Chapter 49: The Celestial Workshop on Earth

Having finished examining the calligraphy, Zhang Chi finally looked up at the plaque above the grand entrance. The name inscribed there was strikingly unique: "Ethereal Hall of Earthly Pleasures."

Just judging by the arrangement before the doors, one would never suspect this to be a brothel; it could easily be mistaken for the residence of a wealthy family, with its blue tiles, vermillion rafters, carved beams, and painted eaves. Even Zhang Chi couldn’t help but marvel—so even the ancients understood the art of branding.

“Brother Zhang, what are you waiting for? Let’s go in! You only need to compose three or five hundred pieces of poetry or prose, and we’ll have wine to drink,” San Tong urged anxiously, his stomach long since empty.

Hearing San Tong’s words, a bystander snorted in disdain. Did they think poetry and song could be tossed out in batches of three or five hundred at a whim? Clearly, these men were not true scholars. Did they not know that even the most learned talents would often agonize for half a day over a single line of verse? Poetry was no assembly-line craft!

Zhang Chi was just about to step forward when San Tong suddenly remembered something and tugged at his sleeve. “Wait a moment, Brother Zhang, don’t go in yet.”

“Aren’t you hungry? Why not go in?” Zhang Chi asked, full of curiosity.

San Tong grinned sheepishly. “Since it’s said that only scholars and men of talent come here, and poetry is required, what if someone asks me to compose a poem and I can’t? Wouldn’t that be embarrassing?”

San Tong remembered all too well how, back at the academy, it was Zhang Chi who had taught him a poem, enabling him to humiliate Ma Yanjie, the top scholar, at a poetry banquet. Since then, he’d longed to shine again, hence now he clung to Zhang Chi’s sleeve, begging for another verse so he wouldn’t be at a loss before the renowned guests. Zhang Chi, helpless, considered for a moment. Since they were going to drink, he might as well teach San Tong something related.

“Mother, oh mother, when your son is gone, bury me beside the tavern wall. Lay my head toward the great wine jar, so even in death I’ll savor the scent of wine.” With that, Zhang Chi burst out laughing.

The onlooker, who’d already dismissed them as pretenders, now heard Zhang Chi recite this verse and couldn’t help but look vindicated. He covered his face with his sleeve and walked away, determined that when they were thrown out, no one would mistake him for an acquaintance of theirs.

But Zhang Chi cared not at all, laughing as he strode straight toward the main entrance.

Two attendants had already come out to greet them. Though this was a brothel and the four of them wore plain clothes, the attendants made no judgments based on appearance. One took their horses, the other warmly invited them inside.

Outside the gates, Zhang Chi had already thought the place grand and elegant, but once within, he truly felt those four characters—“Ethereal Hall of Earthly Pleasures”—were well deserved.

The interior was refined and exquisite without ostentation. The women were many, yet not one was merely a painted face—no vulgar powder here. San Tong and Dao Xuan, one a bandit and the other a monk, had never seen such a spectacle, and looked as out of place as raw recruits on their first battlefield.

Unlike other brothels crowded with all sorts, here the guests were fewer but of a higher caliber—men of letters and repute. Zhang Chi and his companions, dressed as they were, were the only ones in plain clothes in the main hall.

The building had two floors. Zhang Chi glanced upward and said, “The view from upstairs is broad. Why don’t we go up and find a seat?”

San Tong stepped toward the stairs, but just then a young gentleman in fine clothes entered and, passing by, eyed them with surprise. He asked an attendant, “How did these peasants gain entry to the Ethereal Hall?”

San Tong bristled. “What’s wrong with plain clothes? If you can come in, why can’t we?”

“You think peasants like you are fit to enjoy yourselves here? This is not a place for the likes of you,” the young man sneered. “It’s bad enough you’ve come at all, but to dare ascend to the second floor? You must be courting disaster.”

Such arrogant scions, born to privilege, believed themselves innately superior—a pitiful lot. Zhang Chi would not stoop to his level. Judging by his tone, entry to the second floor was not easily gained, so he asked the attendant beside him, “Is there some rule about going upstairs?”

The attendant replied respectfully, “Indeed. Here at the Ethereal Hall, guests may only enjoy themselves on the first floor. After the feast, those whose literary talents catch the eye of Lady Ruoshui may be selected to ascend to the second floor.”

San Tong, who’d never set foot in a brothel, was bewildered by the rules. “Are the women upstairs prettier than those below?”

The attendant explained, “You must be new here, sirs. Our Hall is graced by a courtesan, Lady Ruoshui, but she does not easily entertain guests. Thus, this rule: each day, guests drink and feast on the first floor. Lady Ruoshui will make an entrance, dance, and offer wine. Any guest who composes a worthy poem may have their wine on the house. Of those, only the most talented are invited upstairs to hear Lady Ruoshui perform on the zither.”

“But literary merit is so subjective. How is it decided who is truly outstanding?” Zhang Chi asked.

The young gentleman in fine attire scoffed, “What would a peasant like you understand? The decision is Lady Ruoshui’s—her knowledge spans the ages. Who better to judge talent?”

Zhang Chi ignored him and asked the attendant again, “So only those with exceptional talent may ascend?”

The attendant nodded. This piqued Zhang Chi’s interest immensely—never, in his own world or this one, had he encountered such a proud establishment. “What if I offer more money?”

The attendant replied, “Our rules are strict. Without talent, even a mountain of gold will not gain you entry upstairs.”

“What, you want to compete in wealth now?” the young gentleman cut in again. “If I were to turn my gold into iron coins, I could crush the three of you to death. With my fortune and my talents, even I have never been upstairs. You peasants are deluding yourselves. Best leave now!”

Zhang Chi simply smiled and turned to San Tong and Dao Xuan, “Let’s go find a seat.”

It is said that the best way to show contempt is not to argue, but to ignore. Zhang Chi acted as if the young man were invisible and walked right past him into the hall.

The young gentleman, unused to such disregard, was furious. “Are you deaf? I’m speaking to you!” He stormed forward in a rage.

Zhang Chi was unafraid of a fight—after all, Dao Xuan was a formidable ally. He turned, meeting the young man’s glare with a cold smile.

Seeing this, Dao Xuan and San Tong clenched their fists, ready to respond should he approach. Having just come from the battlefield days before, the three radiated a fierceness unlike any idle dandy. The young gentleman quailed before their predatory stares, unable to advance or retreat, and after a long, awkward pause, he pointed at Zhang Chi and spat, “In Shanyin City, who dares speak to me thus? I refrain from causing a scene out of respect for the scholars here, but once we are outside, you’ll regret this!”

With that, he flounced into the hall, still posturing, though his confidence was clearly shaken.

Zhang Chi, seeing he’d dropped the matter, paid him no further heed and entered the hall as well.

Unlike the modern world, people here did not always sit in chairs; in the south, it was customary to sit on mats. The main hall was filled with low tables, each surrounded by men seated on the floor, attended by one or two women pouring wine—each more brilliantly dressed than the last, leaving San Tong, Dao Xuan, and even Manager Wu dazzled.

Zhang Chi and his companions found an empty table in a corner and sat cross-legged. Soon, two radiant women brought wine and delicacies, kneeling at their sides to pour for them. Dao Xuan, a monk, and San Tong, despite his rough ways, had never experienced such treatment—their faces flushed red, San Tong’s so much that, against his dark skin, he looked about to faint.

By contrast, Manager Wu was more at ease. An old hand, he knew how to behave in any setting.

Seeing his friends so awkward, Zhang Chi said, “There’s no need to be so tense. Just think of this as a free meal and drink. Eat your fill—if need be, I’ll just compose more poems.”

Those nearby overheard and glanced over with looks of scorn, but Zhang Chi cared not and began to eat and drink heartily. San Tong and Dao Xuan, stomachs rumbling, soon relaxed and joined in, the three of them eating and drinking as if no one else were there. Zhang Chi, especially, drank cup after cup, so that the two women pouring for him could barely keep up.

Their exuberance caught the attention of a man nearby, who laughed aloud and called out, “Sir, you are truly a man of spirit! I, Meng Feiyang, toast you!”

Zhang Chi looked over and saw, seated at a nearby table, a man whose attire marked him as a noble, yet whose bearing was far less affected than the usual idle youth. Impressed at first glance, Zhang Chi raised his cup in return and replied, “To you!” Downing his drink in one go.

Meng Feiyang did likewise, exclaiming, “Excellent!”

Finding Meng Feiyang’s forthrightness much to his liking, Zhang Chi invited, “Why drink alone, brother? Come join the three of us—what do you say?”

“Gladly!” Meng Feiyang replied without hesitation, rising to sit at Zhang Chi’s side.