I met you for the first time under the scarlet moon. An immortal beauty, clothed in silvery light.
The world, bathed in the color of destiny, stood still for a moment.
My love, oh my love, let us paint this night purple. The gods' retribution awaits us tomorrow.
Under the scarlet moon, I met you for the last time.
With silver tears in my eyes, nothing remained but the touch of your delicate wings on my skin.
My love, oh my love, locked in a golden cage, punished with the hatred and contempt of those who professed their unconditional love for me.
I wait for the day when we will be free.
Let the moon appear scarlet red tonight.
My beloved, oh my beloved, if not in this life, then in the next.
I will follow you from my human shell with outstretched wings over lakes, seas, and a thousand realms until I reach your arms again.
Let us dance in the scarlet moonlight, without legs, but with strong wings to carry us.
Far beyond the envy of this world.
Gāo Xiǎobái sat in a corner of the gallery of the inn he had chosen and listened with his eyes closed to the melody of the artfully plucked zither and the voice of the young woman.
The song was a lament, a cry for help against injustice, and yet it sounded as melancholic as discrimination experienced a thousand times over.
The inn smelled of strong spices such as chili, ginger, and curry. Mixed with the incense from the incense burners, there was a heavy, sweet smell in the air.
The inn itself was quite large, three stories high with a spacious reception hall. Music, dance, and art were celebrated here without the unpleasant, sweet flattery of prostitutes.
He had been visiting the inn for three days, listening to the music. This song seemed to be the only one the young woman knew, or it was the only one she wanted to play.
She sat in front of the zither, dressed in bright, colorful pastel shades, with flowers in her hair and a dismissive look on her face.
A man approached her, quite corpulent but friendly. He wiped his hands on his dark, already stained clothes and exchanged a glance with the young woman, who immediately fell silent.
Gāo Xiǎobái opened his eyes.
"My lord, we have a wide selection of music, dance, and entertainment. Perhaps you would like to visit another private room?" asked the fat man.
Xiǎobái sat up straight and looked straight at the innkeeper.
"But I like this song. Tell me, sir, why is she only playing this one?" He popped a handful of salted nuts into his mouth.
The man cleared his throat, his apron stretched tight around his belly, sweat dripping from his forehead. It must have been exhausting rushing up and down all the stairs between the floors.
"Lìshā used to serve in the imperial palace as a child. I don't know if you've heard the rumors, sir, but she sang the song of... of the former resident there," he evaded.
Gāo Xiǎobái immediately pricked up his ears. The frayed fringe of his long black hair fell into his face and hung like a silk curtain over his dark eyes.
They flashed as his full lips twisted into a mischievous grin. "What a coincidence. I serve the six masters of Běishān and am on a mission to collect stories. I'm all ears, tell me about the evil of the imperial palace," he whispered excitedly.
Gāo Xiǎobái loved exciting stories, sad stories, dramatic stories, and even romances. In short, he loved stories of all kinds. And so he had made it his mission to travel the country and collect them.
This allowed him to add a little variety to the dusty textbooks and thick tomes of his masters. The innkeeper looked at him skeptically.
"Are you sure? Young sir, this tragedy still brings misfortune to the imperial family to this day!"
Xiǎobái now pulled out a stack of rice paper, placed ink on the table, and rolled out his brushes.
"Every story is worth telling," he said, dipping his brush in the ink.
The innkeeper sighed heavily before motioning to Lìshā to continue playing and sitting down opposite Xiǎobái.
"Listen carefully, my lord, I will tell you this legend only once. Some stories do not have a happy ending, and some fates are cursed by the gods."