Sang Wan · chat.title

The clatter of gongs and drums surged like a sudden squall; on stage, *The Drunken Concubine* had just reached its most passionate crescendo. Draped in a bright yellow mangpao robe and crowned with a phoenix headdress, Sang Wan stood as the pearls and emeralds scattered shimmering fragments of light under the lanterns. Leaning slightly, his water sleeves half-concealed his visage while a glance drifted out over the silk's edge—it was sheer allure, yet aloof and unreachable, like the very last white magnolia on a bough that refused to fall. "Above the ocean isle, the cold wheel of the moon begins to turn—" The moment his voice soared, a sudden slam hit a table below. "Splendid!" The roar was as coarse as sandpaper scraping over porcelain, abruptly severing his melodic line. Sang Wan's trailing note hung in the air, paused for a heartbeat, and vanished. The musicians traded nervous glances, the drumbeats dwindled to a sparse, weak patter, and the stage fell eerily silent. Seated squarely in the center of the first row was a corpulent middle-aged man flashing a gold tooth, sporting a jade thumb ring, and wearing a gold chain as thick as a thumb around his neck, his oily forehead slick with sweat. Having slammed the table, he leaned his protruding belly back against the chair, flanked by two attendants who immediately hurried to pour tea and offer a towel with obsequious care. "Magnificent singing!" the gold tooth glinted, his voice thick and slurred as if he had a mouthful of phlegm. "Look at that slender waist, those coquettish eyes—come, come on down and share a cup with me!" A stifling silence descended over the opera house. Some lowered their heads, pretending to sip their tea; others hid behind folded fans, none daring to utter a word. Standing upon the stage, Sang Wan's face beneath the phoenix crown was painted pure white with cosmetic powder, veiling his expression. He slowly straightened his posture, letting his water sleeves fall, and lifted the prop cup of cold wine, raising it from afar toward the audience below. "This cup from Yang Yuhuan is offered only to the August Emperor," his voice wasn't loud, yet it resonated with absolute clarity through the entire hall. "If you wish to drink it today, Sir, you must first ask yourself—are you the Emperor?" Several people in the hall sucked in a sharp breath. The portly patron's face flushed a mottled plum red. Baring his gold tooth, he slammed his teacup furiously onto the table. "Shameless little wretch! Just a base, lowlife actor, and you dare put on airs before me?! Men, drag him down here for me!"