The Fragrant Pavilion breathed differently at night.
By the time Zhao Ming stepped fully inside, the street noise had thinned into something distant and unimportant. The lanterns cast their light carefully, warm enough to invite, dim enough to hide. Incense curled lazily along the beams, not thick enough to choke, just enough to cling to the sleeves and follow a man home.
It was a place that understood memory.
Before Zhao Liang could raise his voice to call for wine, a woman moved into their path as naturally as if she had been waiting for them alone.
She wore no excessive ornament, no clinking jewelry to announce herself. Her silk was deep-colored and understated, the kind that signaled authority without begging for attention. Her hair was pinned cleanly, every strand where it belonged.
"Captain Zhao," she said, smiling as though greeting an old acquaintance rather than a customer. "You honor us tonight."
Zhao Liang straightened instinctively. "Madam Lin. I didn't know you were still overseeing the floor."
"I make time for patrons," she replied smoothly, her gaze sliding from him to Zhao Ming. It paused there—not rudely, not openly, but with interest sharpened by experience. "And this must be your younger brother. Twenty, yes?"
Zhao Ming bowed with the correct depth, neither eager nor dismissive. "Yes, Madam."
"Congratulations," Lin Xue said. "Reaching adulthood is no small thing in these times."
In his last life, her voice had been raspier. Smoke-damaged. Still calm, still commanding—but scarred, the way a city could be scarred and continue functioning.
Tonight, Zhao Ming thought, feeling the weight of the word. This is the night.
"Your room is prepared," Lin Xue continued, turning slightly. "The Plum Room. Your friends arrived earlier. I hope that's acceptable."
"Of course," Zhao Liang said easily. "You always choose well."
Lin Xue smiled at that, the kind of smile that acknowledged a compliment without accepting it as truth. As she gestured for an attendant to lead them, she leaned closer to Zhao Ming, her voice lowering just enough to cut through the music.
"If you need anything unusual," she said, "ask."
Her eyes met his.
Zhao Ming returned the look for half a breath longer than politeness required. "I will."
She inclined her head, already moving away, already someone else's problem.
They passed deeper into the Pavilion, Zhao Ming's awareness widening with every step. He noted the placement of lanterns, the direction of airflow, the spacing between rooms. He noted where servants lingered and where they did not. He noted the staircases—two visible, one not.
Fire would spread fastest from the storage wing, he recalled. Oil lamps too close to dry silk. A careless spark. Or a deliberate one.
The Plum Room opened onto laughter.
Five men were already inside, cups raised, voices overlapping as Zhao Liang entered. They rose, some more formally than others, greeting him with easy familiarity.
"Liang! Took you long enough."
"Thought you'd forgotten your own celebration."
"And this must be Zhao Ming."
Zhao Ming nodded in turn, offering polite acknowledgments without rushing. He recognized them all.
There was Wei Qun, a merchant's son who operated near the east gate. His hands were soft, nails trimmed clean, but his eyes never stopped moving. He traded in bulk goods and rumors, and Zhao Ming remembered him as a man who survived every upheaval by changing sides half a step early.
Next to him sat Han Rui, the scholar. He had failed the examinations twice and wore that failure like armor, sharp enough to cut anyone who brought it up. He drank slowly, listened carefully, and had once sold an introduction for less than it was worth because he liked the man asking.
Opposite them lounged Peng An, a courier who ran routes between Xiapi and Pengcheng. He spoke little, ate fast, and knew which gates were open before dawn. In Zhao Ming's second life, Peng An had disappeared quietly. Zhao Ming had never learned whether that was a victory or a warning.
Near the window sat the sect disciple.
He was young, perhaps only a few years older than Zhao Ming, dressed plainly but with posture that gave him away. His eyes were alert, his movements economical. An outer disciple, most likely, traveling under the pretense of experience while reporting back to someone who mattered.
Zhao Ming met his gaze briefly and looked away first, as custom demanded.
"Sit, sit," Zhao Liang said, waving them down. "Tonight we drink."
Wine was poured. Dishes arrived—warm meats, fresh vegetables, bread still steaming. The Pavilion did not skimp on first impressions.
Music rose from the central hall, threading its way through the open screens.
Zhao Ming's attention shifted instinctively.
A young woman sat at the center stage with a guqin resting before her.
The instrument looked almost too large for her, its lacquered surface catching the lanternlight in soft, restrained gleams. Her hair was bound simply at the back of her head, no ornament, no hairpin to mark adulthood. It was a deliberate choice—Fragrant Pavilion made no mistakes with signals like that. Talent could be displayed. Ownership could not.
Her posture was straight, spine aligned as if measured with a ruler, shoulders relaxed but never loose. When she lowered her gaze and placed her fingers on the strings, the room seemed to inhale as one.
The first note was not loud.
It did not need to be.
It settled into the space like a held breath finally released, thin and clear, followed by another, and another—each one placed with careful intent. She did not rush. She allowed silence to exist between sounds, long enough that the listeners leaned forward without realizing they had done so.
This was court music. Old, formal, shaped by generations of restraint. It carried no flirtation, no indulgence, none of the excess that lesser performers used to compensate for weakness. Stripped of ornament, it revealed its bones—and its soul.
Her fingers moved with quiet confidence.
Zhao Ming watched them closely.
They were steady. No tremor. No unnecessary motion. Every press, every release, executed with discipline that took years to carve into muscle and mind. She was not playing to impress. She was playing because this was the shape her breath took when it became sound.
Around them, conversation softened, then thinned. Cups paused halfway to lips. Even the men who had been laughing moments earlier leaned back, letting the melody pass over them like a tide they did not want to resist.
Zhao Liang exhaled slowly, unaware he had been holding his breath.
"She's remarkable," Han Rui murmured, voice pitched low, almost reverent. "Too controlled for her age."
Wei Qun nodded, eyes still on the stage. "Lin Xue's been protecting her. Says talent like that shouldn't be rushed."
Zhao Ming said nothing.
He watched the girl's hands trace a path he knew too well.
The memory rose uninvited, sharp and precise.
In his second life, her name had been spoken with a kind of casual regret. A prodigy, people said. Purchased young, hairpin ceremony expedited with coin and pressure. A greedy merchant who wanted exclusivity, who wanted to say he owned something rare.
On the night her pin was bought, there had been wine, laughter, promises made by people who never kept them.
Days later, word spread quietly: her fingers were injured. Two of them never bent the same way again. No one asked how. No one needed to.
A guqin demanded perfection.
Without it, silence became unbearable.
She had died alone not long after, her talent remembered only as a story told badly by men who did not understand what they had broken.
Zhao Ming's jaw tightened.
He lifted his cup and took a sip of wine, barely enough to wet his lips, as if the act itself were an anchor to the present.
"Relax," Zhao Liang said, noticing the tension at last. "You look like you're counting ghosts."
Zhao Ming let his expression soften. "Just listening."
The final note faded.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then applause rippled through the hall—not loud, not crude, but measured and sincere. The kind given by people who knew when noise would cheapen what they had just been given.
The young woman rose, bowed with flawless composure, and withdrew from the stage. Her face remained calm, untouched by pride or anticipation.
As she disappeared behind the screens, Zhao Ming followed her with his eyes until she was gone.
Some futures were loud.
Some tragedies announced themselves with fire.
Others began quietly, with applause.
The door to the Plum Room slid open again.
A man entered with an apologetic smile, brushing dust from his sleeve as if delayed by nothing more than bad timing. He was well-dressed, his movements confident but not arrogant. He laughed lightly as he bowed.
"Late again," he said. "South gate was troublesome."
Zhao Ming felt the room sharpen.
You.
The name surfaced unbidden. Lu Jian. In his second life, Lu Jian had spoken calmly before the yamen, recounting overheard conversations that had never happened, misplacing ledgers Zhao Ming had never touched. He had smiled even then, as if the truth were a flexible thing.
Zhao Liang waved him in. "Sit, sit. You always have excuses."
Lu Jian laughed and took the empty seat beside Wei Qun. "Excuses keep you alive."
They drank. They ate. Stories were told—patrol mishaps, merchant grievances, sect gossip that meant little and hinted at more.
Zhao Ming listened.
He listened to who complained about fees and who complained about timing. He listened to which routes Peng An avoided mentioning. He listened to how the sect disciple spoke—carefully, never committing, always observing.
He watched Lu Jian drink.
Lu Jian drank easily, too easily for someone truly delayed. His eyes flicked to the door twice in quick succession, then settled.
Waiting for something, Zhao Ming noted. Or someone.
A servant passed by, replenishing wine. Zhao Ming caught her sleeve lightly.
"Excuse me," he said softly. "Is Madam Lin busy tonight?"
The servant hesitated. "She's overseeing the west wing."
Zhao Ming nodded, releasing her. "Thank you."
He leaned back, heart steady, mind racing.
West wing. Storage adjacent. Oil lamps.
He could smell it already, or perhaps he imagined he could. Smoke was a memory that lingered longer than pain.
"Brother," he said quietly.
Zhao Liang turned, eyebrows raised. "Hm?"
"Don't stay late," Zhao Ming said. "Mother will be waiting."
Zhao Liang laughed. "She always is."
Lu Jian raised his cup. "To family," he said.
Zhao Ming lifted his own, meeting the toast without expression.
To survival, he thought.
Somewhere deeper in the Pavilion, a laugh rose too loud, too sharp. A door closed harder than necessary. A servant hurried past, face pale.
Zhao Ming set his cup down.
The night had begun to move.