"Absolutely not."
Yue Xiaochan crossed her arms, floating two inches off the floor just to emphasize her superiority. "I am the Young Master of the Star-Moon Sect. I am a prodigy of the Shaping Realm. And you want me to... wiggle on stage?"
"It's not wiggling," Xue Mu sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's choreography."
They were in a private practice hall. Xue Mu had cleared the furniture, creating a makeshift studio. He held a charcoal sketch he had drawn—a costume design. It was scandalous by local standards: a short skirt that ended above the knee, and a fitted top that exposed the midriff.
"And this?" Yue Xiaochan pointed at the drawing with disgust. "Where are the rest of the clothes? Did you run out of ink?"
"It's called 'Summer Chic'. It emphasizes movement and youth."
"It emphasizes that I'm poor and can't afford fabric," she retorted.
"Xiaochan," Xue Mu said, changing tactics. "Do you want to beat the Zither Fairy?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Yes."
"Do you want to see the righteous sects grind their teeth in envy because the 'Demoness' is more beloved than their 'Saintess'?"
A spark of interest. "Go on."
"The Zither Fairy is distant. She is a statue in a temple. People worship her, but they don't feel her," Xue Mu explained, pacing the room. "You will be different. You will be the girl next door who just happens to be a martial arts genius. You will be vibrant, mischievous, and alive. You won't just play music; you will play with the audience."
He handed her a sheet of paper. "I wrote the lyrics. Read them."
Yue Xiaochan took the paper suspiciously. She expected a poem about mountains or tea. Instead, she read:
The sun is bright, the wind is sweet, I chase the clouds with flying feet. Why mourn the falling of a flower? When we can dance this very hour!
She stared at him. "This is... childish. Where are the metaphors? Where is the existential angst?"
"That's the point!" Xue Mu slammed his hand on the table. "No angst! Everyone is miserable! The peasants are hungry, the merchants are stressed, the martial artists are dying in feuds. They don't need more sadness. They need sugar. Pure, unadulterated sugar."
He looked her in the eye. "Can you sing it?"
Yue Xiaochan hesitated. She looked at the lyrics again. The rhythm was strange—bouncy, fast. It wasn't dignified. But... as she tapped her foot, she realized it was catchy. Annoyingly catchy.
"Fine," she grumbled, snatching the costume sketch. "But if anyone laughs, I'm killing you first."