Chapter Thirty-Six: The Song That Startled the World

Lin Renzhao was thinking to himself that this prince was indeed approachable, easily earning people's goodwill. Yet, he had no idea that decades later, he would be killed by this very youth.

Yang Lian, meanwhile, mused that whether Li Congjia was acting deliberately or not, at least before he knew their identities, he treated talented people with respect. Still, whether it was Li Hongji or Li Congjia, they would ultimately be his enemies—this fact would never change.

At that moment, on the stage, Zeng Yiling smiled faintly, parted her red lips, and though her voice was melodious, it was firm, “So it is the Duke of Dongping. I apologize for my discourtesy.” She stood, offered a slight bow, and continued, “But as I’ve said, I must choose one person from among everyone. If I were to pick Your Highness, it would not be fair.”

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

A strange look flickered in Zeng Yiling’s eyes, but she refused to back down. “The state has its laws, and in my profession there are rules as well. I hope the Duke of Dongping will not make things difficult for me.”

Li Hongji snorted coldly and said no more, though he did not leave; his eyes swept the hall with a chilly gaze.

Seeing he was silent, Zeng Yiling spoke, “When you entered, you each received an invitation. Did you notice a number printed on it?”

Upon hearing this, everyone took out their invitations and examined them carefully, finding a set of characters printed there. Yang Lian, curious, took out his own: it bore the number thirty-three. Chen Tie leaned in, saying, “Mine is seventy-nine. What’s yours? Thirty-three?”

Lin Renzhao glanced at his—thirty-two. Li Congjia and the young lady from the Zhou family had thirty-four and thirty-five, respectively. Li Congjia had bought consecutive invitations.

Yang Lian smiled; he wasn’t interested in this game. Yet just as he thought so, Zeng Yiling announced 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 on. He thought he wouldn’t be chosen, and even if he was, he wouldn’t go forward. But Chen Tie, with his loud mouth, not only knew but shouted it out. Now there was no avoiding it.

Li Hongji spun around, saw Yang Lian, sneered, and strode over, stopping a few steps away and barking, “Give me the invitation!”

The crowd in Xiaoxiang Pavilion was instantly in an uproar. Though Li Hongji was a prince and Duke of Dongping, to openly snatch another’s property was exceedingly arrogant. The hall buzzed with debate; some opportunists perked up, knowing that in Jinling, as the eldest imperial son, the Duke of Dongping hadn’t been named crown prince yet but was not to be trifled with. The chosen man looked unfamiliar, likely not from a wealthy family. If he were, he’d be eager to ingratiate himself with the Duke. Would he hand over the invitation or not?

Some narrowed their eyes, awaiting Yang Lian’s humiliation. For a man to surrender his possession so easily would be disgraceful.

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

The Zhou family’s young lady raised her watery eyes, filled with worry. She knew Yang Lian was warm-hearted, but after all, he faced the Duke of Dongping, whose forceful nature meant Yang Lian refusing him would only provoke a snatch. Would they come to blows?

Yang Lian slowly stood, his eyes fixed on Li Hongji, unwavering. He raised his invitation, asking, “You want it?”

“Enough nonsense, throw it over!” Li Hongji was impatient.

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

“You…” Li Hongji was furious. If he admitted it, he’d be confessing to using 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, but his skin was thick. He barked, “Under heaven, all lands belong to the king; everything in Jinling is His Majesty’s.”

“Indeed, everything here is His Majesty’s—but not yours. Remember, Duke of Dongping, you are only the Duke—of—Dong—ping!” Yang Lian deliberately pronounced each word clearly and slowly.

Li Hongji clenched his fists, controlling his temper. “I’ll pay you five hundred gold. Give me the invitation!”

The pavilion erupted. Five hundred gold for an invitation was an exorbitant price, but considering Li Hongji’s status, he could afford it. He certainly had reason for his arrogance.

“I’ll pay one thousand gold, and you leave Xiaoxiang Pavilion immediately, so you don’t spoil the atmosphere or Miss Zeng’s mood.” Yang Lian retorted, matching arrogance with arrogance.

This response heated the atmosphere further. Li Congjia scrutinized Yang Lian anew, wondering who he really was to be so bold. The Zhou lady’s eyes widened in disbelief.

Chen Tie grinned, whispering, “Splendid, truly splendid!” He was a straightforward man, and though he’d clashed with Yang Lian, he found him agreeable. Besides, he held no fondness for Li Jing and his son.

“Enough. Both of you, cease your quarrel,” Zeng Yiling said softly but firmly, “I’ve stated: whoever holds the invitation is to come forward. If anyone tries to buy or trade, or if a transaction occurs, I’ll have them leave.”

Li Hongji snorted, stepped back two paces, glanced at Zeng Yiling with a faint smile, and said, “Miss Zeng is right. I was out of line.”

“It’s nothing, as long as you don’t cause more trouble,” Zeng Yiling replied, still serene.

“But, Miss Zeng, inviting someone to perform with you is important. If the person knows nothing of music and cannot play, wouldn’t that offend our ears and tarnish your artistry?” Li Hongji, his first plan failed, devised another.

At these words, some troublemakers loudly agreed, “Yes, we paid dearly to hear Miss Zeng’s skill, not someone else’s!”

The pavilion grew noisy once more. Jealous of Yang Lian’s selection, many vented their frustration, hoping he’d be ousted. If he truly couldn’t play, or played poorly, a new selection would be made—offering themselves another chance.

Yang Lian sneered, casually stepping forward. He glanced at the indignant Li Hongji, bowed, and said, “Duke of Dongping, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

“Oh? You can play?” Li Hongji curled his lip, still sarcastic. This burly man looked more like a cook than a musician.

Yang Lian ignored him, walking slowly to the edge of the stage, raising a hand to quiet the crowd. He turned to Zeng Yiling, “Miss Zeng, is there a guzheng?”

“Yes, sir, please wait a moment,” Zeng Yiling replied, nodding to a maid to fetch it.

“Since everyone doubts my skill, I’ll do my best,” Yang Lian smiled, ascended the stage, and settled onto the soft couch. Moments later, the maid placed the instrument before him. Yang Lian noticed she was the same one who’d returned his invitation; he smiled slightly at her before she hurried away.

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

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

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

Li Congjia watched with intense curiosity; the Zhou lady put down her lychee, resting her cheek on her palm.

“This is a tune from my homeland. Forgive my modest skill.” Yang Lian tested the instrument’s tone, familiarized himself with its quality, then began to play.

He performed a song well-known in later generations, called “Rain Shatters the Southern Lands.” The melody was lively and fresh, evoking the unique charm of the south after a rain. Listening to it, one felt as though immersed in the rain: droplets hung low, banana leaves washed emerald, a woman stood in the garden, watching her beloved as he walked away, disappearing from sight, perhaps never to meet again.

The notes sprang forth, carrying the rhythm of life, like raindrops falling into the hearts of most listeners. Yang Lian felt the erhu version was more touching, but chose the guzheng for its less sorrowful tone.

Even Li Hongji was momentarily dazed, though he quickly regained composure—such a display was unbecoming. How could this scar-faced man play the guzheng?

Chen Tie beamed, unable to judge the music but seeing others’ reactions, he knew Yang Lian’s skill was impressive. Being from the Divine Martial Army, how could he not cheer for Yang Lian?

The Zhou lady, listening, felt as if entranced—she became the woman in the song, standing in the garden, waiting, watching. Would that person appear in her life?

Even the always composed Zeng Yiling was moved, enchanted by the guzheng’s sound. She’d never heard this piece before, but now was captivated, longing for its sheet music to play herself.

At last, Yang Lian struck the final note. His technique was not extraordinary, but the exquisite tune compensated for any flaws. The hall fell into a deathly silence. After a long pause, Zeng Yiling’s voice broke the stillness.

“Sir, this piece is truly unheard of. Its beauty suggests it was composed by a recluse of great talent,” she said.

“Perhaps. My father obtained it from the countryside, but who wrote it, I cannot say,” Yang Lian replied, thinking he couldn’t very well claim it was written a thousand years in the future.

“Your homeland must be blessed with extraordinary people. Where is it?” Zeng Yiling asked.

“Guanzhong,” Yang Lian answered simply.

“May I ask your surname, sir? Would you be willing to gift me the score? I would be most grateful,” Zeng Yiling said, her eyes filled with longing—the melody was simply too beautiful.

“I dare not.” Yang Lian slowly stood, glanced at Li Hongji, and declared, “I am Yang Lian, from Guanzhong.” The guests had yet to react, but a cold light flashed in Li Hongji’s eyes.

“This heavenly tune deserves to be given to someone with affinity. Miss Zeng, skilled in music, once I have transcribed the score, I shall present it to you,” Yang Lian said solemnly.

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