Chapter 35

Chapter 35: Picking Up the Old Trade Again (Part 2)

The private room had that fresh, tasteful look—clean lines, pale wood, a few simple ornaments meant to feel refined.

Shen Tang sat at the tea table and rolled a teacup between her fingers while she waited for the male courtesan. Silence always got under her skin; she needed something to do.

The shopkeeper was also staring off into space, clearly just grinding time.

Shen Tang finally couldn’t hold it anymore. “Shopkeeper, I have a question. Can you answer it?”

His drifting thoughts snapped back. He chuckled and waved a hand. “Ask whatever you like. Just don’t ask this old man about what goes on between me and my wife, young lady.”

Shen Tang froze.

If she could have flipped the table, she would’ve. Who wanted to hear about his bedroom life?

The shopkeeper caught the look on her face and immediately realized he’d made a dirty joke in front of an eleven- or twelve-year-old. Even if this girl could paint erotic pictures like a veteran, she was still a kid.

He cleared his throat and hurriedly steered away. “Ahem. What was it you wanted to ask? Go on. I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Shen Tang didn’t bother sparing him. “Why would the commandery yamen encourage that kind of business? Shouldn’t government officials avoid something like this?”

They weren’t just tolerating it—they were leading the charge. It was ridiculous.

The shopkeeper blinked, then looked almost amused. He’d expected something harder. Still, her question made him pause. She really didn’t know?

Then he studied her again—pretty, composed, hands that didn’t look like they’d ever done hard labor. And that brush skill. She must’ve come from money before life went to hell.

No wonder her relatives had kept her sheltered from this filth.

Pity softened his eyes. This young lady had to be desperate to go looking for work like erotic paintings.

If this deal went well, he could save other bookshop commissions for her in the future.

He took a sip of tea and sighed. “That’s a long story. Disasters, wars—people can’t survive anymore. Folks with land don’t dare plant it. Plant it and bandits rob you. Folks without land starve outright.”

He set the cup down with a dull tap. “Tell me, if even a lord can’t eat or stay warm, how do you expect people to raise a house full of children?”

Shen Tang shook her head. “They can’t.”

“So they abandon them,” the shopkeeper said, voice turning rough, “or they sell them. The commandery yamen took one look and decided it was ‘unsustainable,’ so they started pushing the building of pleasure houses—places for singing, dancing, smiling for customers. Their excuse? First, lure outside merchants, make money. Second, ‘settle’ those children. Third, taxes are heavy—fill the gaps.”

He snorted. “Otherwise the higher-ups demand tax silver, and if the commandery yamen can’t produce it, what do they do? They say this way it’s… killing three birds with one stone.”

Shen Tang’s face went tight.

She held it in, then held it in again, nausea rising anyway. “That’s really what they meant?”

The shopkeeper pointed toward the heart of Xiao City and leaned in, voice low. “That’s what the posted notices say. What can commoners like us say about what the nobles are thinking? I’ll tell you the truth—if there weren’t war, none of this would be happening.”

His mouth twisted. “Now that everything’s been stirred into a mess, selling your sons and daughters into those houses gets called ‘mercy’ from the nobles.”

Because the commandery yamen was pushing so hard—and because the times were so broken—other businesses in Xiao City were dying. The pleasure houses alone were thriving, bursting at the seams day after day.

Commoners who couldn’t survive were forced to sell their children. The money wouldn’t even cover a month’s expenses, but it fattened traffickers and brothel managers.

The more children there were, the more those people could choose—and the more they could squeeze. They banded together and drove prices down until parents could only sell for pennies through tears.

A child with decent features might fetch one or two hundred coins at most. After that, whatever happened depended on luck.

The shopkeeper finished, visibly angry, then sighed as if the breath got ripped out of him. Only then did he notice Shen Tang staring blankly, and he seemed to realize, too late, that he’d dumped something ugly into a child’s lap.

He tried to patch it up. “Ah… that’s all in the past. These days, just staying alive is already hard enough.”

He didn’t say the rest, but it hung in the air anyway: the poor didn’t choose their fates. Whether you starved and wandered, or lived inside a pleasure house entertaining strangers, you didn’t get a vote.

Life was cheaper than grass.

The shopkeeper cleared his throat and forced a lighter tone. “Let’s talk about something else. Guess this: along these five streets of pleasure houses, how many are male houses? How many are female houses?”

Shen Tang had no idea. “Half and half?”

He shook his head and held up seven fingers. “Male houses make up this much. Seventy percent.”

Shen Tang stared at him.

The shopkeeper couldn’t resist launching into it. “You’re wondering why, right? Simple. You know the one sitting on the throne now—he used to be the favored consort of the ruler of Xin. He even had a nickname: Nu Jiao. The moment he rose to fame, everybody envied him. Male houses started popping up everywhere, and the business got better and better.”

He slapped his thigh. “And look at him now—ruler of a whole country. Impressive, huh?”

He might as well have handed Zheng Qiao an award for “Most Inspirational Male Consort in History.”

At that level, it really was absurdly bold.

No wonder male courtesans treated Zheng Qiao like some kind of idol.

Shen Tang didn’t know what to say.

A steady, rhythmic knock sounded at the door.

The shopkeeper got up and opened it. Three strangers stood outside—two tall, one short. The one in the middle wore a veil, black gauze hiding his face, flanked by two burly guards with hard eyes.

No need to guess who the client was.

Once inside, he removed the veil. His face was pale and fine-boned, almost too sharp—pretty in a way that felt mean. If anything, he looked more like a slightly green teenage boy than a grown man.

His gaze swept the room. Seeing no third person, he asked the shopkeeper, “Where’s the painter?”

Shen Tang raised her hand. “Right here.”

He didn’t even look at her. His temper went straight at the shopkeeper. “Did you not pay enough? You’re trying to fob me off with some raw little maid? Do you have any idea how important that picture is?”

The shopkeeper’s smile stiffened. He bowed anyway, because business was business. “She’s young, yes, but her skill isn’t worse than the painters you’ve used before.”

Shen Tang nodded along without shame. She had once lived off this craft. Trust the professional.

The youth finally studied her. Shen Tang stood, and the seal at her waist—her Literary Heart Signature Seal—swung with the motion. In the lamplight, the translucent imprint flashed faintly with rainbow colors.

The youth’s expression shifted. After a beat, he changed his tune. “Fine. Let her try.”

His eyes narrowed. “But if I’m not satisfied, I want her replaced. And I have one condition.”

Shen Tang’s confidence returned at once. “Name it.”

“You use the brush, ink, paper, and inkstone I provide.”

Shen Tang almost smiled. That was a gift. “Done.”

Night settled heavy, stars boiling across the sky.

All day, Qi Shan had felt like something was off—like a missing piece he couldn’t name.

When footsteps started up again next door, he knew Young Master Shen was back.

Shen Tang was bent over the table, rough draft finished, about to put brush to ink. She paused and called out, “Wait a second—coming.”

She opened the door. “Yuan Liang, something up?”

Qi Shan stepped in, books still in his arms. “I borrowed a few copied manuscripts from a friend. See if there’s anything you nee—”

He stopped mid-sentence.

His eyes had landed on the paper spread across her table, and a rare, genuine shock broke through his composure. “Young Master Shen… who taught you the ‘painting’ in music, chess, calligraphy, and painting?”

On the page was a person with a large black round head, a body sketched with a few crooked lines like twisted rope, sprawled on something that might’ve been a lounge chair. A lump on top could’ve been a hair bun, or a flower pinned into messy hair. One hand held a round fan. The other dangled.

It looked like someone posing on a chaise, trying hard to be seductive—curves pushed out, angles hollowed in.

Sloppy. Bizarre. And yet the vibe coming off it was somehow shamelessly suggestive.

Worse, there was more than one figure on the page. Strung together, the drawings formed a sequence: someone coming in, undressing, climbing onto the bed to strike a pose. The unfinished next scene suggested a second strange “person” was arriving…

Qi Shan stared at it for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose.

He truly couldn’t bring himself to call this “painting.”