Chapter 138: Chapter 136: Carnival (Two in One)
Two days until the Rainbow Festival. In the morning, the carnival.
Summer has now passed. The once empty blue sky, where the sun radiated its rays, no longer has the stinging sensation it used to. Signs of winter are already appearing, as the cold wind sweeps through the gray stone buildings of Shaling City, flipping over the rainbow-colored ribbons hanging along the waterways, making people instinctively tighten their clothes.
But the enthusiasm of the people drives away the chill. The canal is crowded with all sorts of boats, including tourist boats from brothels luring in customers, dazzling in their decorations. Bright, colorful flags hang from them, and exotic feathers are brought in from faraway lands. On the canal, they resemble peacocks competing in beauty.
On the decks, beautiful young ladies are energetically showcasing their charm to the crowd. Small boats carry tourists past the cheerful brothel boats. The spirited girls, regardless of wealth or beauty, smile widely at the passerby. This leaves the tourists mesmerized, their eyes widened in amazement. Many have never seen such a variety of passionate, uniquely styled girls in their lives, including not only women but also men.
At the stern, the boatmen, with their dark faces revealing the smile of experienced hands, boast half-proudly, half-educationally to the tourists about Shaling City’s “special industries,” earning them gasps of awe and eager curiosity. Some furrow their brows, worrying that their physical condition won’t allow them to experience all the styles of the girls.
Seeing this group of “unsophisticated” tourists discussing how to best allocate their limited money and energy among the girls, a boatman, brimming with pride, says:
“I advise you not to stay out too late the night after tomorrow; when the City Flower of Shaling appears, no one on all the flower boats in the city can compare to her.”
The tourists have heard so much about the City Flower of Shaling that they’re somewhat tired of it.
One person says, “What’s the point of being beautiful? We can’t even touch her; I’d rather just sleep on a girl’s lap.”
The boatman grins:
“Missing out on her will be a lifelong regret. Trust me; I’ve been rowing in Shaling City for twelve years, and I’ve never been disappointed. This time, the City Flower is even more beautiful than the previous ones combined.”
“You’re just boasting…”
Someone whispers the collective sentiment.
As the boatman laughs and shakes his head, he quickly paddles to the side to avoid a small boat, saying:
“Regardless, it’s your loss.”
The tourists begin to hesitate, and after a brief consultation, they adjust their schedule to make time for the mysterious City Flower of Shaling.
At that moment, a small boat carrying twelve people comes into view. Eight rowing slaves are chained inside, and the city guards maintaining order poke the boatman’s boat with a bamboo pole:
“Up ahead is Round Lake; little boat, move aside and give way to the large vessel.”
The small boat sways slightly, and the boatman, not daring to complain, immediately steers his boat to the side.
With the city guards’ efforts, the congested canal suddenly opens up a wide path.
A flower boat, resembling a floating garden, steers toward Round Lake. Round Lake is quite large and calm compared to Shaling City, similar to a plaza in an ordinary city. During the festival days, the floating market in Round Lake has all moved out, docking or anchoring nearby in the canal.
Meanwhile, nearly half the population of the city gathers to watch the carnival—there will be even more during the Rainbow Festival.
Shaling City has never had a grand marble theater, and Round Lake fulfills part of that role. Whenever a festival arrives, people securely moor multiple viewing boats around the stone breakwater of Round Lake. It resembles a seat cut from a grand arena, and sailors dressed in special attire compete fiercely for customers, with regulars often arguing over their favorite viewing boats.
Once these boats for the general public are properly arranged, they form a large semicircle encircling Round Lake. The remaining semicircle is partly reserved for access passages, while the rest is left for the luxurious boats belonging to the nobility, each with distinctive styles.
This time, there are over a hundred boats on Round Lake. By the time of the Rainbow Festival in two days, the number will double, with viewing boats packed full of people.
The tourists disembark from the flat-bottomed boats onto the secured viewing boats.
Across from them, a variety of noble flower boats are docked.
Among them, the wealthy benefactor’s flower boat is particularly eye-catching; it is the largest and resembles a floating garden. It has twenty-two large trees planted in alchemical soil. The leaves are as green as jade, the bark as black as lacquer, and orange fruit hangs from the branches.
Below the branches, the respected guests of the wealthy benefactor engage in conversation. Few know that the benefactor’s beloved daughter was hanged here and buried beneath their feet. Those who do know wouldn’t dare mention such a grim story.
The “human specimen museum” maids of the benefactor, dressed in flamboyant outfits, weave in and out of the crowd, serving the customers without a moment’s delay. These guests are not noble merchants from Shaling City seeking favor with the benefactor but distinguished visitors from outside the city, potential customers.
One guest, somewhat detached from the crowd, stands alone at the railing. He wears a vest, loosely ties a white neck scarf around his neck, and dons brown riding pants, with no gems or decorations on his clothing. In his youth, he must have been a charming poet; now, time has not diminished his handsomeness, but rather added a touch of maturity.
In fact, he is a renowned poet. His verses circulate among affluent women in the bay, loudly recited by men who long to meet him one day—preferably with some intimate contact. Unfortunately, he has such discerning tastes that some women suspect him of being homosexual.
Because of this, many beauties boast of their encounters with him, exaggerating them into flirtations that are then blown up into fierce battles in gardens.
It is said that one husband, upon hearing his beautiful fiancée boast, immediately took a group and went looking for him with swords drawn, only to be captivated by one of his poems, returning home without his weapon.
For this, many sympathize with the poet, believing he has suffered an undeserved injustice. Yet the gods can testify that the poet indeed did spend the night with the husband’s wife, and the husband’s suspicions were not unfounded.
Considering his exacting taste, despite his privileged upbringing and great fame, the wealthy benefactor had never invited him to the Rainbow Festival, likely due to the poet’s noble lineage from the deep-water city. Thus, this is his first invitation.
Now, with one hand on the railing and the other holding a silver cup, the wind lifts his wavy brown hair, and his good-looking green eyes gaze out beyond the railing.
Several glances sneakily fall upon him. When he glances, several pale-skinned and brown-skinned maids quickly lower their heads, one of whom has a suspiciously flushed cheek.
He remains unruffled, continuing to admire the spectacular sights of the carnival outside the boat. In his view, the marvelous sights on the canal are far more appealing than these beauties. It’s unfortunate that the small boat has been cleared away, including those carrying performing artists, and he can only look at the floating spectator stands across from him.
“Lord Don Juan, how do you find Shaling City?”
A friendly yet authoritative male voice comes from beside him.
The wealthy benefactor Brance wears a courteous smile and has a slightly tipsy face beneath his neatly trimmed brown beard.
Out of politeness, the poet replies:
“I greatly appreciate your kind invitation; I must admit, despite my travels, this is my first time in this water city. Seeing so many lively boats is truly a rare sight. Haha, it’s just a pity they’ve all been cleared away.”
At this moment, the sound of a brass horn being blown comes from below the boat.
The wealthy benefactor Brance smiles and says: “Because they are making way for something more beautiful; look, here come the beautiful girls. If you like one, you can tell me.”
On the calm canal, various brothel boats arrive, their decks lined with flamboyant young ladies prepared to ignite everyone’s enthusiasm.
The poet gazes and feels the drink has given the benefactor some unrealistic fantasies.
But he humors himself and prepares to watch.
The first brothel boat approaches, its pristine white deck boasting twenty young ladies with long legs, wearing ankle-length sheer skirts, with vibrant feathers sticking out of their hair; each one is indeed beautiful. But under the poet’s sharp gaze, he notices that each girl’s appearance is somewhat similar.
Unless these twenty girls are all related by blood.
The poet remembers the rumor about wealthy benefactor Brance’s skill in flesh-and-blood craftsmanship, said to be capable of performing cosmetic surgery. Suddenly, adopting the mindset of observing a ridiculous scam, he looks closely at these girls.
The brothel boat enters the large arc formed by multiple boats. The long-legged girls stand properly, dressed formally, all wearing bold, expansive smiles, standing motionless.
Just for a performative smile?
The poet finds it amusing and is just about to ask the benefactor when—
Suddenly violin music plays as a prelude. The poet turns his head to find the sound is coming from the music stone on the brothel boat.
The music is not bad, he privately evaluates.
The prelude is short, and the music suddenly swells, becoming lively and rhythmical, transitioning to a less formal atmosphere.
Even less formal are the long-legged girls. They all begin to lift their skirts, revealing their long black stockings and swaying their skirts, the red skirts fluttering like the wings of butterflies, unabashedly showing off the views beneath their skirts to the audience.
The audience responds with animalistic whistles and applause in enthusiastic support.
Vulgar, lewd, paired with music so crude that even a dog could understand it.
The polite smile vanishes from the poet’s face, but he continues to watch, driven by curiosity about how lowbrow it could get.
The long-legged girls twirl their skirts, forming a cross, rotating counterclockwise to ensure that audiences from all sides can view beneath their skirts. Suddenly, the four of them form a row, leaning on each other’s shoulders, one hand lifting skirts high, exposing their long, straight legs. As if fearing to not show enough, they kick their long legs high, nearly touching their noses with their straight lower legs.
As they kick, they let out raucous shouts.
The audience nearly goes wild, clapping in rhythm with the spirited dance music.
It’s just a highly vulgar dance, perfectly in line with Shaling City’s reputation, relying on breaking boundaries to serve as a selling point.
The poet internally reevaluates.
As the music reaches the latter half, the brothel boat also moves into the latter half and is about to exit.
The enthusiastic long-legged girls raise their long legs and link them together before the music suddenly changes. They move, lowering their legs, bending forward, supporting themselves on the ground. Their long skirts drop, covering their upper bodies, leaving only the piles of black stockings and long legs dancing passionately on the deck.
Such shamelessness leaves the worldly-wise poet momentarily stunned.
The audience rises, yelling wildly. Even the respectable individuals’ monocles fall from their faces.
The poet senses it has descended to a frightfully vulgar level.
The enthusiasm infects this noble boat. Beside the poet, a thick-lipped individual with a double chin named “Floris” blushes, excitedly clapping and shouting without regard for decorum.
It transforms into a dance that only primal instincts comprehend.
The poet finds it jarring, and he can’t appreciate it any longer. Turning his head, he sees the benefactor enjoying the spectacle. Noticing the poet’s gaze, the benefactor smiles and asks:
“Lord Don Juan, what do you think? Are you interested in writing a poem?”
The poet’s expression turns cold and somewhat disappointed, realizing that the benefactor is indeed so worldly and has such poor taste.
He replies:
“I’m afraid it may tarnish my poems, sir.”
The wealthy benefactor Brance’s smile freezes momentarily, and he says:
“It may not suit your taste, but there are many other boats.”
The poet moves his hand away from the railing and says:
“No need; this dance has already represented Shaling City perfectly. In the wake of the Demon Lord Kima’s tastes, it has twisted into a city that lives off high-level vulgarity; no matter how advanced the vulgar techniques are, they remain shallow. It is, indeed, sad, benefactor.”
The wealthy benefactor Brance responds with indignation:
“You are mistaken, for the true beauty of Shaling City is something you have yet to see, like the City Flower.”
The gods, finally, come this sentence.
The poet intentionally replies sincerely:
“Forget it. Having seen that dance, I can estimate the highest quality of the City Flower. Please, let’s not make it awkward for both of us.”
The wealthy benefactor Brance, perhaps influenced by the alcohol, dismissively waves his hand:
“No, no, that’s not acceptable. It’s not easy to invite a great poet like you; how can you not write a poem?”
The poet is put in a difficult position:
“If I’m only allowed to flatter, I would rather write nothing.”
The wealthy benefactor Brance laughs:
“I believe you will change your mind. Regardless, as long as you write a poem, even if you depict the City Flower as a donkey, I won’t hold it against you.”
The poet feels a weight lifted; before coming to Shaling City, people from Deep Water City hoped he would demean the City Flower. He had intended to refuse but found it hard to reject the underlying human sentiment. Now, he doesn’t have to fear the benefactor’s retaliation.
The poet says:
“Then you should find someone to witness.”
Without hesitation, the wealthy benefactor gathers guests, forming a circle for everyone to witness. All are curious about who the City Flower is, and now the poet has the fortune to see her, prompting everyone’s envy.
The big shot “Floris” smiles and says, “Mr. Don Juan, you are truly fortunate; I dare say the City Flower will be the most beautiful this time.” Also the most dangerous.
The poet pays no attention to this vulgar fat man.
The wealthy benefactor personally leads the poet to meet the City Flower of Shaling, walking on cobblestones through the exquisite garden.
The wealthy benefactor says: “I’ve heard you once had a romantic encounter with a high elven noblewoman?”
The poet replies: “That was a beautiful yet unfulfilled encounter. I intend to remain unmarried for life, not for lack of expressing my love to her, but because no other woman could capture my heart.”
“Then you should be cautious,” the benefactor remarks with a smile. “After seeing the City Flower, you will forget her.”
The poet snorts a laugh, feeling a surge of anger as he perceives his dream lover being insulted. Perhaps the so-called City Flower of Shaling is indeed the most beautiful among those he has seen. He wouldn’t be surprised, as the wealthy benefactor possesses the ability to reshape appearances.
But no matter how beautiful, that is merely superficial beauty. It’s just a shell, while his dream lover, though proud to the point of being unapproachable, possesses a beauty in character, knowledge, and conversation that captivates him, rendering all other women tasteless in comparison.
Now, the last remnants of the poet’s guilt begin to fade away. He resolves to write a poem that harshly mocks the benefactor’s ignorance, as well as ridiculing the so-called beauty of the City Flower.
The poet smiles without speaking, taking out a silver metal flask from his pocket, twisting off the cap while saying:
“Poetry needs the stimulation of some drink.”
He tilts his head, drinking the greenish liquid in the flask. This is not merely alcohol but a philosopher’s elixir that allows one to enter a state unclouded by lust. Crafted by a bald alchemist, it works wonders.
As the philosopher’s potion takes effect, a refreshing sensation spreads in his stomach. The poet finds his mind becoming clearer; at this moment, a tall, exquisitely beautiful maid passes by in a well-fitted outfit.
The poet’s gaze runs over her; she is indeed sexy. He is a normal man and would usually feel some attraction. But now, he is more focused on a small thread on her black stockings.
The effect remains just as potent; this way, he can ensure his mind stays clear and write a “good” poem.
The wealthy benefactor smiles and says: “Good drinks; drinking is good.”
Fool, do you think I will be overwhelmed by feminine beauty like this?
The poet responds with a smile. Together with the wealthy benefactor, they enter the cabin of the boat, descending the staircase onto the laid-out red carpet, moving deeper inside, with glowing red orbs illuminating the hallway. There are no other men inside, only young and beautiful maids, and the air holds a subtle, alluring fragrance.
The scents and lighting are delicately arranged, crafted solely to create an atmosphere. Haha, it seems the wealthy benefactor has been planning this for a long time, waiting for me to promote him; perhaps his earlier foolishness was an act. However, it is more likely that he is just genuinely foolish.
The poet, while calmly analyzing, enjoys a sense of superiority in seeing through his scheme until he reaches a corner.
“Sir, no men beyond this point. You also cannot see her.”
A maid bows her head but speaks resolutely.
The wealthy benefactor raises his voice: “Can’t you see? This is the celebrated poet of the bay; I’m bringing my friend to see. It’s nothing, let us through.”
“No, you have instructed that even you cannot see her ahead of time.”
“The situation is different now; he is a great poet.”
“Calm down, wealthy benefactor.”
“Wealthy benefactor: The situation has changed; this friend must see the City Flower, or you may as well forget about continuing.”
The maid retreats in fright.
The wealthy benefactor seems intent on recovering his credibility, saying: “This is an exception; I won’t look; let him see.”
“But that way…”
“That way!”
“Very well, sir.”
The tedious exchange gives the poet a sense of being regarded with importance.
In his philosopher state, the poet dismisses it all, saying: “Are you done?”
“Sorry for the wait; take her away.”
There is still a distance to the room holding the City Flower of Shaling. The door-guarding maid leads the great poet along the red carpet, chattering away in complaint:
“The benefactor used to be very mild and would never blame the servants on duty.”
The poet doesn’t believe a word; he notices the door-guard maid’s appearance is inferior to the outer maids.
Is it to accentuate the beauty of the City Flower? Ridiculous.
The poet smiles silently.
The maid arrives at the brown door with a silver handle, solemnly stating: “The City Flower of Shaling is inside. Please remember, you can describe her beauty with words, but you must not disclose her race or anything like that.”
“Understood.”
Feeling a bit impatient, the poet merely wants to see the City Flower and then display his utter disappointment, mock her harshly, write a poem, and leave the city by night.
He has even thought of some lines of poetry, fitting rhymes, surely capable of causing a stir for the City Flower.
Finally, the maid turns the silver handle on the wooden door, pushing it open.
A suspended golden wire cage reveals itself before the poet’s eyes, lined with a soft red velvet cushion. The slender figure of Kima sits inside, anxiously lowering her head, with glaring iron shackles around her ankles.
Her hair is as dark as ink, and atop her head are small, shiny black horns. Her skin is a faint amber hue, her slender body has a peculiar beauty, and a tail overlapping in the same color as her skin softly rests on her tight calves.
The poet momentarily freezes, almost lost in her beauty, struggling to regain his composure. He mentally reminds himself that this is the temptation of a succubus, merely the beauty of an exterior.
The philosopher’s elixir proves effective; he blinks and regains his focus, a mocking smile creeping onto his lips.
Kima lifts her head, revealing a pair of crimson eyes glimmering with expectation.
The poet feels like he’s just slammed into a siege hammer, his psychological defenses immediately crumbling. He can see nothing beyond the cage, hears no other sounds, his mind filled only with the moment Kima raised her head.
What dream lover? The beauty of a mere exterior quickly fades from his thoughts.
The maid calls out three times, and in the poet’s world, other than Kima, no other existence remains.
“I’m fine.”
The poet’s voice is somewhat hoarse, laden with guilt for even thinking to tarnish such a beautiful being.
Kima speaks: “Do you know the hero George?”
The poet instinctively replies: “George? No, I don’t.”
The flickering hope in the succubus girl’s eyes dims quickly. She lowers her head, looking at the tip of her tail.
The poet feels a pang of ache in his heart, sensing an emptiness inside, regretting his hasty response. He merely wants to do something that brings a smile to her face.
Ignoring the presence of the maid, the poet directly states: “He is your friend? Perhaps I could help you find him.”
“He said he would come to rescue me; I will wait for him always.” The succubus girl’s smile returns. “Have you seen enough?”
The poet discovers that he stumbles over his words, quickly adding: “I’ve come to write a poem for you.”
Speaking of poetry gives him confidence, believing his verses will bring joy to the succubus girl.
“Oh, then feel free.” The succubus girl turns her head away, gazing into the distance, as if awaiting the hero who will come to rescue her.
The poet feels a rare envy towards the unseen hero George, alongside some resentment.
His chest is filled with a compelling urge to prove himself, inspiration flooding in, vowing to conquer the succubus girl with poetry, turning his head, lifting his chin, and commanding the maid: “Bring me a pen and paper; I will write a poem right here.”
