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


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


    <blockquote>


    A familiar, indifferent voice responded: "Once the host attains a certain level of fame, additional functions will unlock."


    </blockquote>


    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 playing a role beyond his control?


    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, speculating that with the noble families'' favor after last night’s poetry competition, 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.


    <hr>


    At the yamen, Zhao Ming reported 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 last night, Zhao Ming. Your poetry elevated the prestige of our department. I must say, it was unexpected.”


    His words were smooth, but Zhao Ming detected the hollowness behind them. Liu Wen was a man who praised only when it benefited 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 new stack of documents—his way of reminding him of his place.


    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 played a dangerous game last night, boy,” the scribe murmured. “Liu Wen likes those who make him look good, but he dislikes subordinates who shine too brightly.”


    Zhao Ming nodded subtly. He understood the message well.


    <hr>


    At the Jade Pavilion, Lian Rou sat by the window, the morning 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.


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Xiao Lan sighed. “Mistress, why are you so interested 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… last 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 scholars—some praising its beauty, others lamenting 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 last time I allow myself such foolishness.”


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


    <hr>


    Returning from court, Zhao Ming was intercepted by a man dressed in fine but understated robes.


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


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


    The conversation was polite at first, but Zhao Ming quickly realized the true reason behind the invitation.


    “You made an impression last night,” Yang Tianlei remarked. “And not just on the scholars. 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… protection.”


    A generous offer, but one that came with invisible chains. 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 Ming left, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.


    <hr>


    Back at the yamen, Zhao Ming returned to his desk, grateful for the mundane normalcy of his work.


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


    “I heard Lian Rou wrote a poem,” one of them said. “A response to the scholar’s competition.”


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


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


    They turned to 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 knew the meaning behind his words.


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


    As the day ended, the clerks finished their work and departed.


    <hr>


    Upon returning 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 parchment delicate between his fingers.


    “My mistress asked me to deliver this.”


    Then she left, her steps swift and unhesitating.


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


    He read.


    Her words were careful, but the emotions beneath them were undeniable.


    "Your poem reached me in ways I cannot 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 Ming set the letter down, his fingers lingering on the inked words.


    Fate, huh?


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


    <hr>


    End of Chapter 11