Qianyi and Yisha slowly walked to through the gate.
"Xu Qianyi. Jia Yisha, are you okay," one of the gate's guards inquired. The young man showed great concern to be just a mere guard.
"We're fine," Qianyi replied.
"Didn't you get married? What are you doing back here? I knew it," the guard said, shaking his head. "He had a mistress, didn't he? I could tell he was not good."
Yisha lightly punched his shoulder. "What are you talking about? Your imagination gets wilder and wilder, Xiǎo Ān."
The girls began to walk into the city.
"Duì le," Xiǎo Ān called out, "Líng Niángniang has been angry all day. Don't say I didn't warn you."
The girls nodded and continued to walk into the bustling town.
The usually bustling streets of Wàng Yōu Zhèn were desolate during the hour of Yín Shí. It was a time when only ghosts and lovers dared to walk. The only place still lively at this hour was Zuì Mèng Lóu, an opulent den of wonder that could cater to your every desire. The girls, however, called it home.
The heart of Wàng Yōu Zhèn was a river of light and life known as Wàng Yōu Jiē or Forget-Sorrows Street. A long, cobbled road stretching from the town's main gate directly to the foot of its most famous pavilion, was perpetually thrumming with energy. By day, the street was a cacophony of merchants hawking spiritual charms and exotic teas, the air thick with the scent of sizzling street food and sandalwood.
As dusk fell, the town transformed, its hundreds of vibrant red lanterns strung between the eaves of every shop and tavern bloomed to life, their warm, crimson glow bleeding onto the bustling crowd below.
And at the end of this road of light, its source and its destination, stood the Zuì Mèng Lóu.
It was not merely a building; it was a silent titan of dark, polished wood and gracefully upturned eaves, a six-story pagoda that scraped the underbelly of the night sky. From a distance, it was a constellation of golden light, each level spilling its own unique energy into the darkness, always guiding the girls home.
The first four floors were the public heart of the establishment, a vertical kingdom of entertainment. The higher one ascended, the more exclusive and expensive the pleasures became.
The first floor was the roaring main hall filled with the clatter of dice, the clink of cups, and the boisterous laughter of gamblers and drinkers. But its true fame comes at the Hour of the Boar (9-11 PM), when the central chandelier dims. From the shadowed heights of the ceiling, the ethereal dancers of the "Silk-Spun Ghost" troupe descend on shimmering silken ribbons. They are men and women of impossible grace, their movements so fluid they seem to float, their long sleeves creating illusions of flight. For that hour, the roaring hall falls into a breathless hush, every patron mesmerized by the beautiful, unearthly performance.
The noise from below falls to a muted murmur. The lighting is softer, provided by elegant paper lanterns. The air is scented with lotus blossom and beeswax. This floor is a series of semi-private balconies and alcoves overlooking the main hall, and more intimate performance chambers.
Master musicians play the guzheng, pipa, and dizi (flute). The courtesans and entertainers are skilled conversationalists and poets, engaging guests in witty repartee or accompanying them as they compose verse.
The third floor is opulent and private with secluded dining parlors behind lacquered screens and silk curtains. The air is perfumed with amber and oud. The clientele are wealthy merchants, high-ranking officials, and discerning cultivators who require discretion.
They feast on gourmet banquets with rare delicacies. The entertainment is tailored to the guest's desire where a highly educated courtesan can discuss philosophy and politics as easily as they can pour wine.
The fourth floor is a place of quiet power and profound luxury. Access is by invitation only. The rooms are spacious suites, adorned with original art and priceless antiques. Silence is a currency here.
Many in the underworld facilitate secret alliances, the trade forbidden knowledge, and the broker deals that could shift the fate of sects. The attendants are masters of discretion, able to provide anything from a rare cultivation manual to a meeting with a usually unavailable information broker.
The fifth floor is a stark shift into serene, hushed tranquility. The noise of the pavilion is completely absent, replaced by the soft sound of a waterfall. The decor is minimalist and refined, promoting deep rest and meditation. This luxurious lodging is for the most esteemed guests. The suites are havens of peace.
The fabled sixth floor is the realm of myth. It's the private residence of the esteemed and mysterious owner—and the girls. It is not a place of entertainment, but of existence. The air is thin and cool, scented of night-blooming flowers and static electricity. A wraparound balcony offers a commanding, god's-eye view of the entire town and the surrounding realm.
The girls walked up to the pavilion, dirtied and tattered clothes, dried mud on their hands and faces. The guards were barely able to recognize them.
"Dà Xiǎojiě? Èr Xiǎojiě? What happened to you?"
"Long story," Qianyi answered.
Yisha nervously pointed toward the side entrance of the building. "Is she--?"
"She's upstairs. She's pretty pissed," one guard said.
"What happened," Yisha asked.
Qianyi looked at Yisha, "Do you think she knows already?"
"I doubt it."
"She had a guest not long ago. Never seen him before."
"Oh, okay. Thanks."
"No problem. Hey, help them around back," the guard commanded his junior. The help was timely because Qianyi's weakened and exhausted body began to give way, and she collapsed just as they began to walk around the corner. The guard gently carried her to the back entrance, where there was a mechanical lift that reached the 6th floor.
As the lift arrived on the 6th floor, they could hear a raised, but soft voice.
"This is the third piece of disappointing news you've delivered to me today," the voice said.
"I know. I'm sorry. Should I get rid of him," the other voice said.
They exited the lift and turned right into the main hall. Standing in the middle of the grand hall was a tall, slender woman with dark brown skin that glistened when the light touched her. Her hair was long and black with a few streaks of white. Half her hair was pulled up and worn in a high ponytail braided thinly and adorned with a hairpin made of the extremely rare and highly sought after crimson jade. The bottom back of her hair was braided into nine thicker braids that flowed down her back to her waist, with jingang shi (diamonds) woven into the end of each braid.
Her dress was the color of fresh fallen snow made of a silk that seemed to breathe, shimmering between solid and smoke with each movement. Embroidered across the shoulders and flowing down the sleeves and skirt were cloud embellishments, that were absolute black. The clouds seemed to swirl with a slow, hypnotic life of their own. The brightest red adorned the thick trim of the skirt, neck, and sleeves.
To the world, Xuán Líng was mysterious, business savvy and one of the wealthiest people in the realm. To Xu Qianyi and Jia Yisha, she is a savior, a mentor, and a mother.
No one knows her background, but there are rumored stories about her that are over five-thousand years old. She's alluring, mysterious, and her gaze can make you fall in love, or it can pierce through your soul. Men and women from all over regularly confess their love to her but she remains unphased.
But one of her many secrets the girls keep close their hearts is that Xuán Líng is the oldest living fox demon, the only living nine-tailed fox, and the most powerful demon in the realm.
Xuán Líng stood in the hall, almost confused. Then she looked at the guard holding Qianyi in his arms.
"Niáng," Yisha said, as tears began to stream down her face and her body began to shake, finally able to release everything that she held in from the moment it all started.
Xuán Líng walked toward the girls and guard, never taking her eyes off Qianyi, her eyes welling with tears and glowed red as she touched Qianyi's face.
A loud thunder roared, shaking the pagoda, the street, the entire town. Heavy drops of rain poured down hitting the roof and surfaces as hard as hail.
Xuán Líng looked at Yisha. She grabbed her hands and gently held them in hers. Then she raised one hand to touch Yisha's cheek, wiping her tears with her thumb.
"Shéi zuò de?"