Grand Opening: Wishing Prosperity and Success

As he surveyed the courtyard of the Phoenix Pavilion, Luan Yi felt as though something was missing.

What was it?

The tables and chairs were arranged neatly, with a pleasing sense of order; a small channel diverted from the lake ran quietly through the grounds, its surface adorned with lush green lotus leaves and blossoms in full bloom, a sight of unmatched beauty. Everything seemed perfect, yet Luan Yi couldn’t shake the sense that something was off. Even as he drank with his brothers, his mind wandered.

Guo Jia, Shan Fu, Xi Zhicai, and Mao Jie noticed Luan Yi’s vacant stare, his thumbs rubbing anxiously against each other, and refrained from disturbing him. They sat quietly at his side, barely daring to breathe. They knew this was Luan Yi’s habitual posture when deep in thought; most of his ingenious ideas had emerged from moments just like this.

Luan Yi remained still for roughly the time it takes an incense stick to burn, then finally moved, striking his forehead as realization dawned. He scolded himself for his stupidity—how could he have forgotten it? Without wasting another moment, he hurriedly ordered Luan Fu to recall the craftsmen; he wanted a stage erected at the center of the Phoenix Pavilion’s courtyard.

As for the stage’s purpose, everyone understood without needing to be told.

The tavern already delighted the eye, the nose, and the palate; only the pleasure of hearing was missing. Thus, he resolved to host theatrical performances within the establishment. The stage need not be large—just enough for a handful of musicians and a single songstress. Yet he felt that simple ballads were too monotonous. What else could he add? Comedy acts, skits, magic, acrobatics, storytelling, jokes, rap performances—any and all, or perhaps none.

He thought all might be included, for Luan Yi wished to embrace every form of entertainment, making the place truly lively. But none might be possible, for art forms like comedic dialogue, skits, and storytelling had yet to arise, and there were no artists to hire for such performances. Yet this posed no obstacle to Luan Yi; if he lacked performers, he would cultivate them. If he couldn’t find a comedian, surely he could find a storyteller. Right before him was an ideal candidate—Xi Zhicai, whose eloquence surpassed all others. When negotiating rent or purchases, his bargaining left opponents with no chance to retort, swept away before they even realized what was happening. Luan Yi decided Xi Zhicai would become their storyteller.

As for the content—none existed yet, and historical texts like the Records of the Grand Historian were too dry. So Luan Yi resolved to write his own material for Xi Zhicai to perform. But what should he write? Romance of the Three Kingdoms? Oh no! Tales of the Sui and Tang Heroes, or the Story of Yue Fei? No, no, no. A lengthy novel? He hadn’t the time. Then short stories it would be.

He had it—Strange Tales from the Studio of Liaozhai. Fresh and fantastical, filled with ghosts and spirits, love and romance, biting satire and the flavor of life—surely the people of these times would find it appealing.

In his previous life, Luan Yi had read Strange Tales several times, watched every film and television adaptation, and remembered many plots. Coupled with his mastery of classical prose in this life, he could easily write and embellish twenty or more stories. Once those were told, he had plans for more—many Andersen fairy tales could be adapted for the Han Dynasty setting. And there was more...

Comedy skits could be adapted as well: “Not a Cent Less,” “Tease You for Fun,” Ma Sanli, Hou Baolin... Guo Degang!

The more he thought, the more he wanted to laugh. Yet the nights spent crafting stories took a toll, leaving him noticeably thinner.

Compared to the overall renovation of the Phoenix Pavilion, building a stage was a far lighter task. In just three days, it was complete, and Guo Jia brought in a troupe at that very moment. Luan Yi laid a freshly bought red carpet atop the stage, unable to hide his satisfaction.

With these preparations finished, the grand opening was imminent. Luan Yi and his brothers hurried about, delivering invitations to every notable figure in Wuyang County. The county magistrate, the assistant, and every official received an invitation; wealthy merchants and noble families were each welcomed. They placed special emphasis on inviting the students from Yingchuan Academy, especially those from influential clans.

On the day of opening, the afternoon sun blazed fiercely. Under the scorching rays, Luan Yi and his companions, along with the servants in matching uniforms, stood respectfully outside the tavern, their eyes bloodshot from straining to see if anyone approached. None appeared.

Guo Jia glanced at the sun, dejected. “Yi, the auspicious hour is nearly upon us. Why haven’t they come?”

“Don’t worry, just wait a little longer,” Luan Yi replied, though inwardly he was more anxious than anyone. After weeks of effort, his mother’s fifty thousand coins were nearly spent; if the opening failed and cash flow stalled, all that money would be wasted. Sweat rolled down his face, both from the heat and from nerves. His throat felt parched, even speaking was a struggle.

Time ticked away, incense sticks burned down one after another. The luxurious Phoenix Pavilion remained quiet, its entrance deserted.

Even Shan Fu, usually calm, couldn’t sit still; he paced anxiously before the door, muttering, “Why aren’t they coming? Huh? Still not here?”

Luan Yi watched Shan Fu’s dizzying movements and signaled him to stop. He exhaled deeply, thinking: merchants are ultimately looked down upon; if the Luan family’s seal can’t move these big names, let them be. I have plenty of ways to make them seek me out; when the time comes, I’ll see how they beg for my favor. “Let them stay away, then!”

“What?” Mao Jie was dumbfounded. “That won’t do. We can’t have not a single customer on opening day—it’d be a terrible omen.”

“Who says there are no customers?” Now, Luan Yi appeared utterly relaxed. “Brothers, let’s return to the academy. Invite all our classmates and seniors from the humble scholars’ class—tell them we’re grateful for their support, and today we’re treating everyone to a feast.”

The wealthy always bring gifts when visiting; the sons of humble families will surely arrive empty-handed. “We’ll lose money then!” Shan Fu complained, his face full of gloom.

“Trust me, I know what I’m doing. Just follow my lead,” Luan Yi’s tone brooked no argument. Guo Jia, Shan Fu, and the rest had no choice but to order Luan Fu to ready the carriage and return to the academy. Within an hour, nearly every student of humble birth had come, a great throng.

After expressing their thanks to Luan Yi and his companions, their attention turned to the tavern before them. “Phoenix Pavilion?” they murmured.

The main entrance was wide and bright, the walls unfinished, with decorative lattice windows carved with intricate diamond patterns arranged in mysterious arrays, refreshing to the eye. The roof was tiled in gray, the ridges crafted in the shape of ingots, finely wrought, while the eaves and supports were adorned with lotus carvings, simple yet elegant. Crossing the threshold, they entered a grand hall, furnished with seven tables and numerous chairs. To the right stood the counter, behind which the manager waited, dressed similarly to the servants but with a small wooden badge on his chest reading “Manager.” Seeing guests arrive, the manager greeted them with repeated bows, saying, “Welcome.”

On the wall to the right of the counter hung more than twenty plaques, each inscribed with names such as “Sweet-and-Sour Carp,” “Moo Shu Pork,” “Kung Pao Chicken”—the menu of the establishment.

Passing through the hall, the space opened into a lush rear garden, filled with birdsong and blossoms, rivaling any park. Tables and chairs were set beneath the shade of trees, while a small channel ran from west to east through the garden, bringing refreshing coolness amid the summer heat. The transplanted lotus leaves in the channel were broad and vibrant, their blossoms standing tall and radiant, indescribably beautiful. Dozens of plump fish darted through the water—carp, crucian, and a few yellow croakers.

Luan Yi introduced the awestruck crowd to the fish in the channel, explaining that they were procured from the lakeshore as ingredients; anyone wishing for fish could select their favorite, and a servant would catch and cook it, guaranteeing the freshest possible meal.

The academy scholars couldn’t help but marvel.

On both sides of the courtyard stood elegant private rooms, their entrances separated by embroidered silk curtains, a testament to the Phoenix Pavilion’s luxury. Inside each room hung beautiful paintings, personally rendered by Mao Jie—landscapes, swimming fish, executed with vigorous brushwork. Though not the equal of the great masters, they were undoubtedly top-tier in their era.

A tour of the grounds left the scholars wide-eyed and amazed.

Afterwards, Luan Yi ascended the stage and signaled everyone to take their seats. Once settled, he launched into an impromptu speech, thanking them for their support and introducing the tavern’s specialty dishes and unique dining style. He emphasized the meaning behind communal dining from a single pot—the sharing of blessings and hardships together.

The students, all young men at an age when brotherly bonds mattered most, were stirred by the phrase “share blessings and hardships,” shouting, “Communal eating is great! Let’s all drink a toast!” The atmosphere grew livelier by the moment.

Smiling, Luan Yi waved his hand. “Serve the food and wine!” The servants marched in orderly lines, delivering steaming dishes to each table; even the process of serving carried a distinct beauty.

The dishes of the Phoenix Pavilion were beyond reproach; throughout the courtyard, the sound of refined guests smacking their lips echoed unceasingly. After several rounds of drinks, Luan Yi clapped his hands, and musicians and songstresses took the stage. Judging by the expressions of the crowd, their reaction was unanimous—astonishment. Their eyes widened, chopsticks slipped from their hands, ears perked up as if afraid to miss a single note.

Luan Yi was thoroughly satisfied with the outcome.

After several songs, the singer left the stage, and it was Xi Zhicai’s turn. He was obviously nervous, his steps unsteady. At the center of the stage, he didn’t know where to place his hands—sometimes in front, sometimes behind—his speech halting: “Uh, everyone, seniors... classmates and seniors, hello! Today, old Xi... uh, Xi Zhicai... today, old Xi will tell you a story, the story’s name is...”

The audience burst into laughter, and Luan Yi felt a pang of anxiety for Xi Zhicai, inwardly cursing him for stumbling at the crucial moment despite his usual eloquence and flawless memory of the stories. But as he worried, Xi Zhicai’s tone shifted, and he began boldly: “Once there was a scholar named Ning Caichen. On his journey to study abroad...”

“Ah?” Luan Yi’s eyes brightened. Despite his awkward introduction, Xi Zhicai told the story vividly, growing more animated as he went, gesturing as he spoke. He captivated the scholars so thoroughly they forgot about eating; the courtyard fell silent, so quiet a pin could be heard falling.