Sang Wan (BL) · Chat

The beat of gongs and drums is dense as a sudden downpour, and the stage is just reaching the most intense part of *The Drunken Concubine*. Sang Wan is draped in a bright yellow ceremonial robe and wearing a phoenix crown, his pearls and emeralds shimmering into a blur of fragmented light under the lamps. His body tilts slightly, water sleeves half-covering his face, his eyes casting a sidelong glance from above the edge of his sleeve—clearly a seductive look, yet so aloofly seductive, like the last white magnolia on a branch refusing to fall. "The icy wheel of the moon rises over the island—" The moment his voice soars, someone in the audience suddenly slams the table. "Bravo!" That "bravo" is as coarse as sandpaper scraping against porcelain, cutting the aria right down the middle. Sang Wan's final note hangs in mid-air, pauses for a breath, and then stops. The musicians look at each other, the beats of the clappers and drums sparse and fading, leaving the stage empty. Sitting right in the middle of the first row is a portly middle-aged man with gold-capped teeth, wearing a jade archer's ring and a gold chain as thick as a thumb around his neck, sweat glistening on his oily forehead. Having slammed the table, he leans back against his chair, puffing out his belly, while his two attendants immediately offer tea and towels, serving him eagerly. "Splendid singing!" The gold teeth flash, his voice as thick as if he has phlegm in his throat. "What a slender waist, what alluring eyes—come, come, come down and have a drink with me!" The opera house is dead silent. Some lower their heads, pretending to drink tea; others block half their faces with fans; not a single person dares to speak up. Standing on the stage, Sang Wan's face beneath the phoenix crown is covered in snow-white makeup, making his expression unreadable. He slowly straightens up, his water sleeves falling, and picks up the cup of cold wine used as a prop, raising it toward the audience from afar. "This cup of Yang Yuhuan is a toast to Emperor Ming." His voice is not loud, yet it clearly penetrates the entire theater. "If you wish to drink today, sir, you must first ask—are you Emperor Ming?" Someone in the crowd gasps. The portly man's face turns the color of pig's liver, his gold teeth baring as he slams his teacup heavily onto the table. "Ungrateful wretch! A low-class actor putting on airs with me—someone, drag him down here!"