In the eerie silence, the sky looms above like a shattered mirror, each fragment reflecting the broken pieces of his soul.
He hears it. A distant, brittle sound, like glass shattering. Deeper fractures spiderweb across the expanse, splintering and cracking with ominous finality. Fragments dangle perilously, each shard glinting with a cruel, mocking light. The sky seems ready to fall apart, and the wind, cold as a predator’s breath, slips through the cracks, leaving him shivering in its relentless grip.
For a heartbeat, the fragmented sky stitches itself together, revealing a boundless stretch of blue. Quinming is thrust back to a time when he and Brother Zhi danced with swords beneath the plum trees, their laughter echoed through the crisp mountain air. Petals fell softly, gently. But the memory slips away too fast, leaving only the sharp edges of his broken reality.
Then, red oozes out, drenching everything. The sky, the earth, his hands. All stained with blood. It pours from gaps, deafening bloodfalls pooling into the black fog that clung to the earth like a shroud.
He is moving again, always moving, feet dragging through the muck. Barefoot. Hunched. Arms hanging like dead weight. The sword drags behind, cutting a crooked line through the mire. Each step the fog retreats, revealing more horrors, more deaths.
‘Haha, another stroll through hell tonight, is it?’
Crunch—his foot comes down on something, a hand maybe, does not matter, just another sickening crunch in the silence. The ground is full of them, full of pieces, twisted things pushing up like flowers in a nightmare garden. 'They are all here, aren’t they?' Friends, sect brothers and sisters. All gone now, all because of him. Still watching him, still blaming him.
Quinming keeps going, heart racing, eyes wide, looking for—what? A way out? Is there ever a way out? This is a dream. The same one he has had every night. There is no escape.
Quinming keeps moving, breath quickening, heart hammering like a relentless drum. His eyes dart, haunted, desperate. The horrors surround him, no way out, no escape.
They were alive once. Now hollow shells, eyes that pierce and follow. His breath comes in ragged gasps. Their eyes silent accusations in the black-scarlet mist. The weight of their deaths bears down on his weary shoulders, an unshakable burden.
Suddenly, a cold grip—a severed arm, pulling him down. He collapses, sprawled in the muck. It stinks of sour iron. Of decay and death. He groans, pushing up from the blood-soaked ground, and his gaze meets hollow eyes.
Brother Zhi.
His brother. His mentor. His father in all but blood. The man who had shaped him into the warrior he was.
Before him lies Zhong Zhi, the Righteous Sword of Huashun, reduced to cold, lifeless flesh. A fallen titan, now mere bisected hunks left for the crows.
He struggles to his knees, propping himself up with his sword, its tip embedded in the crimson-soaked ground. His other hand reaches out, trembling, but he falters, unable to close the distance.
Quinming’s hand trembles above Brother Zhi’s still body. A memory, the one from before, claws its way back to the surface, dragging him back to a simpler time. He is younger, standing beneath the plum trees, their blossoms falling like quiet snowflakes. Brother Zhi is there, his movements slow and precise as he demonstrates a sword form, each stroke deliberate, every motion purposeful.
"The plum blossom is resilient," Brother Zhi had said, his tone calm but firm. "It survives the harshest winters, only to bloom once more in spring. Never forget, Quinming. True strength lies in the spirit, not just in the sword."
The memory is a fleeting, fragile thing, dissolving as the present crashes back. Once a source of comfort, now twists like a knife in Quinming’s gut. The sword in his hand feels like a farce. His hands—scarred, stained with too much blood. How dare he touch the ravaged form of the man who meant everything to him, the man he failed to protect?
‘I am unworthy to even lay a finger on your remains, Brother Zhi... Forgive me.’
The man who taught him everything. The one who instilled in him the principles of honor and justice. Reduced to lifeless chunks of flesh, a grim mockery of the hero he once embodied.
His vision blurs with unshed tears, mixing with the blood and mud smeared across his face. Memories flood back—Brother Zhi's stern lectures, his rare, warm smiles, the endless hours of training together under the plum blossoms. All of it, gone. All of it, drenched in blood. How did it come to this? He was the sword of Huashun, their protector, their weapon against enemies. What good is a sword that cannot be wielded?
“Quinming.”
“Quinming,” his voice echoes In the crimson air, a spectral whisper that chills Quinming's very soul.
"A sword without will is nothing but malice. Are you listening, Quinming? It becomes the sword of a butcher. How would you be any different from the Evil Faction if you do not wield your sword with moral integrity?”
Brother Zhi’s voice reverberates through him, the memories consuming him in a relentless tide.
"Damn, daft boy, start acting your age. You're about to become an elder. Stop climbing into the rafters to sneak alcohol, and stop stealing it from the others. You are a Taoist, damn it!”
“Quinming! Stop beating up your younger brothers. Just because you find them annoying and too stupid to understand you does not make it right.”
“Quinming.” “Quinming.” “QUINMING.”
“Do you regret it?”
The silence that follows is a chasm, and Quinming teeters on the edge. His head bows, his body shaking.
‘Of course I regret it. I regret everything. Every breath is a burden, every step a reminder that I’m the one left standing. Why? Why am I the one always left alone?’
He wants to scream, but the sound dies in his throat. What good are screams in the face of such loss? Sorrow this deep has no voice.
How dare he, indeed. He never was a hero. Just a man who brought destruction and death.
Despair boils inside him, seething like poison. His hands, once his pride, now tremble with the stain of blood. Unworthy to touch the man who was his guiding light.
Amidst his anguish, a violet butterfly flutters on delicate wings through the carnage. It lands on Brother Zhi's fallen form, a surreal touch of beauty in the midst of blood and decay. Quinming’s breath hitches, the sight both painful and oddly comforting. A small, fleeting beauty in a world gone mad.
He cannot face it. Cannot look. Cannot think. Cannot breath. Just move. Run. Run away, get away, over the body, over Brother Zhi—Zhi, oh gods, not Zhi! 'Why did it have to be him? Why not me? Why not anyone but him?'
The path up is slippery with blood. Blood everywhere, all around, thick and hot, clinging, chocking. The fog too close, too tight, it swirls, pulls back, flees. 'Why can't I flee too?'
A butterfly, impossibly delicate, lifts off and trails behind him, its wings a whisper of violet color against the grisly backdrop. Tiny wings fluttering, like it does not even care about the blood, the bodies, the sky breaking into pieces, shattering into nothing, like his mind, like his soul, broken—yes, that is it! Broken. Cannot be fixed, cannot be whole again. Just, just keep moving. Do not stop. Do not think.
His sword, chipped and dull, scrapes against the ground. The sound grates on his nerves. He wants to drop it, to leave it behind like everything else.
But that is impossible. The sword is not merely held, but fused to his hand, an extension of his very being. Bound by blood and sorrow. No words can express this anguish. Silent tears vanish into the sea of blood.
The path before him grows steeper, each step a grueling struggle. His breath labors, lungs burning with every gasp. He slips and stumbles in the mire, and shadowy hands grasp at him, spectral voices moaning his name, urging him to stay behind. To stop. To just give up.
Then, a violet butterfly lands gently on his shoulder, and everything stops. The hands retreat, the voices fade into nothingness. He breaths, a shuddering gasp. And the butterfly, it is still there. Still with him, and he knows, just knows, he has to keep going. So he pushes forward, because what else can he do? The butterfly flutters beside him, like a ghost, like a memory, like a promise he does not even understand. But it is all he has, so he keeps going, keeps moving, because he has to. He has to.
A head rolls down the hill, stopping at Quinming's feet. And those eyes, those damned red eyes, glowing like embers. But there is no fire left. Just cold, dead light, staring at nothing, staring at everything, staring right through him. And he is frozen. Because those eyes, they are focused on him, on every failure, every loss, and it is him. It is all him, and he knows it, oh, he knows it too well.
Cheonma. That name, that cursed name. That name that is carved into his bones. That haunts every breath, every thought, every single godforsaken moment. The demon who took everything, ripped it all away, left him with nothing but these memories, this rage, this endless, endless rage.
Quinming does not want to think anymore. Just act. Just do. So he does. He lifts his foot, feeling the weight of it, the gravity, and slams it down hard. The crunch, oh, the sickening, satisfying crunch as bones give way. The skull shattering, turning into dust, into nothing but dirt. Dirt slipping through his toes, slipping away like everything else. Like everyone else.
But as the dust settles, a question cuts through the haze. Does it have to be this way? The butterfly hovers, a quiet insistence in the periphery of his vision. For a split second, Quinming considers, maybe, just maybe, there is a way out.
This thought and the satisfaction is fleeting as the ground beneath him begins to disintegrate, the earth crumbling away like the shattered skull. It opens into a yawning abyss. And he is falling too. No ground left to stand on, no solid footing. Just the abyss, just darkness, just nothingness pulling him down, and up there a violet butterfly, just floating, flapping those fragile wings. So delicate. So alive, in this empty, dying world. And it is all fading. The sky, the blood, the earth. Everything, just bleeding away. Vanishing. And there is nothing left, nothing at all.
~~~
Quinming jerks awake, sweat coating his forehead. He stares at his small, unblemished hand—unfamiliar and wrong. “These aren’t my hands...”
Disoriented, his eyes scan the dark, musky room, the shadows flickering in the dim light beneath the door - the only source of illumination for the cramped storage room. The overpowering smell of fresh linen and cleaning products surrounds him, smothering him.
Distant sounds of preparations for the evening’s activities—footsteps, muffled voices, and occasional laughter—seep through the walls, reminding him of where he is.
"Oh, right. From Plum Sword Sovereign to brothel brat. What a cruel joke.” He sighs, covering his eyes with his arm, struggling to shake off the nightmarish vision.
The door to the storage room is thrown open, uncaring of his state of mind. Blinding light floods in, casting harsh shadows on the walls. In the doorway, a child's silhouette bursts in, tossing a dirty rag at him.
"Get up, lazy bastard!" Xiao Yu's shrill voice rattles his ears. "Madam Li demands a roll call."
He peeks at her from under his arm. A thirteen-year-old child, with a face that promises future beauty, glares at him, as if his existence is an affront to her.
He lets out a low chuckle, the sound dripping with bitterness.
“Ah, Xiao Yu, always a pleasure to be woken by your dulcet tones.” He slowly sits up, brushing the sweat from his forehead. “Remind me, is this the part where I start dancing for our dear Madam Li?”
Xiao Yu huffs, crossing her arms. “Stop with your lame jokes, Quinming. Just get up already.”
Quinming stretches, his joints protesting with small cracks. “Don’t worry, I’m up. Wouldn’t want to keep the illustrious Madam Li waiting.” He lays there staring at his unfamiliar hand. ‘Another day, another chance to pretend this is all perfectly normal.’
She covers her mouth and scoffs. "Wonder how many whippings you will get this time."
She leaves, just as suddenly as she appeared, the sound of her footsteps fading down the hall.
He grumbles, “Damn, I need a drink,” the weight of his new reality pressing down on him.
Covering his face with his hands, he rolls onto his stomach on the small bed, nearly falling off. The bed creaks. His body aches, a stark reminder of his new, fragile body. He groans.
‘I am Quinming, right? The Sword of Huashun. The Plum Sword Sovereign. A master above all masters? I toyed with rivals and crushed their wills. I even cut off Cheonma's head and saved the world. Didn't I?’
And yet, here he is—an old master trapped in the weak body of a fourteen-year-old orphaned brothel brat, enduring the scoldings of ‘Little Tyrant’, Xiao Yu, a sharp-tongued shrew of a child.
A surge of anger wells within him, his fists clenching the bedding as he struggles to regain his calm. ‘If only I could cultivate, 'reeducating' a foul-mouthed brat would be nothing. But without qi, my options are limited.’
But he could not. The binding seal that trapped him in the brothel also blocked his ability to gather energy, leaving him powerless. ‘I need to find a way to break this seal.’ He scratches his wrist where the mark is.
He takes deep breaths. Losing composure would not help. He had learned this bitter lesson during his first week here, nearly three months ago. The scars on his back bear harsh testimony to the punishments he endured for daring to resist.
But how long must he bear this humiliation?
Quinming pushes himself off the bed, wincing as his muscles protest. ‘Adapt and survive,’ he reminds himself, a mantra that has kept him going through countless battles and trials. ‘Find a way to turn the tables. There’s always a way.’
Rolling his shoulders to ease the stiffness, he stands, feeling the oppressive weight of his frail, qi-less form. His cold eyes stare at his small, powerless hands. Living without qi was an ordeal he never imagined. Once arrogant and willful, he now cannot shrug off the beatings with this weak body.
‘This body is a damn prison,’ he thinks, clenching his fists. "Just a little longer," he muttered, the words a mix of a promise and a curse. "Until I find a way out.”
Moving with swift, practiced urgency, he dons his simple, well-kept attire. He wraps the inner robe tightly around himself, secures it with a sash, and tightens his belt, feeling the smooth fabric firm under his fingers. Despite his lowly position, the clothes are designed to meet the brothel's high standards of appearance.
Quinming strides to the small table beside his bed, picking up the brush with an air of begrudging familiarity. The ritual still feels foreign, like a borrowed habit. Strange. Brother Zhi had often chastised him for neglecting his appearance, and now here he is, dutifully attending to it.
A sigh escapes him as he ties his long black hair and straightens his clothes, a reflection of his forced compliance.
"Look at me now, Brother Zhi," he mutters with a dark chuckle. "All dressed up and nowhere to go. If only you could see me now."
The room’s silence presses in on him, heavy and suffocating. Quinming casts one last glance at the seal on his wrist, determination hardening in his gaze.
“I will break free,” he vows quietly. “One way or another.”
Quinming steps out of the storage room into the bustling brothel, the air thick with the scents of perfume and food. Sounds of preparation for the night’s activities fill the air—maids scurrying about, courtesans laughing and chatting, and the distant clinking of glasses blending into a chaotic symphony.
He navigates through the chaos, keeping his head down to avoid drawing attention. His cool gaze takes it all in, the place alive with a feverish, lustful energy that makes his skin crawl.
‘Every detail matters. I must remain vigilant.’
As he moves through the corridors, Quinming's sharp eyes and ears catch snippets of conversations—complaints about clients, gossip about rival brothels, and occasional bursts of laughter.
‘Information is power. I need every edge I can get.’ Mentally he catalogs useful information, always assessing his surroundings for potential escape routes or useful alliances. But today, like every day before, shows no promise.
This place. He hates it. All of it. His heart aches to return and rebuild what was lost.
‘Patience is my weapon. I will not remain here forever.’
He is Quinming. The Sword of Huashun. The Plum Sword Sovereign. And he will rise again.
~~~~
Quinming missed the morning meal. Again. Not that it mattered. In a brothel, 'morning' was a flexible concept—whenever the hangover wore off and the regret settled in.
Only the unlucky drew morning shifts and woke before noon. Today, that misfortune worked in his favor.
He stands in the semicircle of staff, sneaking bites of a hot meat bun Lan slipped him.
‘Resourceful kid, knows how to keep me going.’ Adorable top, if it was not so damn pathetic—a nine-year-old playing nursemaid to a relic like him. Irony at its finest.
But Quinming had thick skin, toughened by Sect Master Zhong Zhi’s relentless roars and scoldings. Those days felt almost nostalgic now—at least then, he had a purpose beyond scrubbing tables and fetching drinks.
One of the staff members, an older woman with a face like a worn-out shoe, gives him a sidelong glance. "You missed breakfast again."
"Don't worry," Quinming replies, holding up the half-eaten bun. "Lan's got me covered. Besides, I'm trying to maintain my figure."
A few chuckles ripple through the group. Humor, dark or otherwise, was the only way to get through days like these.
The brothel's head housekeeper, a stern woman with a sharp tongue, eyes him critically. "You know, Quinming, if you actually showed up for your meals, you might have a bit more energy."
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"Ah, but where’s the fun in that?" Quinming retorts, leaning casually against the wall. "Besides, I get all the energy I need from these delightful morning pep talks."
Lan, hovering nearby, looks at him with a mix of admiration and concern. Quinming ruffles the girl's hair, giving her a rare genuine smile. "Thanks for the bun, kid. You're a lifesaver. Now go, wait for your mother."
She beams, and Quinming cannot help but feel a pang of guilt. This life was not meant for someone so young, so innocent. But then again, innocence was a luxury few could afford. He chews, savoring the hot filling, his cheeks bulging. The warmth spreads through his chest—a fleeting comfort in a place that offers little else.
Courtesans come down the stairs in colorful dresses exchanging looks—some glaring with thinly veiled contempt, others, like Lan’s mother, casting worried glances his way. ‘Their resentment is understandable. They see me as a threat, or worse, a burden. Don’t worry, ladies. The washed-up warrior isn’t planning a rebellion. Not yet, anyway.’
The little tyrant smirks, gesturing like Quinming’s about to get into trouble.
‘Youth’s boldness. A double-edged sword. Yes, yes. Think you're funny, huh, brat?’
Sweet little Lan waves frantically, urging him to put the food away.
‘Clever girl, understanding the risk. Calm down, Lan'er, your hairpins are gonna fall off with all that waving. You're just making me more obvious.' He snorts, trying not to choke on his laughter. 'Great, reduced to a rat, scurrying for scraps. What a life.’
Ignoring her, he notes the courtesans’ elaborate hairpins and intricate embroidery. The room smells of incense, perfume, and the faint scent of last night’s spilled wine mingling with the constant aroma of desperation. ‘The façade of luxury, hiding the rot beneath.’
Three months ago, he walked down these stairs like a naive idiot. Now, the flashy lies and fake smiles make him sick. Women and girls, traded for coins, catering to sleazy men with too much lust and too little shame. The luxury makes the rot more glaring—a world where pretty faces mask broken souls and freedom is just another lie they sell.
‘Disillusionment hits hard when the veil is lifted.’
In Taoism, humans strive to transcend earthly desires to attain spiritual enlightenment. Quinming used to think it was all hogwash from uppity old men who loved to hear themselves talk, droning on and on about ideals and illusions. But now, seeing the grim reality of this brothel, he finds himself begrudgingly agreeing with those damn windbags.
'Maybe they were onto something,' he thinks, watching the hollow eyes and forced smiles. 'All that talk about detachment and enlightenment... Maybe it’s just a fancy way of saying, "don’t get sucked into this cesspool."'
He lets out a sardonic chuckle. 'Funny how clarity comes when you're neck-deep in filth.'
What a twisted joke—trapped in a place where the only thing more broken than the people are the promises whispered in the dark. All he can do is dream of a past that no longer exists, yearning for the shackles that once felt unbearable.
‘Sometimes, I wonder if enlightenment is just a fancy word for apathy,’ he muses. ‘Or maybe it’s the ultimate con—convincing yourself that you’re above all this when really, you’re just too numb to care.’
A wry smile plays on his lips as he eats. “Well, here’s to spiritual enlightenment,” he mutters, raising an imaginary glass to the empty air. “May we all be so lucky to become blissfully detached from this beautiful nightmare.”
As the double doors swing open, Madam Li and Auntie Mei stride in with the grace and authority of queens. ‘Here comes the real show.’
Quinming hastily shoves the rest of the meat bun into his mouth, chewing furiously as the room falls silent. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, striving to appear nonchalant.
Madam Li’s elegance is undeniable, her immaculate attire complemented by a jade necklace that catches the light in hues of orange and crimson, a stark contrast to her otherwise dark demeanor. With her youthful appearance, she commands the room with a single glance, looking like a girl on the cusp of womanhood. Her deep violet silk robes, embroidered with gold, send ripples through the fabric with each movement. Her ebony hair, adorned with jade pins and delicate flowers, enhances her regal presence.
Despite being at least sixty, she looks too young. Astonishingly so. But in a fake sort of way that is hard to explain. You look at her, see a flawless young woman, and yet feel the old hag beneath.
Quinming had heard whispers about Madam Li and her ties to the Hao Sect, their secret techniques for preserving youth and beauty well known even a hundred and fifty years ago. Was that the reason for the faint shadow of worry lingering in her eyes, an unspoken tension behind her flawless facade? Supposedly, she cultivated a method that kept her looking untouched by time, but at what cost?
He chuckles to himself. "Youthful immortality. Bet that comes with one hell of a price tag. Probably her soul, if she's got one left," he mutters under his breath. Some people will do anything to avoid the inevitable.
The irony of the situation is not lost on him.
In his first life, Taoist techniques kept him looking like a man in his prime even at eighty-nine. Of course, there were sacrifices. And yet, here is Madam Li, with her ageless beauty—looking like she is barely eighteen. The whispers about Hao Sect’s methods only fueled his cynicism.
“Today, just like every day before, must be flawless,” she states, her gaze firm and resolute. One would think they were going to battle. “Perfection is our standard. We cannot afford any mistakes, especially now.”
“Especially from you, Quin-Quin.” Auntie Mei, Madam Li's hands and feet in the brothel, snaps her fan open, her eyes narrowing on Quinming like a hawk spotting its prey.
Quinming yawns, scratching his head. He does not bother listening to the rest of her speech as he thinks, ‘Old hag’s already on the warpath, huh? She’d keel over if she knew half the stuff I pulled in the sect. Now I’m getting scolded like a naughty kid. If only she knew.’
Madam Li’s gaze sweeps over the staff, a reminder of the high standards she demands. She reaches the end and Quinming tunes back in.
“You all know your roles. Make sure tonight is perfect.” Her eyes linger on Quinming, drilling into him. “Especially you.”
He freezes mid-scratch, attempting to straighten his shoulders. The servants around him snicker, hiding behind their luxurious sleeves. Quinming files away their reactions, categorizing each person based on their behavior.
“Bunch of cowards,’ he thinks, forcing himself not to glare back. ‘But their reactions are telling. I need to remember who shows fear and who hides disdain. It might be useful later.’
“Damn it,” he mutters under his breath, loathing the feeling of being singled out, twice at that by both women.
As the staff disperses, Quinming reflects. ‘Three months here, and I still can’t get used to restraining myself. Adaptation is key, but it grates on my nerves.’
But he has no choice. He is stuck here.
Quinming rubs the binding seal on his wrist, the skin rough and irritated from his constant scratching. Auntie Mei’s voice echoes in his mind, her reprimands a constant reminder of his failed escape attempts.
‘Each failure teaches a lesson. I would need to rethink my strategies if I wasn't right on track. But damn it. At this rate, I’ll be the master of creative failures. Maybe I should write a book: "How Not to Escape a Brothel.”’ He smirks.
Like the time he climbed the outer walls, got stuck halfway on broken plaster, dangling like a caught fish until laughing courtesans found him. Or when he fashioned a makeshift rope from linens, only for it to snap, landing him in Madam Li's prized rose bushes while she was having her ritualistic morning tea.
And no one would forget his grand idea of disguising himself as a courtesan, only to be caught by Auntie Mei. Her lecture on 'appropriate attire' was more brutal than any sword fight. 'If I ever see you in that dress again, I'll make sure it's your permanent uniform!' she had threatened. Really, it was avant-garde fashion, just ahead of its time.
‘Each was a miscalculation, but valuable in its own way.’
The weight of his failures presses on his mind, but even he cannot help but laugh at his own ridiculous antics. ‘Each attempt reveals weaknesses—in their security and in my approach. Of course, If only my sect brothers’ could see me now, they'd probably keel over. Not sure if it’d be from laughter or horror,’ he mused.
He is confident he can survive this. ‘Survival is more than just physical endurance; it’s about outthinking them. This time, it’s a mental game. Got plenty of experience from past life. But... how frustrating. The people here wouldn’t recognize greatness even if it danced naked before them. They might not see a living legend, but I don’t need their recognition. What matters is escaping this with my sanity intact.’
“Well, if losing my mind is what it takes to escape this circus, then I’ll be the craziest damn Taoist they’ve ever seen.”
~~~~
Quinming slips through the bustling common area, his footsteps ghostly silent on the polished wooden floor.
Old habits die hard, even in a place like this.
The room buzzes with activity. Courtesans float between tables like playful bees, their chiming laughter intertwining with the gentle plucking of the guzheng and the percussive strumming of the pipa.
He covers his nose with his large sleeve and sneezes. The air is thick with the scent of jasmine, sandalwood, and a hint of something exotic—the brothel's signature fragrance.
‘The air is suffocating,’ he thinks, his brow furrowing in disgust.
Rubbing his nose, he approaches a recently vacated table cluttered with half-empty cups and scattered food. His wicker basket lands with a thud.
“Imagine being a sword master, revered and respected, now cleaning up after drunks,” he mutters, half frustrated, half amused. ‘Adapt and survive. That’s the only way forward. Yet, it still feels like a joke.’
Quinming scowls, swiftly gathering the remnants. He pours leftover alcohol into a vase, dumps the uneaten food into a bucket, and wipes the table clean.
‘Efficiency is key,’ he reminds himself, moving to the next table and repeating his actions.
Quinming moves with haunted grace, his gaze wandering as he overhears snippets of conversations—political intrigue, gossip, laughter. Each fragment offers a glimpse into the world beyond this flowery hell. As he carries his burdens towards another table, he feels a light bump against his shoulder.
He turns to see a girl with wide, curious green eyes. She offers a quick, apologetic smile before slipping past him, her presence barely registering amidst the chaos.
For a brief moment, Quinming watches her. ‘There's something familiar about her,’ he muses, shaking his head.
The room, adorned with silk paintings of serene landscapes and elegant courting scenes, and etched pillars glittering with gold, is but a deceptive mask for the twisted, sorrowful misery that lurks beneath.
"Faster, Quin-Quin,” teases Lian, the ‘Blooming Lotus,’ tapping his head with her fan. "Auntie Mei is watching you."
At the mention of the old hag, Quinming glances up at the stern woman overseeing the brothel from the third floor.
Her gaze promises whippings.
"Well, wouldn’t want to disappoint our dear Auntie Mei,” he mutters, a wry smile playing on his lips. “She lives for these little moments of joy.”
Lian winks at him before greeting a group of young men. “Young masters, Lian is honored to welcome such esteemed guests,” her tone is light and airy while she gives a bow. “How may this humble Blooming Lotus bring joy to your evening?" Her eyes twinkle with warmth and mischief, drawing them into her enchanting web.
Quinming shakes his head.
‘She's going to eat them alive,’ he thinks, knowing Lian's playful and mischievous nature. Her pranks, while harmless, often leave him embarrassed.
The memory of the bath prank comes flooding back, causing his shoulders to tremble with barely contained laughter.
It had started innocently enough. Quinming had been looking forward to a rare moment of relaxation in the bathhouse, a reprieve from the chaos and endless demands of the brothel. The water was just the right temperature, steam rising in delicate tendrils as he settled in with a contented sigh.
Unbeknownst to him, Lian had orchestrated a scheme with her usual finesse. She had replaced the usual bath oils with a concoction of her own making – a slippery, soap-sudsy blend that made the tiles treacherous underfoot.
As Quinming reclined, eyes closed, savoring the peace, the door creaked open. Assuming it was one of the attendants, he paid it no mind. That was until he heard the unmistakable giggle of Lian, a sound that immediately set his nerves on edge.
Before he could react, a bucket of cold water splashed over him, shocking him into action. He sprang up, only to find his footing was less than secure. His feet skidded on the soapy floor, arms pinwheeling as he tried to regain balance. The more he flailed, the worse it got, his attempts to steady himself only resulting in more soap being lathered onto his skin.
Lian, meanwhile, stood just outside the door, peeking in with a mischievous grin, her eyes dancing with delight. “Quinming, you look like a fish out of water,” she teased, her laughter ringing out.
Quinming finally managed to grab hold of a bench, hauling himself upright, drenched and covered in suds. “Lian!” he barked, trying to sound authoritative, but the effect was ruined by the soap bubble that floated up from his mouth as he spoke.
She just laughed harder, retreating down the hallway before he could even think about retaliation. “Consider it a lesson in humility,” she called back, her voice echoing.
Returning to the present, Quinming glances at the group of young men. "Poor fools," he thinks, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "They have no idea what they've walked into."
He clears his throat, trying to regain his composure and watches as Lian engages them with her usual charm, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Quinming cannot help but chuckle softly. The young men are already ensnared, oblivious to the playful chaos that Lian thrives on.
Tonight she has prepared meticulously. Her silk outfit, a flowing robe and skirt ensemble in soft pastel hues, is adorned with delicate lotus flower embroidery. The skirt sways with her every movement, revealing glimpses of her slender legs. Intricate lotus petal hairpins decorate her hair, and a touch of rouge enhances her beauty, making her appear as ethereal as her namesake.
‘All that effort for a bunch of lecherous drunks.’ He watches her tenderize them. ‘Lies. All of it lies. She's just a coy spider. They're all coy spiders.’ But he cannot find fault in it. Even spiders have to eat to survive.
A new group of patrons swagger into the brothel, their laughter loud and confident. Quinming forces himself to focus, hands clenching and flexing as he battles the urge to throttle these strutting peacocks. Each one more annoying than the last, with their exaggerated gestures and booming voices, like roosters strutting in a henhouse.
‘Fresh meat,’ he thinks, observing their behavior with a critical eye. ‘Nothing like a bunch of cocksure idiots to brighten the evening.’
Shaking his head, he finishes his tasks and carries his burdens towards the back kitchens. As he walks down the hallway, he overhears three servants he does not recognize, huddled together and whispering conspiratorially.
"I heard she’s trying to break free from some old ties. Dangerous business if you ask me," one of them says, casting nervous glances around.
Quinming's ears perk up at the mention of Madam Li. He slows his pace, pretending to adjust his load to catch more of their conversation.
"Yeah, but who knows if she can pull it off," another servant adds. "She’s been under their thumb for so long."
"Better her than us," the third one mutters. "You don't mess with those people and come out unscathed."
Quinming furrows his brow, storing away this tidbit of information for later contemplation. He continues towards the back kitchens, his mind now occupied with thoughts of Madam Li's secret struggle.
As he passes the large lattice windows, his gaze catches on the garden beyond, where plum blossoms float serenely in the koi pond.
His steps slow, then halt, as memories tug at him.
“Plum trees...” His voice drifts wistfully. ‘Once a symbol of resilience. Now, just a reminder of everything I’ve lost.’
This is not the first time they have caught his eye. And each time, he cannot help but feel a heavy longing. ‘Stay focused, Quinming. Sentimentality won’t help here.’
In the secluded hallway, he sets down his load and snatches the vase of leftover liquor. With no care, he guzzles the mixed alcohol. His face contorts at the horrid taste, but he does not stop. ‘I need to numb this, even if just for a moment.”
All he needs is the burn, to feel it scorch down his throat and settle like molten lead in his gut.
His throat bobs.
The murky liquid trickles down his chin and drips onto his chest. Quinming gasps and wipes his mouth, a shuddering breath escaping him. With half-lidded eyes, he watches the plum blossoms float, their delicate dance thrilling and painful. He takes another gulp, his gaze fixed on the pink and white petals.
“I like the red ones better,” he says into the stuffy silence.
Red, like the petals that bloomed from the edge of his sword. Red, like the sky burning crimson at sunset. Red, like fresh blood.
‘Sharp and deadly. Just like I used to be.’
“Red ones?” a voice parrots, startling Quinming from his reverie.
He sputters, nearly dropping the vase in surprise. “What the-?!”
Lan stands beside him, her brown eyes wide with curiosity as she picks up the food scraps bucket. “What red ones?”
“Darn girl, don’t sneak up on an old man like that. You’ll give him a heart attack.”
Hastily recovering, he follows her with the basket. ‘Stay alert, old fool. You can’t afford distractions.’
“Big brother, you're only five years older than me.” She points out with a pout.
“Right...” He chuckles, a bit awkward.
“So what red ones?”
He blinks, face blank. Then, realizing what she is talking about, he says, “Plum blossoms.”
“They come in red?”
He frowns. “The ones on Mount Hua do.”
She gives him a puzzled look, unsure how he knows this when both of them have never set foot outside the brothel walls. Both are ‘brothel born’, as the other servants who were sold into this place call them. But she leaves the lingering questions be.
Together, they dump the food and move the dirty dishes into giant tubs of soapy water. Their hands move in synchronized rhythm, washing and drying the dishes with practiced efficiency, placing them on shelves that groan under the weight.
Lan grabs the vase of leftover alcohol and sniffs it, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “That’s disgusting, you know.”
He shrugs, swiping it back and finishing the contents in one defiant gulp. “You get used to it,” he says, a hint of resignation in his voice.
Lan shakes her head, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “I hope not.”
They continue their chores, Quinming staying quiet while Lan chirps about the latest gossip she overheard. The weight of Quinming’s thoughts momentarily lightens by the simple, familiar routine and her innocent insights.
The kitchen manager’s voice slices through the air, sharp and commanding. “You two, food out!”
The aroma of roasted duck and steamed buns wafts through the kitchen, mingling with the heat and steam rising from the cooking fires. The weight of the food boxes strains their arms as they lift them, the heat seeping through the wooden containers.
In the dim hallway, they are halted by Lan’s mother, Xiuying, a courtesan known as the ‘Gentle Sparrow.’ She inspects her daughter’s clothes with a meticulous eye before turning her gaze to Quinming.
Her eyes fall upon his disheveled attire and the faint spill of alcohol on his shirt. With a knowing look, she dabs the spot with a scented handkerchief, her soft, melodic voice lightly scolding him.
“Quinming, you must be more careful,” she says, her tone gentle as she straightens his clothes and smooths his hair with a mother’s touch. ‘Strange, this sense of care. Not something I’m used to.’
He never had a mother. He was an orphan, left as a baby at the door of the sect in his previous life. While the sect had women, they were few and far from motherly.
He stands still, absorbing the unfamiliar sensation. The kindness in her touch contrasts sharply with the harshness of his reality, momentarily softening the ragged thoughts in his mind. ‘Kindness can be a powerful, disarming tool.’
Her hand rests on top of his head.
“Okay, Quin'er? Madam Li’s been on edge lately, and you don’t want to push her too far. Now hurry up; those men will start complaining if we take any longer.” She waves them out.
Her slow, measured steps follow behind them.
Weaving to a table in the center near the girls playing music on the stage, Xiuying greets three middle-aged men. Merchants, Quinming guesses, judging by their fine clothes and dazzling jewelry that scream wealth and self-importance.
‘Ah, the glitterati of greed,’ he thinks, suppressing a smirk. ‘Only here can you find men who look like they've raided a treasure chest and decided to wear it all at once. As usual appearances are deceiving; their wealth doesn't equate to wisdom.’
He watches with half-closed eyes at their comical display as they exaggerate politeness and puff out their chests. ‘It’s a wonder they don’t clink when they walk.’
As Quinming sets the food down, the merchants resume their heated discussion about a new rice farming policy the government has just passed.
"It's outrageous! This policy will ruin small farmers,” one merchant, a portly man with a jade ring on every finger, exclaims, pounding the table for emphasis. The thud resonates through the room, drawing glances from nearby patrons
"True, but it favors the larger estates. We can benefit from this if we play our cards right," another merchant, lean and sharp-eyed, counters with a sly grin. His fingers tap a rhythm on his cup, each beat grating on Quinming’s nerves.
Steam blasts Quinming’s face as he opens the containers. His stomach grumbles, a cruel reminder of his own hunger as he serves others. The aroma of roasted duck and steamed buns wafts through the air, uniting with the subtle scents of spices, freshly brewed tea, and spiced liquor.
Nearby, a table of younger men, peacocks in gaudy robes with elaborate embroidery, chatter loudly about recent scuffles in the martial world, their voices grating on Quinming’s nerves. He rolls his eyes, resisting the urge to enlighten them on the realities of real combat.
"A new group of mercenaries has emerged," one of the young men says, his voice carrying over the din. "They hail from a fallen sect."
"Which sect?" another asks, curiosity practically dripping from his voice as he opens his fan and flutters it before his lips.
Quinming sizes him up, instantly irritated. ‘Great, another Zhuge clan reject,’ he laments. ‘Lanky scholar type, convinced he's the smartest guy in the room just because he can twirl a fan. Bet he spends more time memorizing poetry than practicing fan arts. Heaven help us if he ever tries to fight with it instead of just looking pompous.’
"You know, the sect that was famous back during the demon wars," the first man says, drawing out his words with a dramatic flair.
He takes a deliberate sip from his cup, pausing just long enough to make everyone lean in a little closer. “What was it again? They had flowers as their symbol,” he sneers, eyes gleaming as he watches his audience lean in, hanging on his every word. "Yeah, flowers. Real tough, right?"
He smirks, enjoying the attention and the chance to belittle something he clearly knows nothing about.
Quinming jerks, the plate in his hand crashing into a merchant's cup. He barely catches it before it tips over. "Sorry," he mumbles, frantically wiping the spill, his ears locked onto the young man's conversation.
His movements hurried and tense, the revelation gnawing at him.
Huashun—his old sect. The only one with flowers as their symbol. Could it be a new sect that fell? No, they mentioned the demon wars. It has to be his sect. It must be.
The younger men laugh. The speaker grins, leaning back, his voice dripping with derision. "Yeah, get this. The sect fell due to debt. How ridiculous. They were recently kicked out of their mountain temple.”
He pauses again for effect, taking a slow sip from his cup, enjoying the power he holds over his listeners. "Can you believe it? Flower warriors reduced to beggar mercenaries!"
His eyes gleam with smug satisfaction, thoroughly enjoying making everyone hang on his every exaggerated, scornful word.
The smell of roasted meat clashes with the bitter taste of rising anger. Quinming's hands tremble as he wipes the spill, each motion a struggle against the storm brewing within him. The chatter around him fades as he grapples with the grim news about his sect, the weight pressing heavily on his chest.
His mind whirls with urgency. ‘I have to get out of here,’ he vows, the need to act burning fiercely in his chest.
Gathering the empty food containers, he hurries, as if fleeing the weight of his thoughts. Shadows cast by the flickering lanterns deepen the lines on his face, and his eyes gleam with steely resolve.
‘I will return.’