Mo Lin's steps did not falter. His eyes lifted toward the mother-of-pearl screens for a second, watched dispassionately, and turned back to his table.
Then he heard her.
A girl's voice, sharp and authoritative.
Mo Lin's gaze flickered down to the corridor. More people were looking. The drunkard's friends were rising from their alcove.
A scene was inevitable. The only question was whether it would be a small one he could ignore, or a large one that would be
reported to the censorate by morning.
He sighed, very quietly, and finally set down his teacup. Then rose from his low table, straightened his sleeves once, and walked towards the sight of the commotion.
_________
Mu Ying's ladylike smile vanished, replaced by an icy glare. In a flash, she was across the corridor. She didn't shout; instead, her hand shot out like a striking viper, wrapping around the drunkard's wrist.
She squeezed.
Mu Ying knew exactly where the pressure points lay. The drunkard's eyes widened in sudden, agonizing shock. A sharp gasp escaped his lips as the strength drained from his fingers, forcing him to release Aihan and stumble backward, clutching his arm.
"Let go of her," Mu Ying said, her voice dangerously calm as she stepped between Aihan and the man.
"You crazy b—" The drunkard nursed his throbbing wrist, his face flushing crimson with rage. He looked at Mu Ying's simple, unadorned clothing and sneered. "Do you have any idea who I am? Boys!"
From a neighboring alcove, two of his heavily intoxicated companions stumbled out. Seeing their friend injured by a woman, they bared their teeth, cracking their knuckles and stepping forward to surround the two women.
Mu Ying didn't even blink. Her weight shifted subtly, her fingers curling into a relaxed but lethal stance beneath her wide sleeves.
She was entirely prepared to paint this cedar walkway with their blood.
When a figure gracefully took root in front of her.
"To harass virtuous women under the lanterns of the capital is immoral," a calm voice said, ringing with quiet aristocratic authority. "Won't you agree?"
Mo Lin. In his bamboo-green changpao, not a hair out of place.
"To dishonour your house through drunken carelessness is a stain your ancestors must wash," he continued. "It would be better to leave with whatever dignity you have left, before your name carries farther than you can walk."
The drunkard and his friends paused, blinking stupidly at the sudden appearance of a finely dressed scholar.
Behind Mo Lin's back, Mu Ying's jaw dropped. Her lethal stance deflated into pure annoyance. She stared at the back of this stranger's head, completely bewildered.
'Where did this guy come from?' she thought, her fists clenching in frustration. He wasn't saving her—he was getting in her way! If he hadn't jumped out like a righteous hero, she would have already broken the drunkard's jaw and tossed his friends over the railing.
Unbeknownst to Mo Lin, the entire Grand Music Pavilion, and the three thugs themselves, the young scholar had just bravely and completely involuntarily saved three drunken fools from being beaten black and blue.
'Fine,' Mu Ying thought, folding her arms. 'Let's see how you solve it.'. Deciding to watch how the spectacle will unfold.
The three thugs looked at each other, the heavy fog of alcohol momentarily lifting before being replaced by crude amusement.
"Listen to this bookworm!" the leader jeered, spitting onto the polished cedar floor. "He thinks his little jade stone and academy talk scare us. Go back to your desk, scholar, before we feed you those books for supper!"
His companions roared with laughter, one of them stepping close enough to deliberately brush his shoulder against Mo Lin's fine changpao. "Imperial decree? The magistrate? By the time the watchmen get here, we'll have broken your pretty face and taken these girls with us. What are you going to do, read us a poem?"
Behind Mo Lin, Mu Ying's eyes narrowed. Her fingers twitched. She was more than ready to step around this nuisance of a scholar and shatter the man's ribs.
But Mo Lin didn't flinch.
Instead, the soft, righteous light in his eyes vanished, replaced by a gaze so sharp and calculating it felt like the edge of a winter blade. A chilling smile touched his lips. He didn't raise his voice; he merely lowered it, speaking with an elegant, rhythmic cadence that made the rowdy corridor feel suddenly ice-cold.
"A poem? No," Mo Lin murmured, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. "But I can offer you a calculation. The man to your left is wearing a silk sash embroidered with the insignia of the Ministry of Public Works—likely a low-ranking clerk. You, sir," he eyed the leader, "savour the taste of aged Nu'er Hong, yet the dirt beneath your fingernails belongs to the western granaries. A transport supervisor, perhaps?"
The thugs' laughter died instantly. They froze, their faces paling under the red lanterns.
"It is a simple matter of record," Mo Lin continued smoothly, adjusting his sleeves with immaculate grace. "A brawl with an academy scholar results in immediate flaying and hard labor. But a sudden, unexplainable fire in the western granaries—or perhaps an audit into the Ministry's missing timber—carries a penalty of execution for an entire household. If you step forward, I will not fight you. I will simply ensure that by tomorrow's sunrise, the imperial inspectors discover exactly what you have been hiding in those ledgers. It is a fact that a man cannot enjoy his wine when his head is mounted on the city gates."
He delivered the venomous threat with the serene smile of a poet reciting verses about spring. There was no anger in his voice—only the terrifying, detached certainty of a man who possessed the power to ruin their lives with a single stroke of a brush.
The thugs stood entirely paralyzed, their bodies rigid with fear, completely sobered by the sheer malice hidden behind his flawless manners.
The corridor fell into a dead, suffocating silence.
Mu Ying's annoyance dissolved. She looked at the elegant tilt of his shoulders, the sharp intellect hidden under scholar's robes. Her lips curved into a slow, appreciative smile.
'Oh,' she thought, eyes sparkling. 'Not a bookworm. A viper.' studying the sharp, dangerous intellect hidden beneath the scholar's robes.
The leader of the thugs swallowed hard, the color completely drained from his face. Without another word, he stumbled backward, knocking into his companions.
The three of them scrambled over one another in a panicked frenzy, nearly tripping down the pavilion steps as they fled into the night, desperate to escape the quiet terror of Mo Lin's gaze.
Mo Lin exhaled softly, the sharp, calculating coldness in his eyes melting back into his usual composed expression.
Then he heard the women behind him.
"Little Han, are you alright?" Mu Ying asked, already patting Aihan's head.
Aihan nodded, too terrified to speak.
After giving them space, Mo Lin turned, preparing a polite, reassuring greeting for the two women he believed he had just rescued.
Mu Ying stepped forward first. Her eyes danced with amusement. A playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.
"You stepped in quite boldly, Scholar," she said, voice dripping with charm. "Tell me, if he had swung at you, did you have a plan? Or were you going to pelt him with your poetry books?"
"Young Mistress!" Aihan gasped, horrified.
Mo Lin froze, mouth slightly open. No sound came out. In all his years at the academy — noble ladies, elegant courtesans, strict mentors — none had spoken to him with such bold, unfiltered directness.
Her words weren't an insult; they were an acknowledgment of his wit, wrapped in a teasing challenge that caught him entirely off guard.
Before he could recover, the pavilion manager arrived, bowing frantically, apologizing. Because of the commotion, all guests from the corridor were escorted to the secured upper balcony to watch the main event.
They were, by supposed accident, given the best vantage point in the house — side by side.
Below, dancers in crimson and gold glided across sandalwood.
Mo Lin, trying to regain his footing, murmured, "This piece is based on the Dance of the Immortal Cranes. Early dynasty. It symbolizes peace and divine favor. Notice the qin — the lyrics are a lament about time and duty…"
While he talked, Mu Ying did not offer polite nods despite her listening. She lifted a new pot of wine, drank straight from the cup, and leaned back against a thick cedar pillar with an almost masculine swagger — an attitude that contrasted wildly with her delicate features. Unbound. Magnetic.
When the drums finally faded, she set her cup down and stepped close. Closer than any proper lady should. The faint scent of heated wine and cedar wrapped around him.
She smiled, brilliant and dangerous under amber light
"I like you, Scholar," she whispered, just loud enough for him. "Pray we cross paths again. Next time, I might not let you save me."
Before he could draw breath, she turned. Aihan bowed quickly to Mo Lin in thanks, then hurried after her.
Mu Ying vanished into gauze curtains and moving shadows, leaving him alone on the balcony.
Mo Lin stood rooted, heart hammering against his ribs. Thoroughly intrigued, thoroughly bewildered.
Grounded by a sudden shake of his head. He smoothed his changpao, trying to regain his composure before he finally walked toward the quiet private alcove where Hao Rong had been patiently waiting since the moment he arrived.