Feng Xinzi went on to check out the Shrine of the Fairy. The shrine housed a statue standing on a golden phoenix with spread wings — but the statue had no face, just a flower-shaped ornament on its forehead. Even so, the shrine was busy; people came and prayed all day.

　　An old man had just finished his offering when Feng Xinzi stepped up and asked bluntly, “Sir, why does the fairy have no face?”

　　The old man scowled, offended. “Young man, how dare you talk like that? You’re the one without shame.”

　　Feng Xinzi realized he’d been tactless and hurried to clarify. “Sorry — I didn’t mean that. I meant, why does the statue have no facial features? No eyes, nose, or mouth?”

　　You don’t mock other people’s faith; it’s like cutting off their livelihood. Folks worship, hoping for protection. Even if the gods don’t literally intervene, people keep faith because it comforts them and keeps them decent. Feng Xinzi knew that — insult a family shrine and you’ll pay for it.

　　Seeing Feng Xinzi backpedal, the old man softened and explained: “The fairy did have a face at first. The sculptor tried to copy everyone's description, but each townsperson’s dream showed a different face. Someone said she looked like this, someone else swore she looked like that. When they finally carved a face, nobody thought it matched their dream. So they scrubbed the face away. They left only the forehead ornament — everyone remembered that the same. So they kept the dot and left the face blank, so each person could see her however they’d dreamed.”

　　That made sense. Feng Xinzi nodded — some things you really had to see to believe.

　　He paid his respects and joked to the statue, “If you ever really show yourself, I’ll come pray every day.” Years later, he actually did keep that promise: day after day he added oil to the shrine lamp, even when people changed, even when fewer and fewer remembered the flood stories. But that’s a story for later.

　　Feng Xinzi didn’t linger. When he returned, Ruoshui was awake, stretching — she hadn’t slept like that in ages and felt refreshed. Feng Xinzi wasn’t around; only Yu Furong’s soft voice answered, “Feng left to gather news. He’ll be back soon. Don’t worry.”

　　Ruoshui sipped tea and watched Qin Yin’s fingers on the zither. The melody stirred something in her — she suddenly remembered: in the dream she’d had someone teaching her to play. Usually she’d wake with the dream evaporating, but today she actually remembered the tune clearly. She couldn’t tell if she’d learned it in the dream or if it had always been inside her.

　　She asked, “Qin Yin, may I try?”

　　Qin Yin stopped playing, rose politely, and moved aside. “Be my guest.”

　　Ruoshui sat and let her fingers glide over the strings. The motion felt familiar — not dream-familiar, but instinctual, like something she’d always known. Following the melody that sat in her memory, her hands moved like saplings in the wind. What began as awkwardness quickly smoothed into grace; notes flowed long and clear, soft and pure, painting misty bridges, trickling streams, hills full of flowers.

　　The room fell silent. Passersby and customers stopped to listen; even those who didn’t understand music felt calmed by the sound.

　　Ruoshui closed her eyes and chased after whatever memory lingered — the teacher in her dream came closer and clearer: purple robes, black hair, a golden crown — a face she recognized suddenly, as if it belonged to someone she’d seen before. She snapped awake. The face that flashed through her mind was Su Mu — absurd, impossible. Had she finally gone mad?

　　Before Feng Xinzi could move to ask, a commotion erupted. The door slammed open and a greasy, drunken man with a bulbous face barreled in. He was a disgusting sight, swaggering in and grinning lecherously at Ruoshui as she still had her hands on the zither.

　　He sneered, “So that’s the famous player! I like boys like this,” and tossed a wad of silver onto the instrument. “Play for me.”

　　Ruoshui, taken aback, tried to gather herself. She had no stomach for a fight with the man, and Feng Xinzi standing by the window was only smirking at the scene. She shot him a look — help, please.

　　Feng Xinzi had had enough. In a blink an illusory shadow flashed in front of the drunk; he grabbed the lecher’s hand, twisted it, and the drunk howled and begged for mercy: “Have mercy! Have mercy!” Suddenly he was a very different man — frightened, whimpering.

　　Feng Xinzi shoved him across the room. The man hit the floor and was flung back several feet — clearly the kind who’d met a real fighter before. People fell silent; no one dared make a sound. Feng Xinzi casually wiped his hands with a handkerchief, tossed it aside, then took Ruoshui’s hand and led her out, leaving two taels of silver on the table for Yu Furong.

　　The crowd parted obediently as they left. The drunk muttered, “Hey — help me up, will you?” but the moment was over. People whispered among themselves and slowly returned to whatever they’d been doing. From then on, the Anxiang Pavilion no longer had a girl named “Qinyin” performing there.