This was pure, blatant obstructionism. The contestant, Lin Qingyin, had already formally conceded, and the judges had rendered their verdict. To interject now, demanding that Jun Moxie perform a piece superior to the Heartbreak Dirge, was utterly shameless. Young Master Jun had already made it clear that the previous composition was already a masterpiece of perfection; the only flaw was a slight imperfection in the performer's state of mind. To then demand he produce something even better was clearly setting an impossible standard!

“The outcome is decided. Are you intent on making trouble?”

Miao Xiaomiao’s delicate eyebrows shot up, her phoenix eyes flashing with palpable anger. She was furious.

“He hasn’t even touched an instrument. How can you claim the result is final?”

The voice persisted, unwilling to relent.

Jun Moxie’s divine sense had already locked onto the source of the shout. He saw the speaker standing far back in the crowd, his head deliberately hidden behind someone else’s back, bowing low, only sticking his neck out to yell.

Typically, such shouts were delivered with righteous indignation, but this fellow reeked of guilt, clearly terrified of being recognized.

Zhan Qingfeng’s face remained impassive, yet a flicker of dark satisfaction crossed his eyes. This man was the contingency he had planted in advance. Should Mo Junye win, regardless of the reason, this distraction was ready to be deployed—a calculated move to overturn Mo Junye’s victory by finding fault even in the smallest crack.

Jun Moxie’s divine sense swept over the situation once, and he instantly understood everything. A cold sneer touched his heart. If they only knew that I am the 'Dongfang Da Shu' who performed 'The Proud Wanderer' at the Dan Guan Tower in Azure Star City, he mused, they likely wouldn’t be rushing forward to offer me a chance to show off. The Heartbreak Dirge was indeed near perfection, but perfection itself exists in degrees.

“Public fairness resides in the hearts of the people. Very well, since someone voices doubt, I shall perform a piece for everyone. This will prevent anyone from nitpicking and stubbornly refusing to accept defeat! Am I correct in that assumption, Eldest Young Master Zhan?”

Jun Moxie looked at Zhan Qingfeng with a wry, half-smile.

“Naturally. To claim victory, one must possess truly overwhelming strength!” Zhan Qingfeng returned the smile coolly. “A clear win cannot be secured by mere lip service alone.”

“Indeed. But overturning a victory also cannot rely solely on words,” Jun Moxie chuckled, his eyes gleaming. “And certainly not by using unseen, skulking tactics, relying on individuals who won’t even show their faces. My dear sir who is shouting—since you have the courage to speak, why not step forward openly? I guarantee I will not pursue the matter, whether your words are your own will or whether you speak on behalf of another!”

At these words, Miao Xiaomiao couldn’t help but let out a small, startled laugh. With her cultivation, she had also easily identified the hidden individual. Furthermore, the sharp exchange between Jun Moxie and Zhan Qingfeng instantly made her realize the entire setup.

She had never seen Zhan Qingfeng speak a single word to this man since arriving here. It was clear this was a move orchestrated by Zhan Qingfeng. She was momentarily stunned by his foresight; his planning was so meticulous that he had accounted for defeat before even anticipating victory!

Yet, this realization only sharpened her wariness toward Zhan Qingfeng. If this was premeditated, then all his previous actions, all those warm gestures he had shown her—were they all part of this man’s elaborate design? What was he truly aiming for by cultivating her favor so diligently? Or, perhaps, what was the Zhan Family truly planning?

For the first time, Miao Xiaomiao elevated this question to the stature of the entire Zhan Clan, and a profound sense of alarm surged within her heart!

“Brother Lin, I did not anticipate needing this performance today, so I possess no instrument. I must borrow your Jade Flute, if you would permit it.” Jun Moxie inclined his head with a gentle smile.

Lin Qingyin responded with a smile, carefully retrieving his Jade Flute. He first wiped it meticulously with clear water, then presented it to Jun Moxie on a square of white silk.

In the circles of the Musical Arts, such an action constituted the highest form of respect one musician could offer a peer. Given Lin Qingyin’s standing as a grandmaster of music, his principles dictated he should never lend out the instrument he never parted with. Yet, in his gesture, everyone clearly perceived the atmosphere: it was Lin Qingyin himself, and the Jade Flute, who should feel honored to have Mo Junye request its use.

When Jun Moxie took the flute, he was startled by how feather-light it felt in his hand. “A fine flute,” he murmured.

Holding it, the instrument seemed to possess almost no weight. Such jade quality suggested it could only be crafted from the exceedingly rare Spirit-Lifting Jade.

“A fine flute requires a fine player. In my hands, this instrument has been somewhat wasted. Now, my only hope rests with Brother Mo, that it may sing a different song in your command.” Lin Qingyin smiled faintly, tinged with melancholy, and slowly stepped back.

“Brother Lin is far too modest.” Jun Moxie smiled faintly, gazing at the Jade Flute in his hands. He spoke softly, “The piece I am about to play was written by a woman centuries ago… Perhaps Heaven envied her beauty; this peerless beauty, this captivating woman, lived her life burdened by sorrow and fragile health, passing away before she reached twenty. The loss of such a world-captivating talent fading into dust compels a sigh from all who contemplate it. However, as we reside in this remote place, the piece never widely circulated. I only came across it by sheer coincidence, and today I shall share it with you all.”

At this announcement, many on the judging panel sat up straighter. Clearly, this was another unknown piece. And it was composed by a woman!

“Though this lady possessed face that could topple cities, her lifelong illness kept her confined to her chambers, rarely venturing out. Her greatest joy was watching the flowers bloom and wither in her courtyard, and observing the clouds gather and disperse in the sky. One day, the garden burst into full bloom, and she spent the entire day absorbed in their beauty, feeling a deep, subtle joy. She planned to return the next day! But that night, a fierce wind rose, bringing a light rain. Thousands of freshly blooming flowers withered overnight…”

Hearing this, Miao Xiaomiao let out a soft 'Ah.' She thought how devastating this would be if she were that woman, especially one whose vitality was already sapped by chronic illness. To have her few sources of pleasure suddenly destroyed by a shift in nature—how unbearable that must have been!

Indeed, Jun Moxie continued, “…Hearing the wind and rain that night, her heart grew anxious. By the first light of dawn, she threw on her robes and rushed to the garden to see her beloved flowers. But before her lay a tragic scene of crushed, fallen petals covering the ground…”

“She was heartbroken. Yesterday, a kaleidoscope of color; today, nothing but ruin. Yet, unable to bear the thought of these petals being ground into the mud, she gathered every fallen bloom, placed them into silk sachets, and buried them… As she buried the flowers, she was suddenly struck by a reflection of herself—her own youth fading under the shadow of severe illness, perhaps not long for this world. If she could bury flowers today, who would bury her in the days to come?”

“Perhaps moved by the scene, or driven by the heart’s deep feeling, this extraordinary woman improvised a poem titled The Song of Burying Flowers. And the music I shall play now is the piece she composed herself, set to the flute. Three days after this poem and melody were complete, that lady breathed her last…”

“Hearing Brother Mo speak of it, I am truly impatient to hear this piece, the Song of Burying Flowers,” Miao Xiaomiao said, her eyes wide with interest. “But before Brother Mo begins, could you perhaps write down the poem first?”

“If Lady Miao requests it, certainly!” Jun Moxie conceded generously.

Miao Xiaomiao waved her hand, and writing implements were brought forth, set before her. She smiled. “Brother Mo merely recite; the duty of recording shall fall to me.”

“That is excellent.” Jun Moxie understood her intention; they might yet compete in calligraphy later, so it was best not to reveal all his cards now.

The two acted in perfect concert, speaking back and forth, completely ignoring the audience as they whipped up the atmosphere for the music. Before a single note of the Song of Burying Flowers was played, it had already captivated the hearts of the crowd.

Telling a moving story to evoke empathy, then presenting the lyrics in full view of everyone, and only then commencing the performance—this method would undoubtedly maximize the impact of the piece beyond anything imaginable!

As Miao Xiaomiao dipped her brush deep into the ink, and Jun Moxie began his soft recitation, the Song of Burying Flowers—a classic from the Dream of the Red Chamber that had swept across the Earth—now unfolded its unique radiance in this other world!

“Petals fall and fly to fill the sky; who pities the faded scent that dies? Soft threads cling to the spring pavilion’s shade; light catkins brush against the embroidered screen displayed. The maiden in her chamber grieves the fading spring; boundless sorrow has no outlet wherein; she holds the flower hoe, stepping out of the silk-lined door, unable to tread upon the scattered blooms she loved before. The willow threads and elm blossoms still hold their grace, caring not if peach or plum flies from its place; though peach and plum may bloom again next year, who knows who remains within the chamber here? In March the fragrant nests are fully made; the swallows on the beams are too unfeeling, unswayed. Though next year’s blossoms serve their beaks anew, they know not that the person’s gone, the nest askew. Three hundred sixty days in the year, the wind and frost press on with cruel severity; how long can bright and lovely beauty stay, before one day it’s lost and hard to trace away? When blooms appear they’re easy seen, but hard to find when fallen down; the lonely soul before the steps grieves, burying blossoms in the town; she leans upon her hoe and secretly lets tears fall, drops upon the empty stem, a stain of blood upon the wall. The cuckoo silent waits as twilight nears; she carries home her hoe and shuts the heavy doors; the pale lamp lights the wall where one has newly slept, while cold rain drums the window where no warmth is kept. Why do I suffer such a double pain? Half pitying the spring, half hating spring again; pitying its swift arrival, hating its quick flight; it comes without a sound, departs without a light. Last night I heard sad singing from the court outside; was it the flower’s soul or bird’s soul there to chide? Both flower’s soul and bird’s soul cannot long remain; the bird is silent, flowers bow their heads in shame: I wish my shoulders sprouted wings to fly away, following the blossoms to the world’s far end of day. The world’s far end—where is the fragrant mound? Better gather up the lovely bones upon this ground, and with a heart of purity cover up their grace; to clean return from whence they came, is better than disgrace, stuck in the muddy mire below. You bury flowers now, and humans laugh at your slow pace; but who will bury you when you grow weary of this place? Look closely now: when spring departs and flowers fade, that is the time when youthful beauty is betrayed; one day when spring is gone and beauty has grown old, neither flower nor person will the other’s fate be told!”

As Jun Moxie chanted and Miao Xiaomiao transcribed, everyone present sank deep into the sorrowful, yet exquisitely beautiful and elegant verses. Even Zhan Qingfeng and Zhan Yushu, who had been focused on attacking Jun Moxie, could not find a single word to disrupt the proceedings.

Could such magnificent, profound poetry truly exist in this world? Every single word resonated so genuinely with the experiences of everyone present—that sense of helplessness, that clear acceptance of facing life and death… using the delicate flower as a mirror for one’s own proud solitude…

It seemed that such a rare, intelligent, and sensitive woman had once graced this world.