Zhao Ming woke early, the echoes of st night’s events still lingering in his mind. The poetry petition had uedly thrust him into the spotlight, and more importantly, his system had reacted to it.

  "What is fame used for?" he asked the system.

  A familiar, indifferent voice responded: "Ohe host attains a certain level of fame, additional funs will unlock."

  Vague as always. Zhao Ming frowned. It was clear now that the system valued fame, but to what end? Would it bring him power? Influence? Or was it merely a tool to lure him into pying a role beyond his trol?

  His thoughts were interrupted by the distant chatter of house servants. They spoke in hushed yet excited voices about Supervisor Liu Wen’s rising status, speg that with the noble families' favor after st night’s poetry petition, he could soon receive a promotion.

  Zhao Ming exhaled slowly. He had unwittingly helped Liu Wen, but that didn’t mean the man would remember his debt. If anything, his own position was now more precarious.

  He would have to tread carefully.

  At the yamen, Zhao Mied for duty as usual, but there was an unmistakable shift in how others regarded him. His name had spread—some with admiration, others with envy.

  Liu Wen summoned him.

  “You did well st night, Zhao Ming. Your poetry elevated the prestige of our department. I must say, it was ued.”

  His words were smooth, but Zhao Mied the hollowness behind them. Liu Wen was a man who praised only when it beed him. Zhao Ming knew better than to bask in it. He bowed respectfully.

  “I was merely fortunate, Supervisor.”

  Liu Wen gave a knowing smile but said nothing more. Instead, he handed Zhao Ming a ack of dots—his way of reminding him of his pce.

  As Zhao Ming walked back to his desk, an old scribe stopped him. The man’s eyes, aged by decades of bureaucratic life, held a quiet warning.

  “You pyed a dangerous game st night, boy,” the scribe murmured. “Liu Wen likes those who make him look good, but he dislikes subordinates who shihtly.”

  Zhao Ming nodded subtly. He uood the message well.

  At the Jade Pavilion, Lian Rou sat by the window, the m sun casting delicate patterns across her silk robes.

  Her maid, Xiao Lan, brought a message—a report that Zhao Ming had ties to the noble Qiao family.

  Xiao Lan sighed. “Mistress, why are you so ied in a mere scribe?”

  Lian Rou remained silent for a long moment before finally speaking, her voice distant.

  “Perhaps it’s foolishness,” she admitted. “Perhaps… st night’s poem made me believe, if only for a moment, that I could still yearn for something beyond this cage.”

  Xiao Lan's expression softened. She had seen many women in the brothel drown in false hopes, but Lian Rou was different.

  Instead of responding, Lian Rou reached for a brush and ink. Her emotions swirled like an untamed river, and she let them flow onto the paper.

  A poem.

  By nightfall, her words had spread among schors—some praising its beauty, others menting her sorrowful fate.

  Still, it wasn’t enough.

  She folded a letter and pressed it into Xiao Lan’s hands.

  “Deliver this to Zhao Ming,” she said. Then, almost wistfully, she added, “Perhaps this will be the st time I allow myself such foolishness.”

  Xiao Lan said nothing, but the uanding in her eyes was clear.

  Returning from court, Zhao Ming was intercepted by a man dressed in fi uated robes.

  “Young Master Zhao, my lord invites you for tea.”

  Zhao Ming followed him to a teahouse, where Yang Tianlei awaited.

  The versation olite at first, but Zhao Ming quickly realized the true reason behind the invitation.

  “You made an impression st night,” Yang Tianlei remarked. “And not just on the schors. The Sun family may not take kindly to it.”

  A veiled warning.

  “And your family’s stance?” Zhao Ming asked cautiously.

  Yang Tianlei smiled. “The Yang family appreciates talent. Should trouble arise, we could offer… prote.”

  A generous offer, but ohat came with invisible s. Zhao Ming weighed his words carefully.

  “I’m honored, but I currently reside with the Qiao family. It would be improper to accept such kindness at this moment.”

  Yang Tianlei’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before he chuckled.

  “A wise answer. You are a good seedling, Zhao Ming. In time, I hope we will have another opportunity to speak.”

  As Zhao Mi, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.

  Back at the yamen, Zhao Miuro his desk, grateful for the mundane normalcy of his work.

  His fellow clerks, however, were still buzzing about st night’s events.

  “I heard Lian Rou wrote a poem,” one of them said. “A respoo the schor’s petition.”

  “I swear, if I had the money, I’d buy her freedom,” another decred.

  The hed. “If you had money, you’d find a wife first.”

  They turo Zhao Ming. “You should write a poem in response.”

  Before Zhao Ming could reply, the old scribe spoke up. “Enough foolishness. Don’t drag Zhao Ming into trouble.”

  Silence fell. They all khe meaning behind his words.

  Liu Wen’s favor was fickle. It was best not to draw too much attention.

  As the day ehe clerks fiheir work aed.

  Upourning to the Qiao residence, Zhao Ming noticed a familiar figure waiting at the entrance.

  Xiao Lan.

  Without preamble, she handed him a folded letter, the part delicate between his fingers.

  “My mistress asked me to deliver this.”

  Then she left, her steps swift and uating.

  Inside his quarters, Zhao Miated before breaking the seal. A faint floral fragrance rose from the paper—subtle, elegant.

  He read.

  Her words were careful, but the emotioh them were undeniable.

  "Your poem reached me in ways I ot express. If fate permits, I hope we may one day share a moment of stolen peace—just the two of us, over a cup of tea."

  Zhao Mihe letter down, his fingers lingering on the inked words.

  Fate, huh?

  For the first time that night, he found himself w what his own fate had in store.

  End of Chapter 11