As their discussion wound down, Zhao Ming reached into his sleeve and produced two carefully sealed letters. The soft, deliberate movement drew the attention of both Murong De and Shopkeeper Wu.

  “Shopkeeper Wu,” Zhao Ming said, placing the letters on the low wooden table between them, “I have two additional letters I’d like included in the dispatch to Luoyang.”

  Wu took them with a nod, studying the wax seals. “One for Lu Zhi, I assume?”

  “Yes,” Zhao Ming confirmed. “The other is for Lian Rou.”

  At that name, Shopkeeper Wu paused, his brows rising slightly. “Lian Rou? That courtesan from Luoyang?”

  Murong De leaned forward with sudden interest. “That Lian Rou? The one who’s always being talked about in scholar circles? Said to dance like flowing ink and sing like jade chimes?”

  Zhao Ming gave a small, wry smile. “The very same. I met her back in Anxi during one of her performances. She sang under the moonlight in the southern garden... it was unforgettable.”

  Murong De raised a brow. “And what did you do? Toss her silver or write her a love letter?”

  “I wrote a poem,” Zhao Ming said simply. “She remembered it.”

  Wu chuckled. “Of course you did. But what’s the letter for?”

  “It’s for contingency,” Zhao Ming replied. “If things in Luoyang spiral out of control and Lu Zhi needs help escaping, I’m hoping Lian Rou might assist. She has influence in the right places, and… I sensed she isn’t just a pretty face in silken robes.”

  Wu’s expression turned thoughtful. “A risky gamble, but not a bad one. I’ll make sure the letter reaches her hands.”

  Zhao Ming nodded his thanks, then took out a third letter—this one sealed with delicate, lilac-tinted wax and a pressed floral insignia.

  “This is for Murong Xue,” he added more quietly.

  Wu’s face immediately broke into a wide grin. “Ah, so the young hero finally bares his heart again.”

  Murong De laughed aloud. “About time. Xue was wondering why you hadn’t written.”

  Wu accepted the letter with a satisfied nod, but then squinted at it. “Just a letter? No gift?”

  Zhao Ming looked confused. “Is that… expected?”

  Shopkeeper Wu gave a scandalized scoff. “Boy! What kind of courtship is that? You send a letter and expect her heart to flutter? Where’s the flower, the silk, the comb, the poem carved into jade?”

  Zhao Ming blinked. “I thought words were enough.”

  “For some girls, maybe. But Xue is a Murong. She’s surrounded by suitors with silk tongues and deep pockets. If you want her to know you’re serious, you bring something personal.”

  Zhao Ming looked around the hall. “Anything good in the shop?”

  Wu scoffed again. “Not for this kind of gift. Everything rare and refined’s already on shipment or sold out.”

  Murong De leaned over with a grin. “Maybe a fine red comb or some silver-threaded embroidery would do the trick.”

  “I suggest,” Wu added, folding his arms, “that you take a walk down the merchant row. Go to the silk quarter, or find one of the craftsmen from the southern guild. Then come back and hand me the letter and a real gift.”

  Zhao Ming sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “So now I’m gift hunting.”

  Wu smirked. “You’re lucky I don’t charge matchmaking fees.”

  Murong De slapped the table with a laugh. “Consider it training for married life.”

  Zhao Ming groaned softly, but the smile tugging at the corner of his lips betrayed his amusement. With a sigh of surrender, he stood and nodded toward the door. “Very well. I’ll go find something worthy.”

  “Good!” Wu called after him. “She deserves at least a little sparkle for putting up with a rascal like you!”

  The morning sun had climbed high above the tiled roofs of Beihai, casting a golden glow over the bustling marketplace. Merchants shouted out their wares, children weaved between stalls chasing each other with laughter, and the smell of roasted chestnuts and steamed dumplings drifted through the air. Amid the festive energy, Zhao Ming wandered with a furrowed brow and uncertain steps.

  He had made his way to the Silk Quarter, a refined district where wealth and elegance mingled beneath embroidered banners and carved wooden eaves. Among its many shops, one caught his eye: Jade Elegance Pavilion, its signboard lacquered black with silver inlay, the characters painted in flowing, graceful strokes. He stepped inside, a small bell chime heralding his entrance.

  The air inside was fragrant with sandalwood. Delicate lanterns illuminated rows of glass cases, each filled with exquisite trinkets—jade pendants shaped like lotus leaves, hairpins inlaid with gold and pearl, and fans embroidered with crane and plum blossom motifs. Zhao Ming wandered through the shop, eyes scanning over every item, pausing now and then to inspect one with cautious curiosity. Though he could have easily activated his system’s [Insight] ability to pick the most ideal gift, he chose not to. This gift, he reasoned, should come from me, not the system.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Still, the sheer variety and splendor of the wares overwhelmed him.

  A pair of silver-thread earrings shaped like phoenix tails? Too bold.

  A perfume sachet stitched with plum blossoms? Too ordinary.

  A hair comb made from ivory? No, not right either.

  He was turning a jade ring over in his hand, his brows knit in doubt, when a soft voice interrupted him.

  “Sir, Lady Yu would like to see you,” said a young female clerk, bowing politely. “If you would follow me, please.”

  Surprised, Zhao Ming nodded and followed her past a silk curtain into a side chamber. The air was cooler here, and the inner room was more tastefully decorated—a place meant not for sales, but private business. At the center, reclining slightly on a lacquered chaise with a fan in hand, was Lady Yu, the elegant and sharp-eyed owner of the Jade Elegance Pavilion.

  She was dressed in soft teal robes, her long hair pinned with a violet orchid comb, eyes gleaming with amusement.

  “So,” she said with a knowing smile, “Young Master Zhao, I hear you’ve been pacing around my shop looking as if you're choosing a sword rather than a gift.”

  Zhao Ming gave an embarrassed chuckle and bowed. “Lady Yu. I… I suppose I am quite lost.”

  “Lost, yet determined.” She gestured for him to sit. “And what is the occasion that brings our young hero to my humble store?”

  “I’m sending a letter to Murong Xue,” Zhao Ming admitted. “And with the new year approaching… I thought I should give her something as well.”

  Lady Yu raised a brow, clearly intrigued. “Ah, so it’s that kind of letter.”

  Zhao Ming looked down. “Let’s say it’s halfway between formal and personal.”

  She laughed, folding her fan with a snap. “You’re fortunate you’re honest about it. Most boys your age bluster and boast when they don’t know what to buy.”

  Zhao Ming chuckled sheepishly. “I’ll admit I don’t really know what suits her.”

  “Well,” Lady Yu mused, “Murong Xue is not like most young ladies. She is strong-willed, quick-witted, and has good taste—though not in the vain sense. Give her something too ornate, and she’ll say you’re wasting money. Too plain, and she’ll say you’re not sincere.”

  “I see…” Zhao Ming replied, trying to hide his growing anxiety.

  “Ying’er,” Lady Yu called.

  A moment later, a slender maid in a light pink tunic stepped forward, bowing. “Yes, Lady Yu?”

  “Bring the peach blossom hairpin and the fan with the peony design. The one from the eastern drawer.”

  Ying’er returned moments later carrying a delicate hairpin carved from pale peach blossom wood, with tiny silver plum flowers affixed to the end, and a folding fan made of fine silk, its surface painted with blooming peonies and butterflies.

  “These are elegant but not showy,” Lady Yu explained, placing the two items on the table before Zhao Ming. “The hairpin is simple yet refined. The fan—well, you should write something on it. A line of poetry, perhaps? Something to make her smile.”

  Zhao Ming stared at the gifts for a moment, touched by the thoughtfulness. “Lady Yu… how much do I owe you for these?”

  She waved her fan lazily. “I’ll send the bill to the Murong Trading House. I’m sure they won’t mind.”

  Zhao Ming blinked. “Wait—won’t that be awkward?”

  Lady Yu laughed again, clearly enjoying his discomfort. “You’re courting the Murong daughter. A gift sent with her uncle’s purse is tradition in some provinces.”

  He opened his mouth to object, but she raised her hand. “Fine, fine. Consider it my gift to young love. But next time, bring something of your own.”

  Still flustered, Zhao Ming smiled and bowed deeply. “Thank you, Lady Yu. May I borrow brush and ink?”

  Ying’er quickly fetched a fine calligraphy set and placed it beside the fan. Zhao Ming paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Then, with slow, deliberate strokes, he wrote a short poem on the inner curve of the fan’s silk:

  “Spring wind stirs the garden path,

  One blossom falls, another waits.

  Though days may part and miles may pass,

  A heart remembers soft footfalls and fates.”

  Lady Yu peered over his shoulder and smiled, fanning herself. “Well now. That might just win her heart.”

  As Zhao Ming gently returned the fan to its embroidered case, the last curve of ink still drying on the silk, he felt a quiet sense of accomplishment. For once, he had chosen something meaningful without the system’s help. Lady Yu, who had been observing from her seat with a soft, satisfied smile, leaned forward to glance at the poem once more.

  “A tender hand and a clever brush,” she mused, her voice touched with warmth. “If nothing else, you’ll make a fine romantic, Young Master Zhao.”

  She chuckled lightly—but then, her laughter caught and faltered. Her shoulders gave a subtle tremble, and then a harsh cough escaped her lips, dry at first, then deeper, more strained. She turned her head quickly, raising one hand to cover her mouth, graceful even in discomfort.

  “Lady Yu?” Ying’er, her loyal maid, was at her side in a heartbeat, unfolding a soft embroidered handkerchief and offering it with practiced care.

  Lady Yu waved gently, attempting to brush aside the concern, but the coughing didn’t subside immediately. It came again, a rasping breath that drew tension into the room. When it finally eased, she leaned back with slow breath and returned the handkerchief to Ying’er—who accepted it without a word, though her worried eyes betrayed her silence.

  Zhao Ming’s eyes sharpened. Even with the quick exchange, he caught it: the faint blot of red hidden in the folds of the cloth.

  Something clenched in his chest.

  “Forgive me,” Lady Yu said lightly, though her voice was quieter now. “The winter air has not been kind to me this season.”

  Zhao Ming didn’t reply at once. Instead, his gaze lingered—not rudely, but attentively—on the faint flush of her cheeks that seemed more from exhaustion than rouge, on the slight tremor in her fingers, and the way her other hand unconsciously gripped the armrest for support.

  And then, he smelled it—beneath the layers of her refined sandalwood perfume, a faint, bitter undertone drifted in the air. Ginseng… medicinal root... possibly lotus or angelica.

  A practiced scent. Not new.

  “I’ve seen enough illness to know that winter alone doesn’t draw blood,” he said softly, choosing his words with care. “Lady Yu… you’ve helped me today, and I’d like to return the favor. If you’ll allow, I can take a look.”

  Lady Yu blinked, the faintest flicker of surprise touching her eyes—then she smiled, though it was thinner than before.

  “You’ve a sharp tongue and a sharper eye, it seems.”

  He returned the smile, but this time it was tinged with concern. “A sharp eye means little if I ignore what I see.”

  Lady Yu regarded him for a long moment, then turned her gaze to Ying’er, who hesitated—then gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

  “…Very well,” Lady Yu murmured, folding her hands gently in her lap. “I suppose even the proudest willow must lean on someone once in a while.”

  Zhao Ming stepped forward, his expression solemn now, as he prepared to kneel by her side and take her pulse—not as a guest, not as a flirt, but as someone who understood what it meant to care when others refused to ask for help.