The Present - I

Knock. Knock.

"Junshi, how long are you going to take? You're up next," came a loud female voice from outside the room.

"Senior Sister. I'm just finishing with my changshan." His voice was smooth but quiet, carrying a natural calmness—polite yet reserved.

He pulled the garment tight, the smooth black fabric hugging his form, its red and gold embroidery catching the dim light of the dressing room.

"Alright, be quick," she replied. Her footsteps faded into the hall, muffled beneath the music of performers entertaining the crowd outside.

Junshi glanced at himself in the cracked mirror. Pale skin, dark eyes, neatly tied hair—his features were sharp yet refined, a distant beauty like a painting behind glass. But the fracture running through the mirror split his reflection into uneven halves, twisting his image.

His gaze dropped to his changshan, its golden patterns glinting faintly against the dark fabric. Yet, in the mirror's broken surface, even that shimmer looked fractured.

He ran a finger over the crack, his frown slight.

Fragmented. Like a puzzle left unsolved.

He had asked Madam, the owner of the Crescent Moon Pavilion, about replacing it once, only to be met with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"Soon, Junshi," she'd said, her voice thick with her usual charm. "Maybe after a few months."

That had been a year ago.

Junshi often wondered if the crack was deliberate—a symbol, a reminder that even beauty had its flaws and those flaws couldn't simply be discarded. Or maybe it was just easier for her to ignore things she didn't deem important. Either way, the mirror stayed, cracked and unchanging—much like his place in the Pavilion.

He didn't remember how many years it had been since his mother sold him, or how old he was at the time. Based on his hazy memory, and the information told by Madam that he'll turn eighteen in a few months, he thinks he must have been nine or ten years old.

To be honest, he didn't hate his mother for selling him.

How could he?

When he couldn't even remember her face.

Madam had once mentioned that she sold him during a famine. Their village had been starving, and to keep their bellies full, people resorted to either selling their loved ones or… cannibalism.

Junshi often thought about that revelation, though it no longer shocked him. If anything, he supposed he should feel grateful. At least she hadn't killed and eaten him.

"I'll remind her again," he muttered softly, as though the act of saying it might make it true. But deep down, he wasn't sure if the mirror or anything else in the Pavilion would ever change.

He straightened his collar and took a deep breath, pulling his attention back to the present. His fingers brushed against the golden embroidery one last time before turning to leave.

One last glance at the mirror.

Then, he stepped out into the dimly lit hallway. The faint hum of distant conversation mixed with the lively sounds of instruments. Red paper lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting a warm glow that danced across the peeling wallpaper. The floor creaked beneath his footsteps as he made his way toward the stage.

Stepping onto the stage, Junshi took his seat before the guzheng, positioned at the center as the main performer. The stage was modest yet refined, illuminated by lanterns that cast a golden glow over the polished wooden floor. Soft candlelight flickered along the edges, highlighting the elegant setup of the performers. To his side, the other musicians settled into their places, their instruments neatly arranged before them.

As Junshi tested the strings of his guzheng, a familiar voice called from behind.

"Jun'er, are you ready?"

Mei stepped beside him, offering a kind smile. Her eyes crinkled slightly with warmth. She wore a pale lavender qipao, its silk fabric embroidered with delicate plum blossoms. Her hair was tied in an elegant bun, a single jade hairpin gleaming in the light.

"Yes," Junshi replied. His voice was steady, though he continued running his fingers over the guzheng strings, ensuring they were in place.

Mei took her seat beside him, lifting her xiao flute—a slender instrument of dark bamboo, carved with silver patterns of swirling clouds. Her fingers rested lightly on its holes, waiting.

Junshi followed suit, his hands producing deep, resonant notes from the guzheng that intertwined with Mei's softer melody. Their music filled the air, powerful yet delicate, each note lingering like ripples on a still lake.

The audience, a mix of drunken patrons and quieter, sober listeners, fell into an entranced silence. The drunk ones swayed in their seats, muttering slurred praises, while the sober ones nodded along, some humming softly to the familiar tune.

The song was well-known, a melody woven into the hearts of many, but the way Junshi and Mei played it made it feel fresh, almost new.

For a moment, the chaos of the outside world faded away.

All that remained was the music.

The performance ended. Some patrons lingered, ordering more drinks and food, their conversations a low hum in the background. Others departed, as though they had come solely for the music, treating the renowned food and wine of the Pavilion as an afterthought, despite this being one of the finest eateries in all of Xichang.

Backstage, the performers gathered, their instruments carefully set aside as they slipped into a quieter world behind the red curtains. The space was modest, with wooden benches and tables cluttered with spare strings, tuning tools, and forgotten cups of tea.

"Jun'er, you played beautifully today." Mei's smile was warm, her eyes bright with quiet joy.

Junshi, already anticipating the compliment, replied with measured confidence. "It's only because you were my partner tonight, Sister Mei."

Mei chuckled softly, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. She adjusted the folds of her qipao, her fingers brushing over the embroidered plum blossoms.

Junshi turned his gaze toward Yue, his tone polite but observant. "What do you think of tonight's performance, Senior Sister Yue?"

Yue, standing apart from the group, adjusted the hem of her deep blue ruqun, a practical yet elegant outfit befitting her stoic demeanor. Her posture was straight as an arrow, her arms crossed neatly before her. But her expression was cold.

"It was just as usual," she replied curtly, her tone devoid of praise or criticism.

A brief silence followed. Some of the performers exchanged glances but said nothing. The quiet stretched for just a moment too long.

Then, a voice cut through the air.

"But I think we did great," Rong interjected from behind, her voice smooth, edged with a quiet sharpness. She took a slow step forward, her gaze flickering between Yue and Junshi. "Though I suppose some of us set the bar a little too high to recognize it."

She glanced at Yue as she spoke, her smile unreadable.

Her deep crimson ruqun, similar to Yue's in style, draped gracefully over her. But its gold embroidery was more elaborate—almost as if demanding to be noticed.

They were the Pavilion's core performers—each one essential to the ensemble. The rest of the musicians were merely there to fill in, supporting the melodies crafted by the four.

"Now, now," a familiar voice interjected. "Everyone truly did wonderfully tonight. It was one of our best performances yet."

Madam Xi, stepped into the room, her presence commanding attention. At first glance, she could almost pass for a younger woman, thanks to the thick layer of makeup she wore—a deep red lip, powdered skin, and perfectly drawn brows. Her attire was more elaborate than theirs, a rich crimson gown embroidered with golden phoenixes. Unlike the performers, who wore such finery only during shows, this was her everyday attire, a constant reminder of her authority.

She approached Junshi and gently patted his head. "Junshi, you surprised me tonight." Her smirk carried the air of someone accustomed to seeing talent but still pleased by its display. "I suppose all that practice has finally paid off."

Her sharp gaze flickered briefly to Yue. "You did well too."

"I just did the bare minimum," Yue replied evenly, meeting Madam's eyes with a piercing look.

"As cold as ever," Madam murmured with a chuckle before turning back to Junshi.

"Junshi, come see me tonight. Another noble lady has requested a private performance."

Junshi nodded slightly. "Yes, Madam." His voice was calm, but his fingers curled slightly against his sleeve. His expression remained composed, yet a trace of something unreadable flickered in his eyes.

Madam Xi gave a satisfied nod and left the room.

As soon as the door shut, Mei rested her head on Junshi's shoulder. He tensed slightly, caught off guard.

"You don't want to go, right?" she asked softly.

Junshi hesitated. He glanced to the side, as if searching for the right words, then spoke without looking at her. "I'm just a bit nervous."

"Junshi, who are you talking to?" Yue's voice cut through the moment.

Junshi blinked. His gaze darted left, right—empty. A fleeting chill ran through him before reason settled in. She must have left, likely busy with her upcoming solo performance.

"No one," he said smoothly. "I was just talking to myself."

Yue gave him a long, assessing look. "Be careful. Now that you're a main performer, you represent us. Be more mindful of how you carry yourself."

Junshi lowered his head slightly in apology. "I'm sorry."

Yue said nothing more and walked away.

Midnight.

The hallways were quiet, the faint glow of lanterns barely cutting through the darkness. Junshi's footsteps echoed softly against the wooden floors, the only sound in the stillness.

Absentmindedly, he hummed under his breath—a habit, a steady rhythm that matched his pace. His fingers twitched slightly, as if tracing invisible strings, practicing even now.

He stopped in front of the door.

Lost in his quiet humming, he hadn't realized how quickly he had arrived. Time had slipped by, carried away with each note. He exhaled slowly, steadying his mind, then straightened his collar. His eyes held neither nervousness nor hesitation—only quiet confidence.

Then, he reached for the handle.