Time blurred inside the Golden Lute Pavilion, dissolving into an endless cycle of laughter, clinking cups, and music that never truly stopped.
By day, the brothel was quieter...but never peaceful. Jin Yue hid in the low servant rooms beneath the back stairs, where the ceiling sloped and the air smelled faintly of dust and old incense. The space was meant for storage, not people, yet several girls rested there between shifts, curled up on thin mats like forgotten belongings. Wrapped in a borrowed shawl, Jin Yue copied them perfectly, eyes half lidded, breathing slow and shallow, pretending to nap.
No one questioned it.
A mute girl was not worth attention.
He learned quickly when to move and when to stay still. He memorized the rhythm of footsteps overhead, the creak of stairs when the madam descended, the sharp cadence of guards changing shifts. During the day, he listened more than he slept. Voices carried strangely through the floorboards, distorted but readable if one was patient enough.
By night, the Golden Lute Pavilion transformed.
Lanterns bloomed to life like artificial stars. Silk curtains swayed with every passing body. The smell of wine, perfume, and heated breath clung to the air so thickly it felt almost visible. Jin Yue moved among the tables with a light, practiced step, refilling cups, clearing plates, bowing his head at just the right angle.
He offered shy smiles.
Lowered his gaze.
Kept his hands folded neatly in front of him.
And he never let a man touch him.
He had methods.
Every shift began the same way. Before the first guests arrived, Jin Yue slipped into the storage room where the wine jugs were kept. There, unseen, he added a careful pinch of crushed Flowstone dust into several of the containers. It was a diluted, harmless variant...barely reactive, stripped of its sharper effects. Enough to cloud the senses, to loosen tongues and dull judgment, but not enough to leave lasting harm.
The drunker they are,
the more they speak.
It was a simple truth, one Jin Yue relied on.
And they spoke freely.
Businessmen boasting about profits and rivals.
Petty officials complaining about superiors.
Guards hired by Uncle Zhang grumbling about long hours and poor pay.
Even the brothel's own doorkeeper, who drank himself into a weepy, nostalgic mess each night.
Jin Yue heard them all.
He learned where people sat, who drank the fastest, who needed only one cup before their words began spilling out like water from a cracked jar. He poured carefully, attentively, leaning just close enough to be forgotten, but never close enough to be remembered.
Snatches of conversation drifted past him as he worked:
"…Uncle Zhang made a big deal bringing in that new girl…"
"…but she hasn't worked a single night, sick or something…"
"…locked in her room, boss says…"
"…if she dies, Zhang will lose money…"
"…not our problem."
"…some girls just break…"
Each word landed like a stone inside Jin Yue's chest.
Outwardly, he remained soft and helpless, his movements small, his posture obedient. Inwardly, his Pulse sharpened, coiling tight and alert beneath his skin.
Shen Ling was alive.
Sick.
Locked away.
Not sold yet.
Not broken.
Not shipped off to another district.
Here.
Still here.
He bowed as one guest waved him over, lifting a heavy wine jug with both hands. He poured with practiced elegance, letting the stream hit the cup without a sound.
The man laughed loudly and leaned close, squinting at the thin veil covering Jin Yue's face."Little mute," he slurred, "you pour well. Shame you can't talk. Your voice would fetch even more silver."
Jin Yue widened his eyes just a fraction...an expression carefully practiced in front of cracked mirrors...and took a small step back, shoulders drawn inward.
The man laughed harder, pleased with himself, and slapped the table. Wine sloshed dangerously close to the edge.
Minutes later, the powder took effect. His laughter dulled into mumbling, his head drooping as if weighed down by invisible chains.
Jin Yue slipped away without being noticed.
Table by table, he continued, gathering fragments of whispered gossip like pearls on a string. Some pieces were useless, others contradictory, but he kept them all. Patterns only emerged when enough fragments were collected.
By the end of the second night, the rumors began to align.
Shen Ling had arrived at the Golden Lute Pavilion bruised and shaken, dragged in after fighting desperately every step of the way. Several girls had heard her screaming before the madam silenced it. Her injuries worsened into a fever on the second day, leaving her too weak to stand, much less entertain guests.
The madam told everyone she was "resting."
The truth was far colder.
Shen Ling was locked in a room no servant girl was allowed to enter.
More troubling still were the whispers surrounding Uncle Zhang. He planned to return within two or three days to complete the sale. Whatever buyer he had lined up was important enough to wait...but not patient enough to delay forever. Shen Ling's fate was already written unless Jin Yue intervened.
And then there were the guards.
Only those with Wind Pulse abilities were permitted near the corridor where the locked room was kept. They patrolled it relentlessly, their presence felt even when they were not seen. Doors down that hall opened only for the madam, the guards, and Uncle Zhang himself.
Piece by piece, the entire picture formed...grim and unmistakable.
Shen Ling was alive.
Barely.
And time was running out.
She was trapped behind a door Jin Yue had not yet located.
But he would.
He moved through the hall in a slow, silent circle, pretending to collect empty cups. Lantern light glimmered against the veil covering his face, casting soft shadows that blurred his features.
Guests didn't notice him.
They never did.
But someone else did.
For two nights in a row, Jin Yue felt a strange, steady gaze settle on him from across the room. It wasn't leering. It wasn't drunk. It didn't wander or waver like the others.
It was focused.
Observing.
The moment Jin Yue tried to track it, turning just enough to look without drawing attention, the sensation vanished...swallowed by shadows, lost behind drifting silk curtains or the shifting bodies of dancers.
A watcher.
Alert.
Patient.
For now, he pushed the thought aside.
Shen Ling came first.
Tomorrow night, he would find the guarded room.
And then…
the lion's den would lose its prized prey.