would normally see them.

Meng Xizhao nodded to Jin Zhu. “Of course we should invite one. Actually—invite two. Cough, I mean, invite two Changxian back.”

Jin Zhu acknowledged the order.

Ying Tian Prefecture did not lack snake sellers. Slightly attractive snakes were priced shockingly high. In the Tang dynasty there had been a work called The Snake Catcher’s Tale. In Great Qi, it had become more like The Snake Inviter’s Tale—many households could afford to buy a snake but could not afford to keep one.

A snake required its own room, and the room could not be small, otherwise it would be disrespectful. It ate raw meat and had to be fed the freshest food every meal. The room could not be empty either—it had to contain trees, water, and various decorations. One year the emperor suddenly decided to visit the homes of his ministers to see how they raised their Changxian. The officials all competed fiercely to impress him. Even the Grand View Garden would have had to kneel down and admit defeat before their extravagance.

…

Meng Xizhao had no intention of filling the place with gold and jade ornaments. He thought something more natural would be better. The emperor had seen plenty of luxury. No matter how lavish he tried to be, he could never outdo the corrupt officials anyway.

So it was better to do something different.

He crooked a finger at Jin Zhu. When she leaned closer with a puzzled expression, Meng Xizhao whispered, “Go see if you can find a good-looking green snake and a white snake. No patterns, and not too small.”

Jin Zhu: “???”

No patterns? So plain? But everyone liked patterned ones.

Meng Xizhao trusted Jin Zhu’s ability to get things done. After leaving Baihua Street, he did not go straight home. Instead, he turned into the nearby alleys.

Today the person accompanying him was Zi Teng.

This girl did not have Jin Zhu’s management skills, nor did she have Yin Liu’s execution ability. But she had one particularly powerful advantage—she was extremely obedient. Her mind was empty; whatever she was told to do, she did it. Not only did she not ask questions, she also made a point of not thinking too much about it.

For example, now they had already walked into Zongzi Alley. Zi Teng still looked completely calm. Even though she recognized the place and knew what people usually came here for, she simply had no particular thoughts about it.

Her calmness eased much of Meng Xizhao’s pressure.

Following his memory, Meng Xizhao found the same residence as before. After carefully checking the details on the door to make sure it was the right house, he knocked on the door knocker.

He waited outside, hearing no footsteps at all. Suddenly, the door opened anyway.

It was the same servant from last time.

When he saw Meng Xizhao, he immediately became wary. “What is it?”

Without a word, Meng Xizhao raised his sleeve and pulled out a letter from his clothing.

He did not dare be careless. Though the man was dressed like a servant, who knew whether he might actually be some Fifth-Rank official from the Eastern Palace in disguise? As an ordinary commoner, Meng Xizhao thought it best to be cautious.

Holding the letter out with both hands, he said sincerely, “Please, young brother, deliver this to your master.”

The servant pinched the envelope, judging its thickness, and said, “My master does not come here often. Even if he does, he may not read your letter.”

Meng Xizhao replied, “That is fine. As long as you can place the letter in his hands.”

Although Meng Xizhao was Meng Jiuyu’s son—and had nearly ruined his master’s affairs before—when one thought about it carefully, his intentions had been good. The servant paused, and his impression of Meng Xizhao improved slightly.

“Alright. Young master, please return.”

Meng Xizhao turned and left. The servant watched until his figure disappeared from the alley before turning back and closing the door.

That very night, Meng Xizhao’s letter was placed on Cui Ye’s desk.

After changing out of the Crown Prince’s bright crimson formal robes, Cui Ye washed his hands. When he noticed the envelope—written in a delicate plum-blossom script typically used by women—his brows knit together.

Beside him stood Yu Fulan, the head of the Eastern Palace guards. He reminded him, “Your Highness, this was delivered from outside the palace by Meng Xizhao.”

Hearing that, Cui Ye’s hand, which had been about to bring the letter close to the candle flame, suddenly withdrew with a swift motion.

Yu Fulan: “……”

Cui Ye opened the envelope and discovered that the writing inside had changed to a different hand. The characters were uneven and clumsy, crooked and pitted, as if the writer had only just begun learning to read and write.

It seemed that he truly was illiterate.

Cui Ye smiled faintly, then sat down and read the letter carefully.

Hm. So he was inviting him out for some entertainment…