Chapter Thirty-Six: A Melody That Astonishes the World

Lin Renzhao was thinking to himself how this prince was truly approachable, easy to win favor with. Yet he did not know that decades later, he would be killed by this very youth.

Yang Lian, on the other hand, considered that whether Li Congjia was acting deliberately or not, at least before knowing his identity, he treated the talented with respect. But regardless of whether it was Li Hongji or Li Congjia, both would eventually become enemies; this would never change.

On the stage, Zeng Yiling smiled faintly, her crimson lips parting as she spoke with a melodic yet resolute voice, “So it is Lord Dongping. I apologize for my discourtesy.” She stood, gave a slight curtsey, and continued, “But I have already said, I must choose one from all present. If I select Your Highness, it would not be fair.”

Li Hongji, having been rebuffed, flushed red and said, “Miss Zeng, are you really so heartless?”

A strange look flashed in Zeng Yiling’s eyes, but she did not yield. “There are laws for the nation, and rules for my profession. I ask that Lord Dongping not make things difficult for me.”

Li Hongji snorted coldly and fell silent, though he did not leave. His eyes swept the hall with icy disdain.

Seeing him quiet, Zeng Yiling spoke, “When you entered, you each received an invitation. Did you notice? There is a number printed on it.”

At her words, everyone took out their invitations and examined them. Sure enough, they found a set of characters. Yang Lian, curious, fetched his invitation—number thirty-three. Chen Tie came over, saying, “I’m seventy-nine. What about you? Thirty-three?”

Lin Renzhao checked his own—thirty-two. Li Congjia and the young master of the Zhou family had thirty-four and thirty-five. Li Congjia had bought consecutive tickets.

Yang Lian smiled; he had no interest in this game. But as he thought this, Zeng Yiling called out a number, “Thirty-three!”

Chen Tie was momentarily stunned, then burst out laughing, “Brother Yang, you’re thirty-three! Miss Zeng, thirty-three is right here!”

Yang Lian felt a headache coming. He had thought he wouldn’t be chosen, and even if he was, he wouldn’t go up. But Chen Tie, with his loud mouth, not only knew but announced it to everyone. Now he couldn’t escape.

Li Hongji spun around, saw Yang Lian, sneered, and strode over, stopping a few paces away. He barked, “Give me your invitation!”

The crowd in Xiaoxiang Pavilion erupted. Though Li Hongji was a prince and held the title of Lord Dongping, to openly snatch another’s property was far too arrogant. The hall buzzed with discussion. Some, eager for drama, braced themselves—everyone knew in Jinling, Lord Dongping, as the emperor’s eldest son, had yet to be named crown prince, but none dared provoke him. The chosen man looked unfamiliar, surely not from a wealthy family. Had he been, he would be currying favor with Lord Dongping, not opposing him. Would he hand over the invitation?

Some squinted, anticipating Yang Lian’s humiliation. If a man surrendered what was in his hand so easily, his dignity would be lost.

Li Congjia was startled, whispering, “Brother Yang, just give it to him.”

The Zhou family’s young lady raised her watery eyes, full of worry. She knew Yang Lian was warmhearted, but faced with Lord Dongping’s forceful temperament, even if Yang Lian refused, he would seize it by force. Would they come to blows?

Yang Lian slowly stood, his gaze locked onto Li Hongji, unyielding. He raised his invitation, “You want it?”

“Enough with the nonsense. Throw it over here!” Li Hongji was impatient.

“Why? Because you’re the emperor’s eldest son, Lord Dongping?” Yang Lian mocked.

“You…” Li Hongji was furious. If he admitted it, it would mean he was abusing his status to bully others.

“If I refuse, will you complain to the emperor and have me arrested?” Yang Lian continued, coldly.

Li Hongji’s expression changed dramatically. Yang Lian’s words were harsh, leaving him embarrassed. Yet, thick-skinned as ever, he retorted, “All under heaven belongs to the emperor. Everything in Jinling is his.”

“Correct. Everything here belongs to the emperor, but not to you. Lord Dongping, remember, you are only Dong. Ping. Gong.” Yang Lian enunciated each syllable with biting clarity.

Li Hongji clenched his fists, restraining his temper, “I’ll give you five hundred gold. Hand over the invitation!”

The pavilion erupted in astonishment—five hundred gold for an invitation! The price was steep, but given Li Hongji’s status, it was not beyond him. The crowd relaxed; Lord Dongping certainly had the means to be arrogant.

“I’ll pay a thousand gold for you to leave Xiaoxiang Pavilion at once, lest you ruin the atmosphere and disturb Miss Zeng’s mood,” Yang Lian countered, just as bluntly.

Yang Lian’s words were even more audacious, stirring the pavilion further. Li Congjia studied Yang Lian anew, wondering who he truly was to be so bold. The Zhou family’s young lady widened her eyes in disbelief.

Chen Tie chuckled quietly, “Well said! Truly well said!” He was a straightforward man himself, and though he had clashed with Yang Lian, he found him likable. Besides, he had little regard for Li Jing and his son.

“Enough, gentlemen, no more quarreling. As I said, whoever holds the invitation should come forward. If anyone tries to buy or sell, or if any transaction takes place, both will be asked to leave,” Zeng Yiling spoke softly but with undeniable authority.

Li Hongji snorted, sullenly stepping back two paces. He glanced at Zeng Yiling with a forced smile, “Miss Zeng is right—I was presumptuous.”

“It doesn’t matter, as long as Lord Dongping causes no further trouble,” Zeng Yiling replied calmly.

“However, inviting someone to perform with you is a serious matter. If the person knows nothing of music, cannot play, won’t that offend our ears and tarnish your artistry?” Li Hongji, unable to win, devised another scheme.

At this, some troublemakers loudly agreed, “Yes, we spent dearly to hear Miss Zeng’s music, not some amateur’s!”

The pavilion buzzed again. Many were jealous of Yang Lian’s selection, venting their frustration and hoping he would be dismissed. If he couldn’t play, or played poorly, a new selection would be held, giving them another chance.

Yang Lian chuckled coldly, stepped forward, and glanced at the indignant Li Hongji, bowing, “Lord Dongping, I fear you’ll be disappointed.”

“Oh? You can play?” Li Hongji’s lips curled in scorn—the man looked rough and burly, more like a cook than a musician.

Yang Lian ignored him, walked to the edge of the stage, and raised his hand to quiet the crowd. He turned to Zeng Yiling, “Miss Zeng, is there a guzheng?”

“There is. Please wait a moment,” Zeng Yiling nodded to the attendant to fetch the instrument.

“Since you doubt my skill, allow me to offer a humble performance,” Yang Lian smiled, stepped onto the stage, and sat on a cushioned seat. Shortly, the attendant brought the guzheng and placed it before him. Yang Lian noticed it was the same attendant who had returned his invitation earlier, and he gave her a gentle smile. She retreated hurriedly.

Li Hongji snorted, arms crossed, waiting for Yang Lian to embarrass himself.

Chen Tie glanced at Lin Renzhao, “Renzhao, does Brother Yang play?”

Lin Renzhao shook his head, “I don’t know either.”

Li Congjia watched with curiosity, and the Zhou family’s young lady put down her lychees, resting her chin on her hand.

“This is a song from my hometown, forgive my inadequacy,” Yang Lian said, plucking the strings to test the tone. Satisfied with the instrument’s sound, his ten fingers began to move.

Yang Lian played a melody familiar to later generations, called “Rainfall Over the South.” The music was lively and fresh, carrying the unique spirit of the southern lands after rain. Listening, one felt as if standing amidst the drizzle: rain hanging low, plantain leaves washed emerald, a woman standing in a garden, watching her beloved gradually walk away—until he vanished from sight, perhaps never to meet again.

As Yang Lian played, notes sprang forth with the rhythm of life, like raindrops sinking into hearts. He thought the erhu version more moving, but chose the guzheng for its less melancholy tone.

Li Hongji was momentarily entranced, quickly regaining composure—such a scarred man could play the guzheng?

Chen Tie grinned broadly. Though he couldn’t appreciate the music itself, the crowd’s reaction showed Yang Lian’s skill. As comrades in the Divine Martial Army, he couldn’t help but cheer for Yang Lian.

The Zhou family’s young lady listened, growing lost in the melody. She felt as if she were the woman in the song, standing in a garden, watching, waiting. Would that person appear in her life?

Even the always composed Zeng Yiling was moved, immersed in the guzheng’s sound. She had never heard this piece before, but found it heavenly, longing for the score to play it herself.

At last, Yang Lian plucked the final note. His skill was not exceptional, but the beauty of the melody compensated for any flaws. The hall fell into a deathly silence. After a long pause, Zeng Yiling’s voice broke the quiet.

“Sir, your piece is truly unheard of. Its beauty must be the work of a hidden master,” Zeng Yiling remarked.

“Perhaps. My father acquired it in the countryside; I don’t know the composer,” Yang Lian replied, thinking he certainly couldn’t say it was written a millennium later.

“Your homeland must be rich in talent. May I ask where it is?” Zeng Yiling inquired.

“Guanzhong,” Yang Lian answered briefly.

“May I ask your surname, and would you consider gifting the score? I would reward you handsomely,” Zeng Yiling said, eyes full of longing for the exquisite melody.

“I dare not,” Yang Lian slowly stood, glancing at Li Hongji, and announced in a clear voice, “I am Yang Lian, from Guanzhong.” The crowd had not yet reacted, but a cold light flashed in Li Hongji’s eyes.

“Such heavenly music should be gifted to those with destiny. Miss Zeng is adept, and when I have transcribed the score, I will gladly present it to you,” Yang Lian declared solemnly.

Zeng Yiling smiled, stood, and bowed, “Thank you, Master Yang!”