Chapter 14: Seeking a Kindred Spirit Amid Ink and Verse

The late summer breeze and drifting clouds carried a hint of languor, the azure sky reflected in the secluded Eastern Court, adding to the atmosphere of ease. Sunlight filtered gently through the window into the study, its former fierceness long faded, leaving behind only a tender, lingering warmth.

Much like the tranquil light in Yun Ci’s eyes.

Han Chu met his gaze calmly, her thoughts lingering on the words “Emerging from the Clouds.” After a moment, as if suddenly recalling something, she drew a crumpled sheet of paper from her sleeve and unfolded it before Yun Ci.

Upon the page was a long poem, entitled “The Broken Scarlet Strings”:

“Banquets and wine overflow among guests,
Their laughter and coyness but masks for praise.
Suddenly, word arrives—the beauty, her soul has fled,
Courtiers lament, startled by her fall from grace.
Still, her jade bangles ring in memory’s ear,
Their music circling beams, subtle and clear.
Falling petals, flowing water bear tales to distant shores,
Lotuses weep with dew, orchids smile in tears.
Such exquisite craft belongs to souls like hers,
One song, and the heart breaks on Wushan’s heights.
Hearts value profit, despise what’s light,
All creation goes quiet, the world is hard.
I, denied the fated union of zither and flute,
You ascend the clouds, playing on high.
No more will the world know such passionate love,
Let celestial music not draw tears from mortal eyes.”

At the poem’s end, there was a small note: “Written upon hearing, in the Drunken Flower Pavilion, of Han Chu’s passing, in grief and remembrance.”

Yun Ci read the poem carefully, then sighed, “Though the meter is not perfectly matched nor the couplets strictly paired, it moves with genuine feeling. It is a fine poem.”

He murmured the name in the note, then looked at Han Chu, who stood quietly by the desk. “Was Han Chu a courtesan?”

She nodded silently.

Seeing the sorrow on her face, Yun Ci was puzzled. “What is it you wish to say?”

Han Chu pondered, then pointed to the word “denied” in the poem, silently asking its meaning.

Yun Ci immediately understood. “This character is pronounced ‘qian,’ meaning ‘to lack’ or ‘to be deprived of.’”

A trace of emotion crossed Han Chu’s face. Her lips parted and she mouthed three words: “The Young Marquis?”

Yun Ci shook his head. “Zi Feng practices Wei stele calligraphy, his hand is strong and bold. This poem is written in cursive script, with sweeping changes—clearly not his work.”

He glanced again at the poem in his hand and continued, “Besides, it says ‘I, denied the fated union of zither and flute,’ but to my knowledge, Zi Feng cannot play the flute.”

At these words, disappointment flickered across Han Chu’s face and she fell silent once more.

Yun Ci, seeing her expression, explained further, “Zi Feng is indeed a man of charm, but not truly a scholar. He is skilled in martial arts. If Marquis Wenchang were not so protective, Zi Feng would have long been sent to the army for training. I hear the Emperor holds his military insights in high regard and has adopted him as a foster son.”

Having finished, Yun Ci noticed Han Chu was still lost in thought over the poem and returned it with a smile. “You young ladies are all sentimental—Dan Xin once wept for days over a storybook. Indeed, this poem recounts a poignant romance.”

But Han Chu did not seem to hear him. Her gaze was cast down, her thoughts drifting back to “The Broken Scarlet Strings.” If the poem was not written by Shen Yu, then by whom? She recalled Shen Yu’s inexplicable anger the night before, and his mention of encountering Helian Qi at the banquet.

Yet Han Chu was certain the poem was not Helian Qi’s. She had followed him for half a year and knew him well enough—though he appreciated music, he was not skilled with instruments.

Her mind turned these matters over and over before she finally took up brush and paper, writing to Yun Ci: “Which young gentleman in Jingzhou is known for his flute playing?”

Yun Ci glanced at the question and replied honestly, “I am not from Jingzhou, nor do I often mingle with noble families, so I do not know.”

As he said this, a name came to mind. He added with a gentle smile, “But the Ninth Prince of South Xi is famous for his flute—it is known throughout the land. His name is Nie Peixiao, and he is said never to part with his flute.”

The Ninth Prince, Nie Peixiao? Could it be him? If she remembered correctly, on the day Han Chu was formally introduced, the Ninth Prince had attended in disguise, determined to win her favor. Yet at that time, her heart was set on Helian Qi, and she had insisted on choosing him as her patron. Fortunately, the Ninth Prince had shown great grace and did not use his rank to compel her.

That was half a year ago, and she had heard nothing of the Ninth Prince since. Could the poem Shen Yu brought back last night have been written by him?

Never mind—there was no sense in dwelling on the poet now. After all, “Han Chu” was dead; she was now “Emerging from the Clouds.”

With this thought, Han Chu lowered her eyes again to the poem in her hands.

“Banquets and wine overflow among guests,
Their laughter and coyness but masks for praise.” For some reason, upon reading this line, Han Chu felt the poet’s emptiness—he must have known well that the entertainments between nobles were mostly hollow and insincere.

She suddenly wished to hear Yun Ci’s interpretation of the poem, so she wrote, “May I ask for your thoughts on this poem?” and handed it to him.

Yun Ci did not refuse, but accepted the poem and said, “The lines ‘Falling petals, flowing water bear tales to distant shores, / Lotuses weep with dew, orchids smile in tears. / Such exquisite craft belongs to souls like hers, / One song, and the heart breaks on Wushan’s heights’ are high praise for Han Chu’s skill at the zither, stirring boundless imagination.”

He spoke with apparent casualness, yet there was a seriousness to his words. “But for genuine emotion, the final four lines stand out. Here, the image of a true soulmate emerges, and Han Chu’s music is elevated to the realm of the divine.”

“We, as mere onlookers, can only sigh upon reading this poem. If Han Chu were still alive, she would surely be deeply moved. Mark my words—if this poem is ever passed down, the last four lines will be cherished for generations.”

Having finished his critique, he smiled and asked Han Chu, “Which line do you favor?”

Han Chu returned to herself, meeting Yun Ci’s gaze—a gaze clear as a spring, its depths shimmering. For reasons she could not explain, a strange feeling stirred in her heart. She paused, then remembered his question. With a slender finger, she pointed to a line on the page—

“Hearts value profit, despise what’s light,
All creation goes quiet, the world is hard.”

Seeing her choice, Yun Ci frowned slightly, the look he gave her tinged with thoughtfulness.

Han Chu met his eyes without flinching, her lips moving silently.

Yun Ci understood: “If Han Chu were alive, she would also choose this line.”

For a courtesan, indeed it was so. Yun Ci nodded in agreement. “In that case, the poet was truly Han Chu’s soulmate.”

Yes! He truly was her soulmate. With a single phrase, he had struck her deepest wound, raw and bleeding.

Han Chu thought, if she had been born into a noble family, she would not have been cast aside and scorned. Even as a commoner, she might have shared a respectful union with her husband. But she had been born into a world of fleeting pleasure...

“Hearts value profit, despise what’s light,
All creation goes quiet, the world is hard.” How true these words rang, especially coming from the hand of a noble’s son—how rare that was.

Though her past was bitter to recall, reading this poem brought Han Chu a measure of comfort. She knew in her heart she would never meet the poet in this life—and even if she did, they would surely pass each other by as strangers.

Lost in thought, Han Chu felt her eyes swell with tears, a faint sting rising to her nose. Her grip on the poem tightened, as if gathering up the scattered pieces of her heart—already trampled by the frivolities of the pleasure world.

She sniffed softly, then tucked the poem into her sleeve with great care. This vulnerable gesture did not escape Yun Ci’s notice, and he offered her a gentle consolation. “Life is short—why dwell on the sorrows of others, or wound yourself with grief?”

Han Chu looked up at him, her eyes already shimmering with unshed tears.

Yun Ci, for his part, assumed Han Chu was simply moved by tales of parted lovers, as Dan Xin had always been.

He sighed and patiently tried to comfort her: “Even if Han Chu were still alive, she would not have inspired ‘The Broken Scarlet Strings.’ It was only in her tragic passing that she found this soulmate. All the most beautiful sorrows in the world are forged from blood and tears—so perhaps it’s better not to have them at all.”

At these words, Han Chu fell silent again. Indeed, if it required her death to earn someone’s understanding, she would rather live alone.

She had never been a girl prone to melancholy. Since Qin’er’s death, she cherished life above all else.

Master Yun was right—“All the most beautiful sorrows in the world are forged from blood and tears—so perhaps it’s better not to have them at all.” That night, when she furiously cast aside her zither, had she not proven this truth?

At the very least, in this sense, Master Yun could be considered her kindred spirit—though his understanding was given to “Emerging from the Clouds,” not to Han Chu.

Thinking thus, Han Chu could not help but sigh inwardly, and once more took up her brush. “To find a true soulmate in this world is nothing short of a miracle.”

She wrote the words with all her heart, as if pouring all her joys and sorrows, her triumphs and disappointments, into them—a farewell to her past.

“A miracle…” Yun Ci lifted his gaze from the page and looked at Han Chu.

Sometimes, the world is wondrous in its mysteries. Many may spend a lifetime together and never truly know one another; yet some, in a single conversation, are as if they have known each other for ages.

“To be as strangers after years together, or as old friends at first meeting”—perhaps that was the truth of it. In this moment, Yun Ci silently recited Han Chu’s words, and something began to grow quietly in his heart, silent yet nourishing, like rain on new grass.

Noon was approaching, and the sunlight grew more intense, casting a golden veil over the mute girl before him. Yun Ci suddenly thought she shone with extraordinary radiance; for one brief instant, it seemed to pierce his eyes—dazzling, brilliant, overwhelming.

Perhaps it struck something deeper in his heart as well.

Yet Yun Ci was not aware of what that was—only that this scene would live on in his memory, vivid and fresh.

As for the word “soulmate,” it was far too weighty, not something everyone in this world could bear. Especially not a man like him, blessed with riches but destined for a short life—it was not something he dared to wish for.

He forced himself to rein in his thoughts, to abandon such illusions, but found he could not quite look away from Han Chu. He was reminded of their first meeting that night—how the plain, delicate girl had, beneath the hazy night sky and the garden’s beauty, resolutely cast aside her zither. The image lingered in his mind like a portrait: exquisite, peerless, unforgettable.

There was something he had wanted to ask her that night. At last, now, the question found its way to his lips...