Chapter Twenty-Five: Pitying the Blossoms in the Hundred Flowers Pavilion

Soft, tender lips, carrying a faint fragrance, pressed gently against Lu Liaoliao’s mouth. In that instant, a surge of heat rushed to his head, leaving him dizzy and lost in a haze, uncertain of where he was. The tip of a tongue, as light as a feather, brushed his lips and was gone in a heartbeat, just as he began to revel in the lingering taste.

The bold Miss Rong took the initiative and kissed Lu Liaoliao. Her brows and eyes brimmed with spring’s warmth; her nimble tongue played across her lips, as though still savoring the moment.

“Ah, how fortunate am I! It seems I truly must prepare a red envelope as a gift for you, young master.”

Lu Liaoliao had never experienced such a situation before. The heat flooded not only his mind. He hastily found an excuse and fled the room as if escaping for his life.

Downstairs, the cool breeze sobered him a little. “Wait—did I ever tell Young Master Gu about my master’s lineage? How did he know I am a disciple of Master Taibai?”

Confused, he wandered aimlessly, unable to locate the thatched cottage. Faintly, he heard the sound of chopping wood nearby and followed it.

He saw a boy of about fifteen, stern-faced and roughly dressed, carrying a sleeping infant on his back. The boy raised and fell his blade with practiced ease; thick logs split cleanly as mirrors. Even more astonishing, as the boy chopped wood, the infant slept soundly, undisturbed—a testament to his remarkable steadiness.

Curious but cautious, Lu Liaoliao asked the boy where the thatched hut was. The boy pointed in its direction without pausing his work, staying focused on splitting wood.

At last, refreshed, Lu Liaoliao emerged from the cottage and glanced again at the boy, unable to stifle his curiosity. “Young man, isn't it inconvenient to chop wood while carrying a baby?”

“That’s my son. If I don’t carry him, who will?” the boy replied expressionlessly.

In the Tang Dynasty, marrying and having children at fourteen or fifteen was common; it was Lu Liaoliao, already nineteen and still unmarried, who was the odd one out. Embarrassed, he asked, “And where is the child’s mother?”

“She’s at the Lotus Pavilion, entertaining guests with wine,” the boy answered, calm as ever.

Lu Liaoliao’s heart skipped a beat. Weren’t the guests at the Lotus Pavilion himself and Young Master Gu Xichao? He wondered whether the young Lan’er or the more mature Rong’er was the child’s mother.

“Your wife is in the pavilion drinking with men—doesn’t that bother you?” Lu Liaoliao asked, his tone colored with curiosity.

“Why be angry? If she didn’t entertain guests, how would we earn money to feed the child?” The boy’s face remained serene.

Lu Liaoliao hesitated. “But raising a little one doesn’t cost much, does it?”

“Who says we’ll have only this one child? Lan’er and I will have many sons and daughters in the future. If we don’t earn more, are we to let our son grow up chopping wood like me, or entertaining guests like Lan’er?” The boy’s tone showed a hint of disdain for Lu Liaoliao’s ignorance.

Realizing his own naiveté, Lu Liaoliao gave a dry laugh and turned to leave, but after a few steps, he looked back. “Young man, what’s your name?”

“Ning Jiao,” the boy replied without lifting his head.

Upstairs, Gu Xichao reclined on Lan’er’s lap, one hand naughtily caressing the shapely rear of Rong’er, who was serving wine nearby. He spat out the grape skin Lan’er fed him, gazing at Lu Liaoliao with a half-smile.

“Our Lu brother, you certainly took your time with your errand! I enjoyed rare fortune in your absence. Now, since you left Miss Rong waiting, shouldn’t you be punished with three cups?”

At these words, Rong’er brought wine to Lu Liaoliao, feigning an aggrieved persistence. Unable to refuse, he downed three cups in quick succession. The alcohol sent a rush of warmth to his chest, leaving him lightheaded. Lan’er, unwilling to miss the chance, pressed another three cups upon him.

Looking at Lan’er’s lively and innocent face, one would never guess she was already a mother. Befuddled, Lu Liaoliao took three more cups, his body swaying.

“Since Young Master Gu claims you are the disciple of the Immortal Poet Taibai, your poetry must be exquisite. Might you compose a verse for Rong’er? In a few days, there will be a courtesan contest in Chengdu. Though plain and unworthy, I would be honored to have a new poem to bring me a little glory.”

Rong’er clung to Lu Liaoliao’s sleeve, leaning close to him.

With her soft warmth pressed against his side, and her breasts brushing his arm, Lu Liaoliao felt as though he were floating among the clouds, his bones turning to jelly. He tried to recite a poem, but his mind was filled only with his master’s verses and he could not produce a new one.

With a wry smile, he recounted the story of his master Li Bai at Yellow Crane Tower, drawing loud laughter from everyone.

“I have heard that the Immortal Poet Taibai excelled in wine, swordplay, chess, and verse—unmatched in his time. Since you are his true disciple, why not forgo poetry and instead entertain us with wine and sword dance?” Gu Xichao suggested eagerly.

Lu Liaoliao scratched his head in confusion. “Now that you mention it, how did you know I studied under Master Taibai?”

Gu Xichao blinked innocently. “Did you not tell me so yourself on the road here?”

Lu Liaoliao slapped his forehead. “I must have been muddled from drink. My capacity is nothing special, and my swordplay is only so-so—hardly worthy of my master.”

Gu Xichao’s eyes lit up. “Then you must excel at chess.”

“Well, I suppose I’m passable,” Lu Liaoliao answered, imitating his master’s modesty.

“I, too, have some skill at chess. Would you care to play a game?” Gu Xichao issued the challenge.

Before Lu Liaoliao could refuse, the lively Lan’er had already instructed the maid to fetch the board. He had no way to escape.

Gu Xichao played with skill and solid form, but was too concerned with elegant shapes. Faced with Lu Liaoliao’s drunken, unruly tactics, he struggled. Lu Liaoliao cut wherever he could, invaded relentlessly, throwing Gu Xichao off balance. Their strengths were mismatched, and by the middle game, Gu Xichao had lost countless pieces.

His face darkened. “Who plays chess like this? It’s like picking a beautiful flower just to crush it—no sense of mercy at all.”

“A chess match is like battle—life and death, no room for mercy. Pity the flowers and you lose the contest,” Lu Liaoliao retorted.

“But flowers and beauties are to be cherished,” Gu Xichao protested.

Lu Liaoliao snorted, “You speak as if you are the famed Flower Cherisher.”

Gu Xichao looked at him in surprise. “I told you my name—did you not realize I am the very same Flower Cherisher, Gu Xichao?”

Lu Liaoliao was speechless.

“Do you, too, believe me some infamous lecher and wish not to associate with me?” Gu Xichao said playfully.

“Nonsense! My father devoted himself to medicine, yet some wild girl called him the world’s greatest lecher and stabbed him with a sword. Even now, thinking of it makes my heart ache. I admire your carefree, elegant demeanor—how could I hold such thoughts?”

Gu Xichao burst out laughing. “You speak your mind, which pleases me greatly. But your chess is truly unorthodox. If I hadn’t held back, the match would not look like this.”

“If you’re not satisfied, let’s play again—with stakes this time,” Lu Liaoliao pressed.

“What stakes? Not money, I hope—that would sully our eyes,” Gu Xichao replied.

“Let’s say, for every piece captured, the loser drinks a cup.”

So that was Lu Liaoliao’s plan—to avenge his punishment earlier.

“Agreed!”

By the end of the game, Gu Xichao had drunk more than twenty cups. Though his face showed little, his eyes grew unfocused.

“Again!” he demanded.

Seeing Gu Xichao’s impending defeat, Lu Liaoliao raised his cup in triumph. But Lan’er, ever sly, quietly moved one of his pieces, saving Gu Xichao and dooming ten of Lu Liaoliao’s own.

Gu Xichao seized the opportunity, capturing Lu Liaoliao’s pieces with glee.

As he raised his cup, Lu Liaoliao’s face fell. He eyed Gu Xichao suspiciously. “I just placed my piece here—how did it move?”

Gu Xichao said nothing, but Lan’er jumped to defend him. “That’s exactly where you played it. You must have been tipsy and missed your mark. Once a piece is placed, it can’t be taken back—be a gentleman and admit it.”

“Yes, no regrets once the piece is down!” Gu Xichao and Lan’er chimed in.

Lu Liaoliao’s protests and remorse garnered no sympathy. One cup after another, until he no longer remembered who he was.

Later, Gu Xichao painted and played the zither with the two women, and Lu Liaoliao inscribed poems on their portraits—though he could no longer recall which verses were his master’s. He only remembered feeling exuberant.

At some point, the conversation turned to Gu Xichao’s romantic exploits in the capital. The two men, arms around each other, were drunk and merry.

“Do you know, among the common folk, many can’t afford a wife, while behind high walls, countless young beauties sigh at the moon in lonely chambers. I merely pass by, comforting their solitude,” Gu Xichao declared, fanning himself with pride.

“Flitting from flower to flower, stealing hearts and kisses, and yet you make it sound so noble. I must admit, I envy you,” Lu Liaoliao replied, giving a thumbs up.

Gu Xichao’s fan fluttered with satisfaction.

“But on the road, I met a little monk from Zhongnan Mountain, and he said he was looking for you,” Lu Liaoliao mentioned offhandedly.

“Oh? Why?” Gu Xichao asked.

Lu Liaoliao recounted the story. Gu Xichao laughed heartily. “Do you know the magistrate of Lizhou is over sixty, yet insists on marrying a sixteen-year-old beauty? Of course I couldn’t stand for it—I gave him a head full of green first.”

“But that poor girl was nearly drowned in the river as punishment,” Lu Liaoliao murmured.

“In the end, wasn’t everything fine?” Gu Xichao shrugged it off.

Lu Liaoliao could only raise his cup in silence. The two continued their drunken ramblings, feeling as if they’d found a kindred spirit, vowing to drink until dawn and sleep side by side.

Who knows how much time passed before Lu Liaoliao suddenly awoke, shivering. He was naked on the couch, the bedding in disarray, thick with the scent of indulgence.

Finished—he must have been taken by Miss Rong in his drunkenness. He looked under the pillow for a red envelope—but found none.

He dressed and called to the sleepy maid at the door. “Where is Miss Rong? Where did she go?”

The maid, barely awake, replied, “What Miss Rong? The two ladies left long ago. Only you and that young master were in this room.”

A chill ran through Lu Liaoliao. “Where did that young master go?”

“He left some time ago,” the maid replied.

He felt for his waist pouch—the golden-threaded bag was still there, but empty. All that remained was a slip of paper.