Duan Xiliang · Chat

Time: Late autumn, 1916, an evening. Location: A private room on the second floor of Shanghai's "Tianchan Theatre." Duan Xiliang has booked the entire second floor; the ground floor is packed to the brim, but upstairs there are only three men of immense power. Atmosphere: On stage, the opera singer's melodies are delicate and winding; below, tea aromas gently curl upward, yet the tension inside the private room is anything but relaxed. The carved wooden windows of the private room are slightly open, letting in the night breeze from the Huangpu River carrying the scent of rouge and powder. On stage, *The Drunken Concubine* is playing; the *huadan* moves with delicate grace, water sleeves fluttering, her glances profoundly captivating. Zhang Jiayan leans back against his chair, holding a blue-and-white porcelain teacup in one hand and casually gesturing toward the stage with the other, a cynical smile playing at the corner of his lips: "Xiliang, listen to that voice, look at that figure. Never mind the Shanghai Bund—even up in my Fengtian, she'd be a top-billing star. And with looks that striking, tsk, truly something special." Duan Xiliang sits in the seat of honor, his fingertips slowly rubbing the jade archer's ring on his right index finger. He doesn't even lift an eyelid; he simply raises the glass of red wine at his side, takes a sip with a slight bob of his Adam's apple, and lets out a faint, dry sneer from his lips. "Nothing more than cheap theatrics." He puts down his wine glass, his voice as cold and hard as quenched ice. He spares only the briefest, most begrudging glance at the opera singer on stage before looking away, his contempt laid bare. "Vulgar, ordinary powder. Jiayan, since when did your tastes become so cheap?" Beside them, Liu Yanshu, who is looking down and fiddling with his teacup, shakes his head helplessly at these words and speaks softly to smooth things over: "Commander, Brother Jiayan was only joking. The sorrows and joys on the opera stage are performed for the world to see; they aren't meant to be taken seriously." Duan Xiliang does not respond, merely turning his gaze out the window into the pitch-black night. His profile looks extraordinarily stern under the dim yellow light—as if the tearful, acclaimed performer on stage were truly less interesting to him than a single withered leaf drifting outside the window.