Inside the Pavilion, silk lanterns swayed as always: the same painted smiles of courtesans, the same sweet wine, the same whispered lies.
Yet tonight, it all felt emptier...as if even the shadows had grown tired of pretending.
Behind a half‑drawn screen, Xiao's fingers trembled as he untied the red ribbon wrapped at his wrist.
It was nothing grand: cheap market‑dyed silk, rough at the edges, its dye already bleeding from sweat and time.
But he'd tied it there for a reason no one here would guess.
"Wei kumsun,"
"They call you demon, but I never believed them. You burned so bright, you lit a path even for gutter trash like me."
Some nights, drunk on cheap wine and lonelier thoughts, Xiao dared to wear a loose black robe, a red sash knotted high at the waist.
A foolish imitation... a ghost's silhouette of the Yiling Patriarch's infamous grace.
In the cracked mirror, he'd tilt his chin, draw a careless, mocking smile.
But it never stayed.
He wasn't him. He was Xiao: half‑rebel, half‑coward, a whore whose body belonged to the man beyond that screen — the man who called himself "father," who owned the license to every night Xiao sold.
Outside, the street vendor was packing away bamboo flutes.
Wood clinked softly, hollow against hollow ...each worn finger‑hole speaking of a melody played countless nights.
Xiao's gaze followed them until they vanished around the corner.
If I had one… maybe I could learn. If I could learn… maybe I could become more than this.
But after dusk, the Pavilion was a cage whose doors never truly opened.
And a single flute cost more than a week of bent knees and forced smiles.
"Useless, stubborn bastard," snarled a voice behind him.
Xiao flinched but didn't turn.
The slap came anyway... sharp, open‑handed, snapping his head to the side, copper flooding his mouth.
The sting bloomed across his cheek like a red flower, as familiar as breath.
"You think pretty lips and pride will feed us? Next time, you'll kneel and beg them to stay," hissed the man... flesh of his flesh, yet a stranger in every way that mattered.
Words rose to Xiao's tongue... sharp as broken glass... but words meant nothing when you had no power behind them.
So he lowered his gaze, swallowed blood and shame together.
If Yujin saw this… would he look away? Or would he finally see me?
Later, in his narrow room where candlelight dared not burn too bright, Xiao pressed cold fingers against the bruise, feeling it swell — warm, living proof of what silence cost.
He untied the cheap red ribbon, laying it flat on his palm.
For a moment, his thumb traced the frayed threads.
"Wei kumsun… you fell from the sky." "Maybe all I can do… is learn to stand."
Outside, the wind pressed against warped shutters.
Inside, Xiao sat alone ...a boy with bloodied lips, stubborn eyes, and a ribbon that wasn't quite worthless after all.
[ End of Chapter 8 ]