Chapter Text
Chapter One: Qín
"Junshang has read that invitation seventeen times," Zhuzhi-Lang observed quietly.
"It's beautifully written!" Tianlang-Jun held the paper up to catch the light. "Look at the calligraphy — and they used the good paper, see how it has silken threads in it? Plus, Master Feng's performances are always so emotional. Last time, three ladies in the audience were crying by the end! Crying! Over music! Isn't that—"
"Marvellous," Zhuzhi-Lang finished. "Junshang found it marvellous the previous three times as well."
With any other demon, Tianlang-Jun would have called that tone "sassy." He wasn't sure his nephew knew what sassy was, this extended trip to the human realm was doing wonders for his personality.
"Because it is marvellous, nephew!" He turned to grin at him. "You should come this time. The tea is excellent, the garden is beautiful, and he's performing Feng Qiu Huang 1 tonight — the full version, with the original lyrics. You know that piece, don't you? The one about Sima Xiangru seducing Zhuo Wenjun with his guqin? I have three different collections of commentary on it. The poetry alone—"
"This one is... aware of Junshang's poetry collections." That tone again. He took it back, the human world was teaching his straightforward little snake all the wrong lessons. Like talking back to his uncle.
"Don't be like that. You know you enjoyed it when I read you the story. The way she listened from behind the screen, and he played his heart out not knowing if she could even hear—"
"This one was being polite."
"You were crying at the end. I saw you," Tianlang-Jun lied and laughed at his nephew's confused pout. He stood, straightening out his clothes and checking his hair one last time before departure. "Come on, we'll have a lovely time. There might even be romance in the air — these human events always have young nobles making eyes at each other. It's terribly entertaining to watch."
The garden still had that gentle human beauty to it. Not one of the plants here bit or tried to shoot acid darts at you. Such a soft, peaceful place.
Silk lanterns hung from the branches of ancient wisteria, casting pools of warm gold across the paths. The trees were in full bloom, heavy clusters of purple and white trailing down like nature's own curtains, and their perfume drifted, sweet enough to taste, on the evening air. Guests wandered along the winding stone paths between beds of bright non-violent flowers, their robes bright spots of colour against the greenery, voices hushed in anticipation.
And at the heart of it all — the lake.
It spread out black and mirror-still, reflecting the lantern light in scattered constellations. Lotus flowers dotted the surface, pale pink and white, their leaves dark circles against the water. In the centre, connected to the shore by an arched bridge of white stone, stood the performance pavilion. Red-lacquered pillars held up a curved roof of dark tile, and inside, Tianlang-Jun could see the glint of the instruments already positioned, waiting. 2
"Zhuzhi-Lang," he breathed, grabbing his nephew's arm. "Look at it. The way the lanterns reflect on the water — it's like there are two skies tonight. And the wisteria! Can you smell it? Humans create such beautiful things."
"This one sees it, Junshang."
"We should get a table near the water. The acoustics — did I tell you about the acoustics, dear nephew? The lake carries the sound. It's supposed to make the music feel like it's coming from everywhere at once." He was already moving toward the shore, weaving between other guests with practiced ease.
They found a table on a slight rise, close enough to the water that Tianlang-Jun could see the lotus flowers swaying gently in some unfelt current. Low cushions had been arranged on woven mats, and a servant appeared almost immediately with tea and small dishes of candied fruits and nuts. He accepted a cup and let the warmth seep into his fingers, content to simply look. He wished this was more of a wine type event, but if tea is what the humans drank with music, then he would drink tea with music.
The other guests were settling in around the lake's edge, a scattered arrangement of tables and cushions that somehow managed to feel both intimate and grand. Silks in every colour, from plum to jade to a deep navy blue, shimmered and caught the lantern light as people moved. An older woman in grey laughed at something her younger male companion said, the sound carrying clearly across the water. A pair of young men argued good-naturedly over poetry while their tea sat cooling.
"Oh! Oh, look at that one—" Tianlang-Jun leaned toward Zhuzhi-Lang, pointing discreetly at a young couple several tables over. The girl wore peach silk embroidered with silver butterflies, and she kept glancing at the young man beside her when she thought he wasn't looking. But he was doing the same thing. "She keeps glancing at him when she thinks he's not looking. But he's doing the same thing! They're both desperately trying to — no, wait, he's going to say something — yes! There it is! He just complimented her fan!"
"Junshang is supposed to be watching the stage," Zhuzhi-Lang murmured.
"The performance hasn't started yet. Besides, this is much more interesting. Human courtship is so delightfully complicated. All these rules and signals and—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
Someone had just sat at the adjacent table, and Tianlang-Jun forgot how to breathe.
Green and white robes, the colours of spring bamboo and fresh snow, cut from silk so fine it seemed to flow like water with every movement. The man who wore them moved with a controlled grace that made everyone else look clumsy by comparison — each gesture precise, deliberate, beautiful in its economy. He settled onto his cushion in one fluid motion and produced a folding fan from his sleeve, snapping it open with a flick of his wrist that was almost musical.
His face. Gods, his face. Sharp and cold and perfect, like something carved from pale jade by an artist who understood that true beauty needed edges. Dark eyes beneath elegant brows, a mouth set in a line that suggested he found the entire world faintly disappointing. Waist-length black hair pulled back in an elaborate arrangement held with pins of silver and green jade, not a strand out of place.
He looked like a painting. He looked like a poem. He looked like the kind of beauty that started wars and ended dynasties, and he was sitting close enough that Tianlang-Jun could see the faint embroidery on his sleeves — bamboo leaves stitched in thread just slightly darker than the silk beneath.
"Zhuzhi-Lang," he whispered, unable to look away. "Tell me you see him too. The beauty in green. Please tell me I'm not hallucinating."
There was a sigh from his nephew, "This one sees him, Junshang."
"Magnificent." He leaned toward the adjacent table, best human smile in place, teeth carefully hidden behind the demonic veil. "Hello! Have you attended Master Feng's performances before? I've been to three and each one was more moving than the last! The way he plays makes even stone-hearted people weep — have you read Wang Qi's poetry? The new composition tonight is based on his work, and I just know it's going to be—"
Nothing. Not even a glance. The beautiful stranger was examining the garden like Tianlang-Jun didn't exist, fan moving in slow, measured strokes before his face.
He blinked, subtly adjusted his robe to gape a bit more around the neckline than before, then tried again. "The tea here is exceptional. I particularly recommend the spring jasmine — it has this wonderful lightness that pairs beautifully with music. And the garden! Have you seen the reflection of the pavilion on the lake? When the performer begins, the lantern light ripples across the water and it's like watching the music itself—"
Those sharp eyes finally turned to him. A delightfully cold and assessing look swept over his whole body and then settled on an expression that read as 'distinctly unimpressed'. Looking at him now, his eyes were darker than he'd thought. Black, not brown, and deep enough to drown in. A faint furrow appeared between those elegant brows.
"This one," the judgmental beauty said, voice low and controlled, "prefers silence before performances."
Oh.
Most people, when Tianlang-Jun spoke to them, either fluttered nervously or smiled back. Or wept in terror. This person looked at him like he was a piece of lint on expensive robes.
Tianlang-Jun glanced down at himself, momentarily confused. His disguise was intact — he could feel the subtle demonic veil smoothing away the more obvious markers of his demonic heritage, leaving him looking perfectly, unremarkably human.
Well. Perhaps not completely unremarkable. He'd chosen well tonight: robes of deep crimson silk embroidered with black and gold, cut to flatter his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His hair was bound up properly with ornaments of dark jade. He looked, if he was being honest, exactly like what he was pretending to be — a wealthy young human nobleman with excellent taste and the face to match.
And it was a good face. He knew this because humans told him so constantly, often while blushing or stammering or finding excuses to stand closer. The deep-set eyes, the sharp jaw, the smile that apparently did something complicated to people's pulses — he could hear their heartbeats. It had been that way consistently for the entirety of this trip in the human realm.
So the complete indifference was... new.
Fascinating.
"Right, right, of course!" he agreed cheerfully. "Silent contemplation before art. Very proper. Very refined. I should do that more often — be more serious about cultural appreciation instead of just chattering away—"
"Junshang." Zhuzhi-Lang touched his arm gently.
"—though honestly, I find half the fun is talking about it before and after, comparing reactions, discussing interpretations—"
The stranger's fan snapped closed. The sound was a sharp punctuation on the glare he shot his way.
"—but I can absolutely be quiet!" Tianlang-Jun finished brightly. "Starting now. Silent as the grave. You won't hear another word from me."
Zhuzhi-Lang made a soft sound that might have been amusement.
A clear chime rang out across the water — a servant striking a small bronze bell, the note hanging pure in the evening air. The murmur of conversation faded. On the pavilion, a figure in flowing grey robes had taken position before the guqin, hands poised above the strings.
The first note broke the stillness.
It rippled outward across the lake, carrying with it the opening of Feng Qiu Huang — the famous melody, the seduction song, the piece Tianlang-Jun had been waiting weeks to hear performed live. The music seemed to rise from everywhere at once, the water and the wisteria and the air itself humming with it.
There is a beautiful lady; once seen, she cannot be forgotten...
He didn't need to hear the lyrics sung. He knew them by heart. The phoenix searching for his mate, the poet playing for a woman behind a screen, the hope and longing and desperate desire all woven into silk strings and wood. 3
He so liked human events. No blustering demons. No viscera on the rugs. No one trying to poison him or challenge him for territory. Just music and tea and people making wet little crying sounds because a man plucked some strings in the right order.
He glanced at the stranger beside him and found him staring at the performer with an intensity that bordered on alarming. The fan lay forgotten in his lap. His hands pressed flat against his thighs, and even from here, Tianlang-Jun could see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid line of his spine. His knuckles had gone white where they gripped the fabric of his robe.
Interesting.
Tianlang-Jun looked back at the performance, trying to understand what had the beauty so upset. It sounded lovely to him — sweeping melodies and dramatic pauses, Master Feng drawing out each phrase with theatrical flourish. The music swelled and dipped, painting images of longing and loss across the water. Several guests had begun to weep quietly. The girl in peach silk had pressed her sleeve to her eyes.
But the stranger was growing progressively more tense. His jaw tight now, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. Like the music was physically painful to hear.
By the end, when everyone else was applauding with tears in their eyes, the stranger sat frozen. His expression held barely contained fury, or disgust, or both.
Tianlang-Jun had to know.
The moment applause died down, he turned to him. "That was extraordinary! The part where he held that note during 'one day without seeing her' — so moving! Everyone's crying! Did you enjoy—"
"Enjoy?" Those dark eyes cut to him, and up close, Tianlang-Jun could see banked fire in them. "That performance was an embarrassment."
He blinked. "What? But everyone loved it. There were tears! Genuine emotional tears!"
"Because this audience has no taste." Fury simmered beneath the words, barely leashed. "That musician butchered Feng Qiu Huang so thoroughly it should be criminal. Sima Xiangru would weep to hear his composition treated with such vulgarity."
"Butchered?" Tianlang-Jun looked back at the pavilion where Master Feng was accepting praise, bowing gracefully as admirers pressed forward along the bridge. "It sounded... well, I thought it was beautiful. Romantic and—"
"Of course you did." The disdain was palpable. "You probably think all music sounds the same as long as it makes people cry."
That stung a bit, but he was too intrigued to be offended. The stranger's cheeks had coloured faintly with his anger, and it made him look almost alive — less like a jade statue and more like a person who could be touched.
"Do you play? Is that why you're so critical?"
The beauty stood abruptly without answering, robes swirling in a sweep of green and white.
"Oh — did I offend you? I didn't mean—" Tianlang-Jun stood too. "I genuinely want to know! If the performance was bad, I couldn't tell, but you clearly could, so you must understand what I don't—"
The stranger was already walking away, moving through the crowd with that controlled grace. People seemed to part for him without realising they were doing it.
"—and I'd love to learn!" Tianlang-Jun called after him. "If you have time to explain—"
Gone. Disappeared among the wisteria.
"Well," Tianlang-Jun said, dropping back onto his cushion and grinning at Zhuzhi-Lang. "That was exciting! I've never been dismissed so thoroughly. They really didn't like that performance."
"Perhaps we should leave, Junshang. The crowd's—"
"No, no, I want more tea first. And maybe that couple will— oh!" He grabbed Zhuzhi-Lang's sleeve. "He's coming back!"
The beautiful stranger reappeared at his table, materialising from the lantern-lit paths. This close, Tianlang-Jun could smell ink and crushed bamboo leaves, or maybe the clean bite of winter air trapped in fabric. A strand of hair had escaped its pins, curving against one cheek, and it took genuine effort not to reach out and brush it back.
"This one has arranged a private room," he said without preamble.
Tianlang-Jun's pulse kicked hard.
A private room. The beautiful man who had dismissed him utterly, ignored his attempts at conversation, looked at him like dirt on expensive robes. That man had sought him out. Had arranged a private room. Was standing here with that single strand of hair curving against his cheek and his dark gaze fixed on Tianlang-Jun's face.
A warm flush rippled under his skin.
This was a proposition.
It had to be. Tianlang-Jun had watched enough human courtship to recognise the pattern — the initial coldness, the pretence of disinterest, then the private invitation once plausible deniability had been established. He'd seen it play out a dozen times at events just like this one. The young couple he'd been watching earlier had probably started the same way: cutting remarks and averted eyes before someone suggested a walk in the garden, alone.
Human mating rituals were so charmingly indirect. Demons just fought or declared intentions outright. This little dance of pretending not to want what you wanted — it was like watching a play within a play.
"A private— really? Oh! You're going to explain about the music? Or—" He smiled, letting a bit more warmth into it, letting his gaze trace down the line of the stranger's throat. "—is this for other reasons entirely? Because I'm interested in either option. Or both. Both is good."
A flicker in those dark eyes. Calculation, maybe, or desire carefully suppressed. Tianlang-Jun had read about this exact scenario: cold beauties who wanted fiercely but couldn't admit their secret desires, who needed the excuses to let themselves take what they craved. A fiery heart hidden beneath a frozen lake.
"To demonstrate a proper musical performance," the stranger replied, each word precise. "Since you clearly cannot distinguish quality."
A flimsy excuse. The thinnest possible cover story. It was almost sweet, how much effort he was putting into maintaining the pretence.
"Right! Yes! Educational demonstration!" Tianlang-Jun stood immediately, already dismissing Zhuzhi-Lang with a wave. "This is perfect! I've been wanting to understand more about—"
"Junshang." A note of warning in Zhuzhi-Lang's voice.
"I'll be fine!" He assured him. "Go back to the rooms and rest nephew. This won't take long. Or—" He glanced at the beautiful stranger. "—will it take long?"
"That depends on your capacity for learning."
Definitely suggestive. Had to be.
"Nephew, I'll see you later." Tianlang-Jun followed the stranger away from the lake, through winding garden paths lit by swaying lanterns, past flowering trees and the soft burble of water from some hidden stream.
The private room was tucked into a quiet corner of the garden, a small building half-hidden by trailing willow branches. Inside it was just as he imagined intimate and elegant. A low table, cushions in deep red silk, a tea service already laid out. And in the corner, catching the moonlight through the latticed windows, a guqin, already set up and waiting.
The beautiful man moved around the space arranging things with that same controlled grace, and Tianlang-Jun took the opportunity to simply watch. The way his hands moved. The line of his throat above that high collar. The slight furrow between his brows as he measured tea leaves with exacting care.
"This is lovely," Tianlang-Jun said, settling onto cushions and letting his outer robe slip artfully off one shoulder. "Very private. Very... quiet. You could do almost anything in here and no one would know."
"The acoustics are good for music." He didn't look up from the tea.
Tianlang-Jun waited for some reaction to the exposed shoulder. A glance. A flush. Even a pointed look-away.
Nothing.
The stranger continued preparing tea as if Tianlang-Jun were furniture. Not even furniture — furniture you at least had to walk around. He was apparently less interesting than the teapot.
He'd ruled the Southern Kingdom for longer than this human had been alive. He'd had demons and humans alike fall over themselves for a scrap of his attention. And this sharp-tongued beauty in green couldn't even be bothered to notice when he was being seduced.
Tianlang-Jun tugged his robe back up, feeling faintly ridiculous.
"I'm sure the acoustics are excellent for many things." He tried to recover, letting the words hang in the air. "All sorts of intimate, private sounds."
"Mm."
"You know, I've always thought there's something very sensual about string instruments. The way you have to use your hands. The vibrations." He watched for a reaction. "The fingering techniques."
The stranger's hands didn't falter as he poured, liquid splashing softly into ceramic. "Tea?"
Tianlang-Jun could appreciate the composure, even if it was maddening.
"Please." He accepted the cup, making sure their fingers brushed. The stranger's hands were cool and dry, smooth, nails trimmed short. He didn't pull away, but he didn't linger either. "You have such elegant hands. I noticed them earlier, during the performance. I couldn't stop thinking about what else they might be skilled at."
"Calligraphy. Painting. Sword forms."
"All activities requiring... dexterity." Tianlang-Jun smiled over the rim of his cup. "Stamina, too, I imagine. Hours of practice to build up endurance."
"Cultivation requires discipline."
"Mm. And what about other forms of discipline?" He set his cup down with a soft clink and leaned forward. "I've always admired people who know how to take control. To command a situation. You seem like someone who appreciates... precision."
The stranger finally looked at him directly. "Precision is important in all endeavours."
"Couldn't agree more." Tianlang-Jun let his voice drop lower. "I find I perform much better when someone is willing to instruct me. To correct my form. Tell me exactly what they want."
A pause. Then: "That is the purpose of a lesson."
He was good. Every response perfectly deniable, perfectly innocent on the surface, but he wasn't shutting the conversation down either. Wasn't leaving. Wasn't telling Tianlang-Jun to stop.
"I'm very eager to learn," Tianlang-Jun continued. "I should warn you, though — I can be quite... enthusiastic. Once I find something I enjoy, I want to do it over and over again. I become insatiable, really."
"Repetition builds mastery."
"Exactly." He stood, set down his tea, moved closer. The stranger watched him approach but didn't step back. "And I'm very committed to mastery. I'll stay up all night if I have to. I don't tire easily."
"Most demons don't."
Tianlang-Jun's smile flickered — had he been made? But the stranger's expression hadn't changed, and the comment was delivered in the same flat tone as everything else. Perhaps just an expression. Or a test.
He was the Saintly Ruler of the Demon Realm. He'd talked his way out of assassination attempts and territorial disputes and one very awkward dinner with the northern clans. He could surely seduce one prickly human.
"I'm dedicated," he said smoothly, recovering. "When I find something beautiful, I want to appreciate it fully. Thoroughly. From every angle."
"Comprehensive study has merit."
He was close enough now to catch that scent again — ink and crushed bamboo and underneath it, the rich blood smell of humanity. He could sense the qi, the life in him. The stranger still hadn't moved. His fan was tucked in his belt, hands empty at his sides. Not welcoming, but not defensive either.
"You're very graceful," Tianlang-Jun murmured. "I keep imagining how you'd move in... other contexts."
"I've worked to refine the body as well as the spirit."
"And what a refined body it is." Tianlang-Jun let his gaze travel slowly down, then back up. "Those robes are beautiful, but I imagine what's beneath them is even more so."
The stranger's expression remained maddeningly neutral.
Every innuendo met with a response that was technically appropriate but completely devoid of encouragement. It was either the most masterful seduction technique Tianlang-Jun had ever encountered — keeping him desperate, off-balance, working for every tiny reaction — or...
No. He'd invited him to a private room. This was definitely seduction.
"I noticed you the moment you sat down," Tianlang-Jun said, close enough now to count his eyelashes, to see the faint shadows beneath his eyes. "I couldn't look away. I was watching you instead of the performance — and I do love a good performance."
"That explains your inability to evaluate the music."
"You have my full attention now." He reached for the teapot, lifting it with both hands. "May I pour for you? I'd like to show my appreciation for your... educational demonstration."
"If you wish."
Tianlang-Jun began to pour, the amber liquid steaming faintly in the cool air, splashing soft against ceramic. As he did, his thumb pressed against the smallest finger of his left hand, where a cut had opened so shallow it was barely visible. A single drop of blood, dark and thick, fell into the stream of tea and vanished without a trace.
He set the cup before the stranger with both hands, properly respectful.
"Tell me your name," he said, letting his voice soften. "I want to know what to call you when I think of you later."
The stranger picked up the cup. Examined it. Brought it to his lips.
He drank.
"This one is called Shen Jiu," he said, setting the cup down. "A cultivator. You may address me as Master Shen."
Master Shen. Tianlang-Jun tested the name silently, savouring it. A cultivator, which explained the refined qi he could sense beneath the beautiful surface. And now, with his blood in Shen Jiu's system—
"Master Shen." He smiled, reaching out to let his fingers trail slowly down this icy beauty’s arm, feeling silk slide beneath his touch. "I'm very focused. Very attentive. I always make sure my partner is satisfied before I—"
"Sit down."
Sharp. Sudden. Completely different from the flat neutrality before.
Tianlang-Jun blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"Sit. Down." Shen Jiu had gone very still — that way prey animals did when they sensed a predator. Or predators did when they were about to strike. "And stop touching me. Stop—" He stepped back sharply, fan snapping open with a crack. "This one did not bring you here for your fumbling attempts at seduction."
Ah.
He'd misread this completely.
"I—" Tianlang-Jun moved back immediately, hands raised, palms out. "I apologise. I thought—"
"You thought this one was propositioning you." His voice dripped contempt, but underneath it — was that fear? "You thought a private room meant — what? That this one found your clumsy flirtation charming?"
"I misunderstood. I'm sorry—"
"You understand nothing." He moved to the guqin, every line of his body rigid with anger, and settled at it in one sharp motion. "You attend performances without hearing them. You praise inferior work. You mistake educational demonstration for— for—"
He stopped himself. Breathing controlled but sharp.
"This one brought you here," he bit out, "to demonstrate what you failed to hear."
He positioned his hands above the strings.
And began to play. 4
The last note faded into the whisper of wind through the latticed windows.
Tianlang-Jun realised he was crying.
He wiped at his face with his sleeve, confused. The music hadn't been sad, exactly. It hadn't been anything, really. No sweeping emotion, no dramatic pauses designed to wring tears from the audience. Just notes, placed precisely where they belonged, one after another, steady and without flourish.
The same piece Master Feng had played. Feng Qiu Huang. The phoenix seeking his mate.
But where Master Feng had made it weep and soar and perform longing, this had simply... ached. Quietly. Like a bruise pressed. A lingering nostalgia for a future that had not happened yet.
He looked at the man sitting before the guqin, hands still resting on the strings, spine straight as a sword. Everything about him was like that, Tianlang-Jun realised. Straight lines and sharp angles and no wasted movement. Even the way he breathed seemed measured.
"That," Shen Jiu said without turning around, "is Feng Qiu Huang. Played correctly."
"It was—" Tianlang-Jun started, then stopped. He didn't actually know what it was. "Different. It sounded like actually wanting something. Not performing wanting."
Shen Jiu went still for a moment. Then he rose from the guqin in one fluid motion, standing and walking over to stand before him. His gaze dropped to Tianlang-Jun's face, to the tear tracks there, and surprise crossed his features before he suppressed it.
"You're crying."
"Yes."
"Then it was an adequate performance." He moved to the tea table, settling across from Tianlang-Jun. "Now. You've had your demonstration. You've seen the difference between artistry and—" a dismissive gesture toward the distant pavilion "—populist entertainment. What do you actually want? What are you really doing here?"
Tianlang-Jun opened his mouth to flirt again — it was instinct at this point — but stopped himself. The tear tracks were still wet on his face. The ache in his chest hadn't faded. And Shen Jiu was watching him, waiting for something.
What am I doing here? That was a rather large question. He was old, bored and tired. The Demon Realm held no more interest for him so he had sought out his small distractions here in the human realm.
"What do I want?" He considered the question seriously. "I want more of this. Not just music — all of it. The poetry, the art, the—" He gestured vaguely. "I've been travelling for months, attending every performance I can find, buying every book, and it's all so..."
He searched for the right word. Found it.
"Human."
Shen Jiu's eyes narrowed.
"It's wonderful," Tianlang-Jun continued, warming to his subject. "Where I come from, we don't have anything like this. The gardens are different. The instruments and music I find here is delightful and strange." He leaned forward. "Your world is full of these extraordinary things, and I want to experience all of them. Every poem. Every song. Every painting. I want to understand why that piece made me cry when I've listened to music for centuries without feeling—"
"Centuries?"
Tianlang-Jun caught himself. Smiled. "An exaggeration. I'm very enthusiastic."
Shen Jiu studied him for a long moment. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were calculating. Weighing something.
"You claim to want to appreciate art," he said finally. "Yet you praise hack performers and call their work 'extraordinary.' You attend performances to watch other audience members flirt rather than to listen. You confuse emotional manipulation with genuine artistry." The fan tapped against his palm. "If you truly wished to understand beauty, you would not be carousing around collecting experiences like a child collecting pretty stones."
"Then what should I do?"
"Find a teacher." The words came sharp and dismissive. "Learn the Four Arts properly: qin, qi, shu, hua. Music, strategy, calligraphy, painting5. Study with discipline and diligence instead of running from entertainment to entertainment like a crow chasing glitter. Become an actual gentleman instead of playing at being one."
Tianlang-Jun's face lit up.
"A teacher," he repeated. "Someone who could show me the difference between what Master Feng played and what you just played. Someone who understands why one is artistry and one is — what did you call it? Populist entertainment?"
"Precisely."
"Someone like..." Tianlang-Jun smiled, slow and delighted. "You, perhaps? Master Shen?"
Shen Jiu's eye twitched. "This one did not offer—"
"But you could! You clearly know the difference. You play beautifully — and you have opinions about everything, which is essential in a teacher, I think. I'll be diligent, I promise. I'll practice whatever you assign me. I'll stop attending performances— well, most performances— well, I'll attend fewer performances. And I can pay! Name your price. Whatever you consider fair compensation for your time."
"You think this Master can be bought?!" Shen Jiu spluttered in rage.
"No! No! Not like that! I think your time is valuable and should be respected accordingly." Tianlang-Jun spread his hands innocently. "I'm not asking for charity. I'm asking for teaching, and I'm willing to pay what it's worth."
Shen Jiu's fan stopped its tapping. He studied Tianlang-Jun with an expression that wasn't quite contempt anymore — more like calculation. It was delicious to be looked at so coldly.
"This one's usual rate," he said slowly, "would be prohibitive."
"Name it."
A figure was named. It was, indeed, prohibitive — enough to buy a small house in the capital.
"Done," Tianlang-Jun said immediately. "What else?"
Shen Jiu blinked. For the first time, he looked genuinely thrown. "You— that's per month."
"I understood. What else?"
A pause. Then, recovering: "If this one were to consider such an arrangement, there would be conditions."
"Anything."
"You would attend lessons regularly. Twice weekly at minimum. No excuses, no delays, no 'I was watching another performance and lost track of time. We will hire a place of my choosing to have the lessons. I will not travel into your home or residence.'"
"Agreed."
"You would stop running around the city attending every piece of musical entertainment that catches your eye. If you wish to learn true artistry, you cannot fill your head with populist garbage. You will keep a low profile and focus on your studies."
"I—" Tianlang-Jun hesitated. No more performances? But—
He thought of that sharp, beautiful face. The way the music had ached.
"Agreed," he said.
"You would practice what you are taught. Daily. Without fail. The guqin is not a toy — it requires years of dedicated study to achieve basic competence."
"I can be patient."
"And you would address me properly and cease your—" Shen Jiu's lip curled "—behaviour. I am your teacher, not your paramour. If you cannot maintain appropriate boundaries, lessons end immediately."
Tianlang-Jun considered this. The appropriate response was probably agreement.
"I can try," he said honestly. "You are genuinely very beautiful, so some comments may slip out. But I will endeavour to be respectful."
Shen Jiu looked at him with an expression so sharp that he could have been beheaded if he was a regular demon.
"Then you'll do it? You'll teach me?"
A long pause. The fan tapped once against his palm. Twice.
"This one will... consider the arrangement. We begin now, since you seem incapable of patience. Return in three days for the next session."
"Three days. Yes. Perfect." Tianlang-Jun's face split into a grin. "But wait — you said you'd send word of the location. You don't know where to find me."
Shen Jiu's expression flickered — annoyance at the oversight, quickly suppressed.
"I'm staying at the Moonbridge Pavilion," Tianlang-Jun offered. "The east wing suite. Under the name Mù Yáojūn. You can send a message there anytime — I'll make sure they know to expect correspondence from Master Shen."
Shen Jiu's fan snapped closed. "Very well. Now sit at the guqin. If we're beginning tonight, we're beginning properly."
Tianlang-Jun scrambled to obey, settling before the instrument. Up close, the guqin was beautiful — dark wood polished to a gleam, seven silk strings stretched taut across its length. He'd seen instruments like this before, even bought a few, though he'd never learned to play them properly.
Shen Jiu stood over him, arms folded, looking down with profound scepticism.
"The piece I played is called Feng Qiu Huang," he began. "Do you know the story behind it?"
Tianlang-Jun knew it very well 6. He'd read every version, bought three different collections of commentary, made Zhuzhi-Lang listen to him recite the lyrics a dozen times. But Shen Jiu was already continuing, voice taking on the measured cadence of a lecturer, and watching that sharp face soften just slightly as he talked about something he cared about — Tianlang-Jun found he didn't want to interrupt.
"It dates to the Western Han Dynasty. The poet Sima Xiangru composed it to—" A pause. Colour touched those cheeks again. "—to court the widow Zhuo Wenjun."
"Court?" Tianlang-Jun propped his chin on his hand. "How?"
Shen Jiu's eyes narrowed, clearly suspecting mockery. But Tianlang-Jun kept his expression open, interested, and after a moment the lecturer's cadence returned.
"Sima Xiangru was a poet of great renown but little fortune. He attended a banquet at the home of Zhuo Wangsun, a wealthy merchant, where he was asked to play the guqin. Zhuo Wenjun — the merchant's recently widowed daughter — listened from behind a screen."
His fingers moved absently toward the strings as he spoke, not quite touching.
"Sima Xiangru knew she was there. He played Feng Qiu Huang — 'A Phoenix Seeks His Mate' — to express his feelings for her. The feng, the male phoenix, searching all the world for the huang, his female counterpart." Another pause. "The lyrics are... direct."
"Direct how?"
The colour deepened. "The song speaks of longing. Of searching the world for a mate and finding her at last. Of wishing to—" He stopped. "The relevant point is that Zhuo Wenjun heard the music and understood his intentions. She eloped with him that very night. They lived in poverty for a time — she even sold wine in the marketplace to support them — but eventually her father relented and accepted the match."
"A love story." Tianlang-Jun sighed happily. "A poet plays his heart out for a woman he's never spoken to, and she loves him back just from hearing his music. They give up everything to be together. That's wonderful."
"It's a cautionary tale about propriety."
"It's romantic." 7
"It's a demonstration of the power of music to communicate emotion — when played correctly." The fan reappeared, tapping against his palm. "Which brings us to the point. Master Feng performed Feng Qiu Huang as if it were a circus act. Sliding between notes, adding ornaments, drowning the melody in sentimentality. The audience wept because they were being manipulated, not because they understood anything."
"And your version?"
"My version was correct." His voice clipped again. "The original composition calls for restraint. The longing should come through the structure, not despite it. When you strip away the ornament, you hear the actual searching: the phoenix moving through the world, looking, not finding, looking again." He paused. "Master Feng played a man performing longing. I played—"
He stopped.
"Actually longing," Tianlang-Jun finished quietly. "That's what made me cry. It sounded real."
Shen Jiu's jaw tightened. For a moment, Tianlang-Jun thought he'd overstepped.
Then: "Your observation is not entirely without merit. Now. Watch my hands."
He moved to kneel beside Tianlang-Jun, close enough that their sleeves nearly touched. His fingers hovered over the strings.
"The opening phrase consists of four notes. The first is produced here—" He indicated a position on the string. "Press with this finger. The motion comes from the wrist, not the arm. Strike cleanly, let the note ring."
He demonstrated. A single note hung in the air, pure and clear.
"Now you try."
Tianlang-Jun pressed where indicated. Struck.
The sound that emerged was thin and buzzing, nothing like what Shen Jiu had produced.
"Your finger position is wrong." Shen Jiu reached over and adjusted his hand, touch clinical and brief. "Press harder. The string must contact the wood."
He pressed. Struck again. Better — still rough, but recognisably a note.
"Again. Find the second position."
Tianlang-Jun fumbled through the opening phrase, note by painful note. Each sound he produced was a pale imitation, clumsy where the master had been graceful, uncertain where he had been precise.
"You have no foundation," Shen Jiu observed. "Your fingers are positioned incorrectly, your pressure is inconsistent, and your timing is catastrophic."
"I told you I needed teaching."
"This is beyond teaching. This is remedial."
But he didn't tell Tianlang-Jun to stop. So Tianlang-Jun kept trying, working through the phrase again and again until his fingertips ached and his wrist burned. The notes began to come slightly easier—still bad, but less catastrophically so.
And then, without quite deciding to, he began to sing.
"Yǒu měi rén xī, jiàn zhī bù wàng—"
His voice was better than his playing, at least. Centuries of speaking before the demonic court had given him that much. The words of the song flowed out, the famous lyrics that every romantic knew:
"There is a beautiful lady; once seen, she cannot be forgotten—"
Shen Jiu went rigid.
"Yī rì bù jiàn xī, sī zhī rú kuáng—"
"One day without seeing her, I think of her like madness—"
Tianlang-Jun looked up from the strings, meeting those dark eyes directly. His fingers stumbled over the notes, clumsy and wrong, but his voice held steady. He meant every word. He'd meant them since the moment he first saw that sharp, beautiful face across the garden.
"jiāng qín dài yǔ xī, liáo xiě zhōng—"
"Stop."
The word came out strangled. Shen Jiu's hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles white, and his face had gone pale. His breathing was controlled but sharp.
"Stop," he repeated, quieter. "You're— the fingering is entirely wrong. You're pressing in the wrong position. The melody is—"
"But does it sound like longing?"
Neither of them moved. Tianlang-Jun watched Shen Jiu's face, fascinated by the micro-expressions crossing it — confusion, then what looked almost like fear, then nothing at all as control reasserted itself.
"Tch." A sharp, dismissive sound. "How maudlin. You listen to one competent performance and suddenly you're a philosopher."
But his voice shook slightly on the last word.
"Maybe." Tianlang-Jun smiled, soft and wondering. "But you felt something anyway, didn't you? Just now."
"You saw nothing." Shen Jiu stepped back, putting distance between them. His fan appeared in his hand, snapping open. "This lesson is over. You will practice the opening phrase — correctly, without the theatrical additions — and return in three days' time. If your technique has not improved, there will be no further lessons."
"Master Shen—"
"Three days." He was already moving toward the door. "This one will send word to your lodgings. Do not be late. Do not attend any more performances. And do not—" His voice caught. "Do not sing that song again until you can play it properly."
The door slid shut behind him with a whisper of wood and paper, and Tianlang-Jun sat alone in the moonlit room.
His fingertips throbbed where he'd pressed the strings. Outside, the garden was quiet — the performance long over, the guests dispersed, only the soft sound of wind through wisteria and the distant lap of water against stone.
He thought about Sima Xiangru, playing his heart out for a woman behind a screen. About Zhuo Wenjun, listening in the darkness, deciding to risk everything for a man she'd never spoken to.
About the way Shen Jiu's voice had caught when he'd said do not sing that song again.
There is a beautiful lady; once seen, she cannot be forgotten.
One day without seeing her, I think of her like madness.
The teacup still sat on the table, Shen Jiu's cup, with a trace of liquid at the bottom. Tianlang-Jun touched the rim where those lips had touched, feeling the faint warmth that still lingered.
His blood was in Shen Jiu's system now. A single drop, dissolved in tea, already working its way through that refined cultivator's body. If he wished he could use it to find and follow Master Shen. He'd never be able to escape him now.
A dirty trick, maybe. But Tianlang-Jun was a demon, and demons didn't play fair.
Besides, he'd meant what he said. He wanted to learn. He wanted to understand this world of poetry and music and beauty that humans had created. He wanted to sit at Shen Jiu's feet and absorb everything that brilliant, prickly, beautiful mind had to offer.
The blood was just... insurance. A way to make sure Shen Jiu didn't decide to abandon him before he'd had a chance to prove himself worthy of real teaching.
Tianlang-Jun smiled at the empty room, at the guqin gleaming in the moonlight, at the lingering scent of Shen Jiu's body.
Three days.
He could be patient.
1. Feng Qiu Huang (鳳求凰, "A Phoenix Seeks His Mate") is one of the most famous guqin pieces in the Chinese canon, traditionally attributed to the Western Han poet Sima Xiangru (179–117 BCE), who supposedly composed it to woo the widowed Zhuo Wenjun at a banquet. The lyrics used here are the Yuefu Shiji version, though those lyrics are now believed to be a later attribution. The piece survives in multiple Ming-era qin handbooks.
John Thompson, "Feng Qiu Huang 鳳求凰" (silkqin.com), https://www.silkqin.com/02qnpu/16xltq/xl155fqh.htm — the definitive English-language resource on the piece, including multiple historical versions and full lyrics in Chinese and pinyin.
English Visit Beijing, "Feng Qiu Huang (A Love Story)" — https://english.visitbeijing.com.cn/article/47ON7NRaIUp return to text
2. The garden described here draws on the classical Jiangnan garden tradition, best preserved in the private scholar-gardens of Suzhou. Standard elements include a central pond or lake, arched stone bridges connecting to pavilions built over the water (for the acoustic effect Tianlang-Jun mentions), wisteria (紫藤) trained over walls and beams for spring flowering, lotus planted in the pond, and silk or paper lanterns strung from the trees for evening gatherings. The "performance pavilion at the heart of the lake" is a stock feature — a shuĭxiè (水榭, waterside pavilion) — and music performances on such structures exploited sound carrying over still water.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chinese_garden "Classical Gardens of Suzhou," UNESCO World Heritage listing, https://whc.unesco.org/en/list/813/.Maggie Keswick, The Chinese Garden: History, Art and Architecture (Harvard University Press, 3rd ed. 2003)return to text
3. So when I was doing research into famous chinese songs I found that Feng Qiu Huang had be turned into the theme song for a show called 'Untouchable Lovers'. Which meant that its highly dramatic and sweeping version has completely overtaken all search results for what I was looking for. This version would be what the musicians are playing in the water garden (if you can imagine all the modern musical instruments removed). Shen Jiu would call populist trash, because he's a huge snob.
Untouchable Lovers Ost | Bai Lu - Feng Qiu Huang https://youtu.be/22HIGcYcCJU?si=e4QhJoLhJNc_2Ll- return to text
4. I found this version when looking through youtube and I swear 40 of the 60 total view (at this time) are mine. I find something incredibly pretty about it. Yearning in its simplicity. If you want to imagine your are Tianlang-Jun watching Shen Jiu's beautiful hands play for him this is what he's hearing and seeing.
Feng Qiu Huang - Xi Qin She https://youtu.be/XB2tvjfofVY?si=wtlI4hmqefCB4aWS return to text
5. The Four ArtsThe Four Arts (四藝 sì yì, or 琴棋書畫 qín qí shū huà) were the four accomplishments expected of the ancient Chinese scholar-gentleman: mastery of the guqin (琴, music), weiqi (棋, the strategy game known in English as Go), shūfǎ (書, calligraphy), and huà (畫, ink painting). The phrase qin qi shu hua is attested from the Tang dynasty onward — its earliest written appearance is traced to Zhang Yanyuan's Fashu Yaolu (法書要錄, 9th century). The four together form a curriculum of aesthetic and moral refinement rather than mere hobbies.Thank god for the Tang dynasty, they write everything down.
"Four Arts of the Chinese Scholar," China Online Museum, https://www.comuseum.com/culture/four-arts/. See also https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Four_arts.Also they are commonly mentioned in books and SVSSS. I have used them more as a structure for this fic and how arts can be used to understand and communicate rather than how you would actually learn them. Any cultural mistakes are completely my fault and not intended as an insult or slight. This is meant to be fun first and educational second.return to text
6. Sima Xiangru (司馬相如) was one of the most celebrated poets of the Western Han dynasty, chiefly remembered now for his rhapsodies (fu 賦) and for his elopement with Zhuo Wenjun (卓文君), the recently-widowed daughter of the wealthy iron-magnate Zhuo Wangsun. The core biographical facts — banquet at Linqiong, qin performance, elopement, selling wine in the marketplace, eventual reconciliation with her father — are drawn from Sima Qian's Shiji (Records of the Grand Historian), chapter 117.
"Sima Xiangru," Encyclopedia Britannica, https://www.britannica.com/biography/Sima-Xiangru. For the Shiji source, see Burton Watson's translation in Records of the Grand Historian: Han Dynasty II (Columbia University Press, 1993), ch. 117.return to text
7. The lyric version used by Master Feng and Master Shen — with the "beautiful lady" opening — is the set that became famous through its inclusion in Wang Shifu's Xixiang Ji (西廂記, Romance of the Western Chamber, c. late 13th century), China's most beloved romantic drama. In the play, the scholar Zhang Sheng plays Feng Qiu Huang on the qin to court Cui Yingying, who listens from behind a wall. The trope of a cultivated beauty overhearing a suitor's qin performance and falling in love is essentially the Xixiang Ji template, mapped back onto Sima Xiangru.
Wang Shifu, The Story of the Western Wing, ed. and trans. Stephen H. West and Wilt L. Idema (University of California Press, 1995) — the standard modern English translation. See also https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Romance_of_the_Western_Chamber. This has become a VERY POPULAR archetype in chinese story and poetry, the cold beauty being seduced by music. Shen Jiu would be disgusted that he's the cold beauty, Tianlang-Jun (and us) are delighted. return to text