Chapter Three: The Red Temple Festival

May 25th marked the annual Red Temple Festival of the Great Zhou Dynasty.

From ancient records, Yang Yaozong had learned that the festivals of the Great Zhou bore much resemblance to those of his previous life—there was the New Year, the Lantern Festival, the Mid-Autumn Festival, and so on. Notably absent, however, were the Dragon Boat Festival and the Double Ninth Festival. In their place, there were unique celebrations such as the Red Temple Festival.

Originally, the Red Temple Festival was simply a grand temple fair, bustling with merchants from all corners of the land, offering food, clothing, amusements, and wares. In its early days, it was a time for traders to meet, negotiate, and promote new goods. As its fame spread, more and more people came to stroll among the stalls, and gradually, the custom arose for scholars and beauties to join the throng, donning masks like the merchants, perhaps to allay embarrassment at mingling in the boisterous crowd. By nightfall, the festivities reached their peak, with splendid fireworks lighting up the sky.

The day before, Yang Yaozong had listened to his little maid, chattering excitedly about how delightful the festival would be, her eagerness barely concealed. Amused by her animated storytelling, Yang Yaozong remarked, “Wearing masks to such a gathering, with the place teeming not just with merchants but scholars and beauties as well—it seems a clever way to join the fun without awkwardness. With so many talented men and lovely women, and the thrill of mystery, it’s inevitable that tales of romance and intrigue would flourish here.”

The maid, just at the age when love awakens, blushed and twisted her fingers, giggling shyly, “You’re quite right, young master.”

After half a month of recuperation, Yang Yaozong’s health was restored, though he had yet to leave the Nangong residence. Seeing the girl’s bashful delight, he grinned, “Let’s join the festivities tonight. Of course, I’m only there for the excitement, but you, Xiaohua, you might find a sweetheart among the scholars. If someone catches your fancy, just tell me—I’ll win him over for you, and you’ll have your own love story to tell!”

The girl stomped her foot in mock annoyance at his teasing, “Young master! I’m only going for the fun. If you keep saying such things, I won’t go at all.”

Yang Yaozong laughed heartily at her embarrassment. “Really? You won’t go? Well, I am going. Handsome and wise as I am, who knows, perhaps I’ll stir up a romantic tale of my own. Wouldn’t your mistress be anxious then?”

The maid’s cheeks flushed as she glanced around, realizing he was only jesting. She whispered, “Young master, don’t joke like that—if others hear, it won’t be good for you.” Then she chuckled softly, “You don’t look all that heroic or dashing. With a mask on, who will see your charm?”

Yang Yaozong thought ruefully of his slender frame—barely five foot eight, no more than a hundred and ten pounds, hardly the picture of gallant masculinity.

Dusk had fallen.

As Nangong Qingyi’s personal maid, Xiaohua held a status nearly equal to the house steward. After dinner, having settled all her duties and bid the steward farewell, she escorted Yang Yaozong to a carriage, and they set out for the Qinhuai River.

The Nangong manor lay in the southeast of Jinling, not far from the river—just a short walk away.

This was Yang Yaozong’s first venture beyond the manor since coming to the Great Zhou. He lifted the carriage curtain, peering out: the roads were clean and smooth, though not especially wide, flanked by shops and stalls, teahouses, taverns, and inns.

Tonight, the streets were crowded with passersby and carriages, most heading in the same direction as theirs—toward the Red Temple Festival by the river. Progress was slow.

Yang Yaozong gazed out curiously, when suddenly, on the roof of a two-story building, he spotted a woman in a flowing white dress, her face veiled, her robes fluttering in the night breeze. He stared, entranced by the vision, a thought arising—“On the rooftop stands a beauty, peerless and alone.” He considered calling out, but feared startling her, so only waved and thought, “Why climb so high—just to see farther?”

The woman seemed to sense his gaze, frowned slightly, glanced his way, and then, with a light step, leapt gracefully from one rooftop to another, as elegant as the moon goddess herself. Her figure, ethereal and poised, vanished into the night before Yang Yaozong could catch his breath.

Xiaohua, seeing his wide-eyed amazement, assumed he was marveling at the splendor of the capital and asked with a smile, “Is this your first Red Temple Festival, young master?”

Her voice brought him back from his reverie, though the shock lingered on his face. He nodded silently.

The girl continued, “The New Year, Lantern Festival, and Mid-Autumn are even livelier than tonight! The Red Temple Festival is more like a fair, but the Lantern and Mid-Autumn Festivals are different—there are performances, competitions, contests for the courtesans, and poets vying for the favor of beauties. Miss used to love attending, offering her critiques on poems and performances. Those who received her praise were always delighted. Her poems are coveted by all. But in recent years, she’s attended less, even staying home during the festivities.” Her voice trailed off, tinged with sadness for her mistress.

Yang Yaozong reflected that, in any era, it was never easy for a woman to make her mark—especially in a society that favored men. Nangong Qingyi was no longer a mere girl, and naturally had to observe certain proprieties, unlike men who could join any gathering as they pleased.

Seeing Xiaohua’s dejection, he smiled gently, “Perhaps one day I’ll take your mistress and all of you out to enjoy the festivities together—how would you like that?”

She nodded eagerly, her spirits lifted.

Yang Yaozong’s thoughts drifted again to the woman in white. After a pause, he asked, “Xiaohua, how skilled is your master in martial arts?”

Proudly, she replied, “Master’s skills are unrivaled in the Great Zhou. Miss, too, is highly accomplished.” Not knowing how else to describe their prowess, she simply declared them invincible.

Yang Yaozong pressed, “If your master is so formidable, can he leap from one rooftop to another in a flash—like... like soaring from one to the next, effortlessly?” He demonstrated with his finger, tracing waves in the air.

Xiaohua covered her mouth, giggling at his fanciful notion, “Young master, there’s no such martial art! That’s just storytellers’ nonsense. Miss has taught us maids a few moves to defend ourselves—enough to hold off a couple of men. Miss herself can handle three or four. Master is even stronger—on the battlefield, not even a dozen men can get close to him.”

Yang Yaozong grinned, “So you know some martial arts too? You’ll have to teach me—I’d hate for your mistress to bully me.”

She laughed, “Miss would never do that! When she goes to war, we maids accompany her, so she taught us a few tricks for emergencies. I’m the youngest, though, and have never been to battle. This time, she left me behind to look after you.”

He nodded and teased, “Your mistress doesn’t happen to have four personal maids named Qin, Qi, Shu, and Hua, does she? Since you’re called Xiaohua, you must be the youngest.”

Xiaohua’s eyes widened in astonishment, “Young master, you’re amazing! That’s exactly right!” She all but idolized him for his cleverness.

Yang Yaozong raised his brows, surprised that his casual joke was true. His wife’s habit of naming maids was amusing—should he call it laziness?

As they chatted, Yang Yaozong’s mind kept returning to the woman in fluttering white, her image lingering like a dream.

Though Xiaohua had grown up in the famous general’s household, and was no stranger to martial arts, she insisted that no such supernatural feats existed. She had no reason to lie—had he just seen a fairy? Could such beings exist in this era? The very thought unsettled him.

As they neared the Qinhuai River, the crowd thickened, many donning masks prepared in advance. Yang Yaozong and Xiaohua stepped out of the carriage, heading for a vendor selling masks.

Night had fallen. The riverbanks were ablaze with lanterns and festoons, casting a bright glow over the bustling streets, filled with the clamor of voices.

Whether in his past life or this one, the Qinhuai River at Jinling was ever a symbol of entertainment and prosperity. Now, as the capital of the Great Zhou, its tea houses, taverns, pleasure boats, and brothels formed a thriving commercial scene. The air was alive with shouts, laughter, and the flirtatious banter of courtesans and their guests. By day, the Qinhuai was a demure maiden; by night, a sultry beauty, her arms wide open to all who coveted her charms.

Yang Yaozong browsed the masks with care—some shaped like animals, others like spirits or people, some covering the whole face, others just half. He chose one shaped like a great roc, covering the upper half of his face. He wanted to pick one for Xiaohua, but she shook her head shyly, “Maids and servants aren’t allowed to wear masks.” Still, he insisted and bought her a chubby doll-faced mask, saying, “You don’t have to wear it, just keep it with you.” She accepted, blushing, paid the vendor from her purse, and tucked the mask away.

Watching her pay, Yang Yaozong realized he hadn’t a penny to his name—he really did have the makings of a live-in son-in-law.

Xiaohua noticed his gaze and smiled, “Miss left plenty of silver for you before she departed; it’s all with me.” She offered to hand him some, but he pressed her hand down, “Keep it. If I need to buy anything, you can pay.” She nodded, face flushed.

Mask in place, Yang Yaozong strolled leisurely with Xiaohua from stall to stall—cosmetics, fans, embroidery, silver, jade, porcelain—lingering at each, though nothing caught his eye.

He was reminded of his youth, accompanying his sister to local fairs back in his school days.

Swept up in the festive spirit, he continued down the street, the air abuzz with the cries of vendors and revelers.

He paused before a stall selling flowers and plants, run by a blond, blue-eyed foreigner, around whom a crowd had gathered, marveling at his exotic appearance. The foreigner was unbothered, smiling and replying in broken Zhou dialect to their questions.

Yang Yaozong was quietly delighted. He squatted to examine a green plant that resembled a pepper, though it bore only white blossoms, no fruit. He sniffed a familiar, pungent scent—mint. Tracing the aroma, he found a pot of the herb at the back of the stall.

The foreigner was busy charming the local girls, paying Yang Yaozong no mind. Yang Yaozong scoffed inwardly, then addressed him in English.

The foreigner, who had been all smiles, suddenly froze as if struck by lightning, surprise etched across his face as he stared at Yang Yaozong.

With a sly smile, Yang Yaozong switched to flawless English, “Hello, where are you from? England, Germany, France, Portugal, Spain?” At the mention of these places, the foreigner grew so emotional that tears welled in his eyes. He seized Yang Yaozong’s hands, unwilling to let go, as if afraid he would vanish.

Xiaohua, startled, was about to intervene when Yang Yaozong reassured her, “It’s all right, he’s just greeting me.”

The foreigner replied in English, “I’m from France.”

The onlookers whispered, curious about the exchange in a foreign tongue, and wondered at the foreigner’s tears. Little did they know, he had been in the Great Zhou for nearly two years, struggling with the language and suffering many misunderstandings. Meeting someone he could truly communicate with was a rare blessing.

Yang Yaozong switched to French, and the man’s face lit up with awe, as though beholding a deity.

Through their conversation, Yang Yaozong learned that the man’s name was Bruno, a Frenchman who had been shipwrecked by a storm and washed ashore in Zhou.

Knowing this was neither the time nor place for a lengthy chat, they exchanged brief introductions and agreed to meet again. Yang Yaozong pointed out the mint and pepper plants he was interested in, promising to visit Bruno’s residence the next day to purchase more.

Bruno nodded eagerly, looking forward to his visit.