“There is, there is. That person is quite famous around here, everyone knows.”

“Exactly, he’s a bit eccentric.”

……

Dreaming again…

It was an era when things were still prosperous, in the Jiangnan region, renowned for its elegance throughout the land.

Tall buildings, covered with silks sent by grateful patrons.

All sent for her…

The number one leading lady of Jiangnan.

Beautiful.

Her voice was lovely, so lovely.

The old man lay under the tree with his eyes half-closed, patting the armrest, humming a tuneless melody, remembering how, as a child, that famously proud leading lady once gave him candy—sweet, so very sweet.

But every time at this moment, he would suddenly remember that incident, and whenever he thought of it, it stabbed at his heart.

That night, he and everyone in the courtyard knelt for the whole night.

Ah, who among us hasn’t received her kindness?

That night, not a single person dared to speak.

In the end, only she died.

After that, no one spoke at all.

People… when a person dies, it’s like a lamp going out; even kindness can turn cold and thin.

He slowly opened his eyes, looking at the sunlight filtering down, feeling that the house, like himself, was about to rot away. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold on, whether one day he would truly rot away, and if he did, no one would know. But in his current state, he couldn’t go out, couldn’t go out at all.

That person often said, “In the deep of night, one suddenly dreams of youth.”

That matter, I’m afraid, will be taken to the grave.

Knock, knock, knock.

The sound of knocking at the door.

The old man lifted his head. At first, he didn’t want to respond, but for some reason, after thinking it over, he still got up, trembling, to open the door. The door opened, and outside stood a man carrying a violin case. The man glanced around the room, his gaze pausing at the old locust tree, then noticing the ancient well beneath it, and finally settling on the old man’s face, seeing the black mole at the corner of his eye.

He suddenly recalled the child kneeling in his dream.

Evan Wade felt a fleeting sense of melancholy at facing the passage of time, then composed himself, carrying his violin case and sword box, and smiled slightly:

“Are you Mr. Mr. Johnson?”

“My name is Evan Wade, and I’d like to ask you about something.”

Chapter 0011: So Many Past Events, Told Only to Ghosts and Spirits

“My little place here hasn’t had visitors in a long time—what a rare thing.”

The old man stepped aside to let Evan Wade in. After closing the door, he sat on the wooden chair beneath the locust tree, his somewhat clouded eyes looking at Evan Wade. Evan Wade sat on a stone nearby and smiled, “That shouldn’t be. Hasn’t anyone come to visit you before?”

The old man shook his head. “Everyone I knew is dead. The younger generations have gradually stopped coming too.”

“Come to think of it, a few young people did come by yesterday, but they didn’t come in, just turned away.”

“Oh, I almost forgot, I should make you some tea. Look at my memory.”

The old man got up again and went inside, grumbling about this and that as he made tea. Finally, he brought out two steaming cups in old porcelain mugs. Evan Wade cupped the tea in his hands. Seeing that he didn’t drink, the old man assumed he looked down on such ordinary tea, so he took a sip himself and smiled, “So, what is it you want to ask this old fellow about?”

Evan Wade said, “I’m looking for someone.”

“Who?”

“The girl who once sang best in all of Jiangnan.”

Clang.

The old man’s teacup fell from his hand, hot tea spilling onto the ground.

He looked at the composed Evan Wade, opened his mouth, and said, “…How do you know?”

Evan Wade replied, “By chance, I learned a few things.”

Perhaps reminded of old memories by these words, the old man’s expression grew weary. He closed his eyes, seeming to age in an instant. After a long while, he said softly, “Well, it’s good that someone knows. I thought I’d have to take these things to the grave.”

“This story, well, it starts in the last years of the Ming dynasty.”

……

Jiangnan has always been prosperous—this is a fact acknowledged by all in China.

And in Jiangnan, there were two opera houses, each considering the other a rival, competing for countless years.

For a few years, your house would be in the spotlight; after a few more, mine would take the lead. The competition was lively, intense.

That winter, there was a rare sunny day, with not a trace of snow on the road.

The madam of Chunxiao House brought back a little girl.

She was beautiful, with a lovely voice.

At sixteen, she took the stage for the first time and stunned the audience. Her singing was like shattered jade and a phoenix’s cry, outshining the stars of several nearby opera houses.

The girl’s name was Nancy King, and she became famous overnight.

Countless dignitaries and nobles came to hear her sing.

Red silk sent by patrons was tied in bolts to the wooden building, as bright and lively as red clouds.

Ordinarily, Nancy King would have kept singing into her twenties, then perhaps retired to teach newcomers, or married into a good family and lived a respectable life. But things are never so simple—if every story ended as perfectly as the storytellers say, there wouldn’t be so many regrets in the world.

The year Nancy King found her beloved, the Wokou invaded the borders.

The tide from the West crashed into the Ming dynasty, which had ruled for five hundred years.