The entrance of “Meixiang Tower” was already packed shoulder to shoulder. The clamor of vendors, the sound of silk and bamboo instruments, and the chatter of the crowd tangled together, drilling straight into the ears—like a top-tier ancient “viral check-in spot.”
The moment Li Xuan stepped through the carved vermilion gate, a boy in a short blue cotton jacket hurried over like a moth drawn to wine, quickly guiding him and Chu Wanran inside.
They passed a screen wall painted with “Pine and Crane Longevity,” and the view suddenly opened up——three concentric rings of red corridors enclosing an open-air stage. The stone platform was vast, at least half an acre wide.
At the center of the stage sat a woman in plain white clothes, fingers lightly plucking the strings of a guqin. The sound was clear and flowing, like a mountain stream, smoothing the surrounding noise into something almost gentle.
The waiter led them toward the main building behind the stage.
As they passed the courtyard, Li Xuan slowed unconsciously. This place hardly looked like a brothel rumored for indulgence—it resembled a refined literati tea garden instead.
Artificial rockeries stood beside flowing streams. Koi fish flicked their tails beneath arched stone bridges. A lone plum tree stretched its bare branches over the water, giving off a cold, elegant air.
The courtyard bustled with life: two men frowning over a chess game, the crisp sound of pieces echoing like jade pendants; scholars debating manuscripts, nodding and striking the table in admiration; and pairs of elegant men and women whispering beneath red railings, their expressions gentle and warm. Everything was lively yet not vulgar—refined to the extreme.
Chu Wanran slowly fanned himself. The ink painting of “Solitary Angler on a Cold River” shifted with the motion. His gaze swept over passing women, lips curling into a teasing smile.
“Brother Li, did you notice how those girls just now covered their mouths and laughed when they saw you? Their steps even slowed. I think they mistook you for a painting come alive.”
Li Xuan quickly waved his hands.
“They were clearly looking at you, Brother Chu! I’m just average-looking—how could I deserve that attention?”
Inside, his thoughts exploded:
“Help! Why am I getting more attention as a man than I ever did as a woman?! This body is way too good-looking—it’s causing aesthetic pressure! Ancient people’s taste is really something else!”
Chu Wanran laughed loudly.
“You’re too modest. That humility of yours is even more exaggerated than scholars’ poetry.”
With a flick of his folding fan made of bone, he lifted a strand of Li Xuan’s hair. His fingers brushed lightly against the fabric of his collar.
“You’re fair-skinned, lips red and teeth white, body like a straight bamboo stalk, brows sharp as drawn swords, eyes like phoenix feathers. How could anyone not be moved?”
He leaned in slightly, sandalwood and ink fragrance drifting closer.
“Even the young men just now couldn’t stop looking at you. I wouldn’t be surprised if they wanted to drag you off somewhere private.”
Li Xuan’s face instantly flushed.
“You’re joking too much, Brother Chu…”
Inside, his mental alarm system was blaring:
“What is this era?! Why is flirting between men so direct?! This is more aggressive than modern pickup lines! I mean—wait—I’m actually curious too, but still!! Stay calm, Li Xuan! Don’t expose yourself or you’ll get labeled a freak!”
They were soon led to a second-floor window seat. Excellent view of the stage.
Chu Wanran ordered loudly: all signature dishes, plus two jars of osmanthus wine.
Li Xuan’s attention was already drawn to the stage.
A storyteller in green robe stood center stage, voice rising and falling with dramatic rhythm. Musicians behind him accompanied with strings, gongs, and clappers. Martial performers in costume moved across the stage, blades flashing like a battlefield reenactment.
Chu Wanran followed his gaze and smiled.
“You came at the right time. They’re about to tell the story of the White Death Disaster.”
The storyteller struck the gavel.
“Fellow listeners! When order reaches its peak, chaos begins to brew. In the Mingzong era of the Great Fan Dynasty, peace reigned across the land… until a catastrophe descended on the night of the seventh lunar month!”
He recited a verse:
Red blood stains the night of Fan City,
Heaven splits open, demonic traces appear.
White light chooses the awakened few,
Four divine guardians steady the skies.
One in a thousand carries destiny,
A true dragon rises in chaos.
He began narrating.
On the fifteenth night of the seventh month, a cracking sound like shattered glass echoed across the sky above Fan City. Then a black rift appeared above the imperial domain of the Azure Dragon constellation. White light flowed around its edges like mist, and within lay endless darkness.
At first, commoners thought it was a divine omen and knelt in worship.
But the Astrological Bureau panicked. The chief astrologer dropped his divination plate and screamed:
“Heavenly anomaly! The empire is doomed!”
Panic spread. Nobles fled south. Priests prayed. Officials debated sealing the city. The sky itself seemed to collapse.
The rift expanded rapidly—from a few meters to over thirty meters wide. A freezing aura spread across the city, carrying sulfur and bloodlike stench.
Then, after three days, people exposed to the white light began collapsing. Fever, unconsciousness, agony.
On the fourth day, they awakened… with extraordinary abilities.
Sight beyond miles. Hearing across distances. Night vision. Weather prediction. Even mind reading.
They were called—“Asuras.”
But disaster followed.
On the seventh day, beasts emerged from the rift.
The “Rift Wolves” tore through defenses like paper. Steel couldn’t pierce their armored scales. The city fell into chaos.
Then four heroes rose:
Prince Guang, Crown Prince Zhao Mingjun, Chancellor Li Xianyi, and Imperial Physician Mo.
Together, they fought back the beasts and saved the city.
Thus they were named the Four Divine Generals.
From that day on, rift awakeners spread across the land. At first feared, later revered.
The White Death Disaster ended—but the era of “Asuras” had only just begun.
The crowd erupted in applause as the storyteller struck the gavel again.
The performance ended.
Outside, dusk deepened.
Li Xuan, slightly drowsy from wine and listening too intently, rubbed his eyes.
Chu Wanran smiled.
“It’s getting late. Would you like to stay at my residence tonight? I have spare rooms.”
Li Xuan waved lazily.
“Then I’ll trouble you.”
Chu Wanran happily led him out, arranging a carriage. The wheels rolled across stone streets, fading into the deepening night—accompanied by the scent of osmanthus drifting through the city.