Chapter Twenty-Three: The Contradictory Xiaodie

"Miss, just look at him... such a disgrace... a lecher... We shouldn't have invited him at all..."
Behind the second-floor lattice window, Xiao Wuer stamped her feet in furious frustration.
"He's sitting at our banquet, yet cheering for Shen Xixi! Taking our hospitality but siding with another—how can there be such shameless people in this world..."
"Let it go, let it go. Just because someone is a guest doesn't mean they must support their host. The second round of voting is secret anyway, and men are fickle by nature. Why get upset over him..."
Shen Zixuan carefully touched up her makeup. She had listened to Shen Xixi's flute earlier and still had confidence in her own artistry.
As the two conversed, the sound of flutes and reed pipes rose again from the stage below. Another courtesan took the floor, displaying a voice as clear as a yellow oriole singing in the valley.
It was like a company gala, each performer taking their turn with the madam acting as host, interspersing the acts with witty banter.
The quality was truly high. In Feng Jingzhe's eyes, each beauty had her own artistic merits—it was hard to say who outshone whom.
But men are creatures of faces, and when body and looks are added, the differences become apparent.
As the saying goes, comparison brings out the pain. In the next three or four performances, no one managed to surpass Shen Xixi's popularity.
Though the atmosphere didn't quite freeze, the applause and cheers were noticeably sparser.
This continued until Su Zixuan glided gracefully onto the stage, cradling a seven-stringed zither, as a page boy set up her table.
A wisp of sandalwood incense curled through the air. The beauty took her seat with composure, and as her slender fingers plucked the strings, a piercing clarity rang out, seizing the hall with its power.
The restless mood vanished in an instant; everyone, as if by silent accord, held their breath and focused intently.
The music resumed, flowing like mountain streams and waterfalls, each note capturing the hearts and minds of all present.
Even Zhao Lingyou, at that moment, closed his eyes involuntarily to listen, the resonance lingering in the air as if it would echo for days.
Ding—
As the final note faded, Su Zixuan rose with her instrument and bowed gracefully, yet the audience remained entranced by that celestial melody.
"What a piece—'High Mountains and Flowing Streams'... Her mastery of the zither is consummate. In all of Chang'an, perhaps only a few old court musicians could rival her..."
"Haha... But who in the world could surpass Brother Lingyou in the art of the zither?
For Su Zixuan to earn praise from a true master such as yourself is a rare honor indeed..."
A trace of apology flickered across Gu Beichuan's face.
"If not for a promise to an old friend to bestow a poem tonight, with Your Highness's endorsement, this lady would surely have claimed the crown.
A pity... truly a pity..."
"Hahaha... Well, well, Gu, I thought you were praising me, but it turns out you were just blowing your own horn..."
Zhao Lingyou pointed and laughed at Gu Beichuan, but did not refute him. For any of the twelve women tonight, to receive a verse from Gu the Talented was to guarantee renown throughout Chang'an.
Their conversation, carried by the silence in the hall and their lack of discretion, drifted to the ears of the four men at the next table.
"Haha... It seems Brother Feng will have to spend lavishly tonight.
To win a poem from Gu Beichuan—worth far more than gold! Miss Su will likely be disappointed in Brother Feng. Claiming the crown will be no easy feat..."
Zheng Yongxiang's words dripped with provocation, as if hoping this fellow would lose his head for a beauty and fling his silver away in a fit of passion.
It would be best if he squandered all the borrowed silver at once; then Zheng wouldn't have to bother scooping up coptis root himself.
His reports had said that many merchants were already grinding the herb into powder, mixing and adulterating it before selling.
The good news was the official in charge was a fool, accepting everything mindlessly.
The Zheng family made a tidy profit with every transaction, earning money faster than if they robbed it outright.
"What kind of doggerel is worth so much? I don't believe you for a second...
Besides, do I need to spend money to support a courtesan?"
Feng Jingzhe glanced at the neighboring table, eyes falling on the so-called Fourth Prince, lazily fanning himself with an air of affected refinement.
A love rival, naturally, would always be an eyesore. He made no effort to lower his voice; with Zheng Yongxiang intent on stirring trouble, he was sure the others had heard it all.
Yet men of letters had their own dignity and grace, and the cliché of mutual provocation and public shaming did not occur.
After all, status was status—who would bicker with a bothersome insect in public? It would only demean oneself.
One woman exited the stage, another took her place. After a brief lull, one of the four leading contenders, Meng Xiaodie, made her entrance.
She was lively and impish, seemingly the youngest among them. Cradling a pipa, her features held an innocent, guileless look.
Yet her figure was alluring, full where it should be, slender where it ought—a delicate balance between girlhood and womanhood, neither too much nor too little, everything just right.
For those with a taste for youthful charm, this was irresistible. She naturally evoked a man's protective instincts.
"Damn... These damned people, they won't even spare underage girls!"
A strong sense of guilt welled up—an effect of past-life values and principles.
So when Feng Jingzhe looked at Meng Xiaodie, there was not a hint of desire, only anger and profound pity.
Ask any ordinary person with a sound mind—when faced with a middle school girl performing seductively for a roomful of lustful patrons, their first thought would be whether she had been trafficked, whether her freedom was being threatened or restricted.
All the more for Feng Jingzhe, once a professional soldier; even knowing the era was different, his moral baseline could not be crossed.
Meng Xiaodie sat upon the stage, half her face hidden behind the pipa, gazing around. She relished being the focus of countless admirers.
Though she loathed their greedy stares, it did not conflict with her enjoyment.
The more men yearned for her, frustrated and obsessed, the more exhilarated she felt. Rather than reveling in adoration, it was the thrill of revenge.
Ye