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The city of Xianle shimmered like a dream under the glow of a thousand enchanted lanterns. They swayed gently with the evening breeze, casting flickering golden light onto the cobblestone streets below. Music seemed to pulse through the air itself, an ethereal melody that wove through the bustling city like a heartbeat. In Xianle, music wasn’t merely an art form; it was life itself, a force that could shape the world, heal the wounded, or even summon the divine.
At the center of this melodic universe stood Taizi Dianxia Xie Lian, the prodigy violinist of the Celestial Orchestra. His performances were said to hold the heavens captive, his bow strokes so precise and passionate they could coax tears from the gods. Yet tonight, as he clutched his enchanted violin, his normally steady hands trembled.
The golden string of the instrument had snapped, leaving its radiant glow dim and lifeless. It felt like a bad omen, a crack in the perfection he had worked so tirelessly to uphold. The conductor, calm but firm, had immediately sent him to the artisan quarter, to the one person in the city said to be capable of repairing such a masterpiece: Hua Cheng, a luthier as infamous for his sharp tongue as he was revered for his unparalleled skill.
Now, Xie Lian stood frozen at the threshold of a small workshop tucked between towering buildings. The sign above the door was modest—just the name Ghost City carved roughly into dark wood—but the reputation of the man inside was anything but. The faint scent of varnish and cedarwood wafted out, mingling with the soft sound of humming that floated through the open door.
He peeked inside. The space was dimly lit by scattered candles and a single enchanted lamp. Tools were meticulously arranged on every surface, and the air carried a sense of quiet precision. Hua Cheng was bent over a cello, his long, dark hair gleaming as it fell across his shoulder. He wore a striking red shirt, unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of collarbone, paired with black pants. Silver butterflies adorned his accessories—small details that somehow enhanced his enigmatic aura. His eyepatch, a deep black with an embroidered butterfly on the corner, drew Xie Lian’s attention, giving him an air of both danger and intrigue.
Xie Lian swallowed hard, unsure if it was the weight of the snapped violin in his hands or the sudden awareness of Hua Cheng himself that made his heart race. He’d heard stories about the man—how his genius was matched only by his disdain for formality, how his sharp wit had sent even the most self-assured patrons reeling.
Before he could second-guess himself, Hua Cheng straightened, setting down the cello with a practiced grace. “If you’re going to hover there all night, I’ll charge you rent,” he said without looking up, his voice low and smooth, tinged with amusement.
Xie Lian jolted, stepping inside quickly. “I… I need your help. My violin—it’s…” He hesitated, holding out the instrument like it was a wounded creature.
Finally, Hua Cheng looked up, his single visible eye locking onto Xie Lian with an intensity that made him feel seen in a way no audience ever had. Hua Cheng’s lips curled into a slow, teasing smile as he reached for the violin. “Well, well. Looks like the Taizi Dianxia has a broken melody. Let’s see if I can fix it.”
His fingers brushed Xie Lian’s as he took the instrument, a brief contact that sent an unexpected jolt through the prince’s chest. Hua Cheng turned his attention to the violin, examining it with reverence and focus.
“Enchanted strings,” Hua Cheng murmured, running his thumb over the snapped thread. “Rare. Temperamental. Just like their owner, I imagine.” He glanced up with a smirk that made Xie Lian’s cheeks heat.
“I—what?” Xie Lian stammered, caught off guard.
Hua Cheng chuckled, setting the violin down on his workbench. “Relax, Taizi Dianxia. Let me work my magic.”
As Hua Cheng began to prepare his tools, Xie Lian couldn’t help but watch him, his nerves slowly giving way to something else—curiosity, fascination, and perhaps a touch of awe. For all his skill with music, it seemed that tonight, Hua Cheng would be the one orchestrating something unforgettable.
“You might want to sit down,” Hua Cheng said, his tone calm but commanding. “This will take a while. Enchanted strings are temperamental creatures.”
Xie Lian nodded, settling into a nearby stool. The workshop was warm, filled with the earthy scents of varnish and wood shavings, and the quiet intimacy of the space was oddly soothing. Hua Cheng began his work, his movements precise and confident.
As he delicately threaded the new string, a soft hum escaped Hua Cheng’s lips. The melody was unfamiliar—simple, yet achingly beautiful. It filled the room like a gentle breeze, brushing away the silence.
“That’s... lovely,” Xie Lian said after a moment, his voice hesitant, as if afraid to disturb the moment.
Hua Cheng glanced at him with a crooked grin. “It’s something I wrote. Nothing special, just a little tune to keep me company.”
“You compose?” Xie Lian asked, genuinely surprised.
Hua Cheng shrugged, his focus returning to the violin. “When I have time. It’s just for me, though. I’m not a prodigy like you, Taizi Dianxia. Just a guy who loves music.”
The words hung in the air, simple yet profound. “Just a guy who loves music.” Xie Lian felt the weight of them, the way they seemed to contrast so sharply with the relentless pursuit of perfection that had defined his own life.
The rhythmic sound of Hua Cheng’s tools working against the violin filled the room, a calming counterpoint to the quiet tension between them. Xie Lian couldn’t help but watch Hua Cheng's hands—steady, skilled, and entirely at ease, as if they belonged to someone who had all the time in the world.
“What’s it like?” Hua Cheng asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence like a bow slicing across strings.
Xie Lian blinked, startled out of his thoughts. “What’s what like?”
“Being you.” Hua Cheng’s tone was quiet but held an edge of curiosity, his single visible eye lifting to meet Xie Lian’s gaze. “Everyone watching, waiting, expecting. Does it ever get... lonely?”
The question struck deeper than Xie Lian expected, the honesty of it catching him off guard. His fingers gripped the edge of his chair, knuckles turning pale. “I... don’t know how to be anything else,” he admitted softly, his voice barely audible over the quiet hum of the workshop.
Hua Cheng’s hands paused mid-motion, the string he’d been adjusting resting loose between his fingers. He looked up, his gaze unwavering and piercing, yet gentle. “Maybe you don’t have to be anything else,” he said, his words deliberate, like a carefully played note. “Maybe you just need someone who sees the you beyond all that.”
Xie Lian’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he couldn’t find the words to respond. The weight of Hua Cheng’s statement settled over him like a warm, heavy blanket, disarming and comforting all at once.
“You say that so easily,” Xie Lian murmured, lowering his gaze to his lap. “But how do you know? Everyone sees what they want to see.”
“Not everyone,” Hua Cheng replied, his voice softening. “Some of us see the truth, no matter how well it’s hidden. You’re not just some prodigy violinist, Gege. You’re a person. Someone who, I think, doesn’t let himself get seen nearly enough.”
The sincerity in Hua Cheng’s tone was almost too much. Xie Lian swallowed hard, feeling a lump form in his throat. He wasn’t used to being seen like this—not for his talent, not for his title, but for himself.
By the time Hua Cheng finished restringing the violin, the night had deepened, the city outside blanketed in quiet. Hua Cheng plucked at the strings, testing their tension with a practiced ear. The sound was soft but pure, resonating through the small workshop.
“Perfect,” Hua Cheng said, his voice tinged with satisfaction. Then, with a suddenness that made Xie Lian’s heart leap, he turned and reached for his hand.
“Here,” Hua Cheng said, his touch warm and steady. He guided Xie Lian’s fingers to the violin, adjusting his grip with gentle precision. “Hold it like this. You’re too tense. Relax your wrist.”
Xie Lian obeyed, though his pulse quickened at the closeness. Hua Cheng’s hand lingered on his, and the faint scent of cedarwood and varnish filled the air between them.
“You’ve been playing for how long?” Hua Cheng asked, his voice quieter now, as if unwilling to break the fragile intimacy of the moment.
“Since I was a child,” Xie Lian replied, his own voice just as soft. “It’s all I’ve ever known.”
Hua Cheng hummed thoughtfully. “And yet, you still hold the bow like you’re carrying the weight of the world. Music isn’t just technique, you know. It’s connection.”
Xie Lian looked up, meeting Hua Cheng’s gaze. “Connection to what?”
“To life,” Hua Cheng said, a small, knowing smile curving his lips. “To yourself. To someone who makes you feel like the world doesn’t matter as long as they’re listening.”
Before Xie Lian could respond, Hua Cheng bent down slightly, his lips brushing the inside of Xie Lian’s wrist in a feather-light kiss.
“For good luck,” Hua Cheng said, his grin playful but his gaze unbearably tender.
Xie Lian’s breath caught, his cheeks flushing. “That’s... hardly necessary,” he managed, though his voice wavered.
Hua Cheng’s laughter was like music, low and warm. “Maybe not,” he said, stepping back but leaving the warmth of his presence lingering. “But you needed it. Consider it a luthier’s blessing.”
Xie Lian could only sit there, heart pounding, as Hua Cheng returned to his workbench with a satisfied air. In that moment, the weight of expectations and perfection seemed to fade, leaving behind only the quiet warmth of a shared melody and the undeniable presence of someone who saw him.
The Mid-Autumn Festival was the crown jewel of Xianle’s cultural calendar, a night where music, magic, and the heavens intertwined. The amphitheater, carved into the hillside, shimmered under the light of a thousand enchanted lanterns and the silvery glow of the full moon. Xie Lian stood at the heart of it all, his violin catching the starlight as if it had been forged from the celestial glow itself.
As his bow danced across the strings, filling the air with a hauntingly beautiful melody, Xie Lian’s mind betrayed him, drifting to a certain luthier with sharp features, honey-brown eyes, and a smile that seemed to hold the secrets of the universe. Hua Cheng.
Halfway through his performance, Xie Lian’s gaze scanned the crowd, an ocean of faces illuminated by soft lantern light. Then he saw him. Hua Cheng stood casually against a stone pillar, dressed in his signature red shirt and silver accents that glinted like fireflies in the dark. His posture was relaxed, but his eye was fixed intently on Xie Lian, his expression a perfect blend of pride and mischief.
Xie Lian’s breath hitched, and for the first time that evening, a genuine smile graced his lips. His playing shifted, the music taking on a warmth that hadn’t been there before, as if Hua Cheng’s presence had infused it with something more—something alive and real.
The audience erupted into applause as Xie Lian finished, but the sound barely registered. His eyes remained locked on Hua Cheng, who gave him a slow, deliberate wink before vanishing into the crowd.
When the final bows had been taken, and the amphitheater emptied, Xie Lian found himself drawn to the artisan quarter. There, under the soft glow of a lantern outside the workshop, Hua Cheng waited, leaning against the doorway as if he had all the time in the world.
“You shouldn’t have come,” Xie Lian said as he approached, though his voice held no real reproach.
“And miss that smile?” Hua Cheng countered, his grin teasing. “Never.”
Xie Lian stopped a few steps away, his heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with the performance. “You kissed my wrist,” he said, his tone quiet but pointed.
Hua Cheng’s grin widened. “It worked, didn’t it? The audience loved you.”
Xie Lian hesitated, his fingers brushing the edge of his violin case. “I don’t think I need another blessing,” he said softly. Then, summoning a courage that surprised even himself, he added, “I think I need... you.”
The playful glint in Hua Cheng’s eye faded, replaced by something deeper and softer. He stepped closer, closing the gap between them until the space seemed to hum with unspoken words. “For courage?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Xie Lian nodded, his gaze unwavering despite the heat rising in his cheeks.
Hua Cheng reached out, his touch deliberate as he took Xie Lian’s hand. Slowly, reverently, he pressed a kiss to Xie Lian’s wrist, lingering this time as if sealing a promise. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed against Xie Lian’s skin, his expression uncharacteristically serious.
“Then you’ll have me,” Hua Cheng said simply, his voice like a quiet vow.
Xie Lian’s lips curved into another smile, this one soft and unguarded. “That’s all I could ever ask for.”
Under the lantern light, surrounded by the quiet hum of the city, the two stood together, as if the world outside had fallen away, leaving only them and the music in their hearts.