The night of the competition arrived. The Red Sleeves Stadium was packed to the rafters. Three thousand people—nobles, commoners, martial artists—crammed into the open-air arena.
The air was thick with anticipation and the smell of roasted nuts and sweat.
The competition followed a standard format. Each of the four major brothels presented their champion. The audience voted with flowers—purchased, of course, at exorbitant rates.
First up was the Pavilion of Drunken Dreams. Their champion sang a classic ballad about a waiting wife. It was technically proficient, safe, and utterly forgettable. The audience applauded politely.
Next came the House of Joy. A dancer performed a sword dance. It was flashy, with bursts of Qi, but lacked rhythm.
Then, the mood shifted. The lights dimmed (lanterns were shuttered). A hush fell over the crowd.
The Dream Cloud Pavilion.
Liu Qingyan walked onto the stage.
She didn't need an introduction. She wore a robe of pale moonlight. She sat, placed her hands on the zither, and played.
It was a masterpiece. The melody was a river of sorrow, flowing through the hearts of every listener. Men wept openly. Women clutched their chests. It was beautiful. It was perfect.
When she finished, the silence lasted for ten seconds. Then, the crowd erupted. Flowers rained down like a blizzard.
"We lost," Meng Lan whispered backstage, her face pale. "How can we beat that? She is a goddess."
Xue Mu stood by the curtain, watching the hysteria. "She is a goddess," he agreed. "But gods are distant."
He turned to Yue Xiaochan. She was dressed in the modified outfit—red silk, gold trim, bare arms, and a skirt that swirled like a flame. Her hair was tied up in high twin tails, a style unheard of in the capital.
She looked terrified.
"Hey," Xue Mu said, grabbing her shoulders. "Look at me."
She looked up, her large eyes trembling. "Xue Mu... I can't. They love her."
"They respect her," Xue Mu corrected. "But tonight, they are going to fall in love with you."
He handed her a strange object—a hollow bamboo tube with a crystal inside that amplified sound. A primitive microphone.
"Go out there," he whispered. "And have fun."
The announcer bellowed: "And finally... from the Hundred Flowers Manor... The Star-Moon Sect!"
Boos erupted from the crowd. "Get off the stage, demons!" "Don't insult the Fairy!"
The stage remained dark.
Then, a rhythmic drumming started. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Deep, resonant, primal.
It wasn't a zither. It was a beat.
A spotlight (a focused beam of light from a Qi-mirror) snapped onto the center of the stage.
Yue Xiaochan stood there, back to the audience, pose struck—one hand on her hip, the other pointing to the sky.
The drumming accelerated. The flute joined in, not mournful, but chirping like a bird in spring.
Yue Xiaochan spun around. And she smiled.
It wasn't the polite, reserved smile of a courtesan. It was a blinding, ear-to-ear grin that radiated pure, infectious mischief.
"Hello, Capital!" her voice, amplified by the bamboo mic, boomed across the arena.
The crowd froze. She was... talking to them?
"Are you tired of crying?" she shouted.
Confusion. Silence.
"I said," she yelled louder, cupping her ear, "ARE YOU TIRED OF CRYING?"
"YES!" a drunk man in the front row shouted back instinctively.
"Good!" Yue Xiaochan laughed, and the music exploded into a fast-paced folk melody.
She didn't sit. She moved. She danced across the stage, her red skirt creating a whirlwind of color. She sang—not a poem, but a song.
"The peach blossoms bloom, the winter is done! Why sit in the shade? Come out in the sun!"
It was simple. It was stupid. It was electrifying.
The rhythm was infectious. People stopped crying. Feet started tapping. Heads started bobbing. The sheer novelty of a performer moving, smiling, and looking at them was overwhelming.
She winked at a noble. He turned beet red. She pointed at a group of swordsmen. They cheered.
By the second chorus, the "boos" were gone. The stadium was vibrating.
Xue Mu watched from the wings, crossing his arms with a satisfied smirk.
"Welcome to Pop Music, ancient world," he whispered. "Resistance is futile."