The colorful platform attracted countless eager admirers like bees to flowers. All those Mary Sue romantic scenes of “courtesan competitions” from novels and TV dramas dissolved into bubbles at this moment.

The beauty of these “courtesans,” by Lin Yuchan’s aesthetic standards, was mostly mediocre, at best above average. Even with heavy makeup, not one could be called devastatingly beautiful. Not to boast, but several were far inferior to her.

Moreover, their makeup was quite unnatural, with thick layers of lead powder making their entire faces white as paper. Probably to avoid losing powder, the courtesans didn’t dare make too many expressions, just pursing their cherry lips and smiling stiffly. At first glance, the platform looked like a row of limited-edition exquisite dolls.

Yet the onlookers swarmed like crazy. People only glanced at their faces before their infatuated gazes collectively moved downward, focusing on their half-hidden embroidered shoes like deranged celebrity fans.

Appearance was heaven-sent, but foot size could be changed through later efforts. The saying “a woman without talent is virtuous” – in some sense, this aesthetic of “beauty through feet” gave countless secluded women a false hope: as long as they were cruel enough to themselves, they could earn male approval.

Women with large feet were ugly through laziness and deserved no sympathy.

This logic, refined and strengthened over centuries, had become most people’s biological instinct.

Courtesans lived by their looks, so their foot binding was more exquisite than ordinary people. The common folk rarely saw such perfect foot shapes – usually they had to pay to see them, but today’s free viewing was not to be missed!

A master of ceremonies announced as if injected with stimulants: “Come place your bets! Buy now, no returns! The champion courtesan of Nanshi, as judged by ten gentlemen of the ‘Lotus Appreciation Society’ – win prizes if you guess right!”

Multicolored lanterns cast eerie lights, fashionable music played seductively, and tourists pulled out money to buy tickets like betting on horses at a racetrack.

Ten well-dressed middle-aged literati, serving as judges, clustered around the courtesans’ feet to smell, look, touch, and pinch, discussing seriously with each other. Their earnestness was like traditional Chinese doctors taking pulse, or patriotic merchants authenticating lost antiques – worthy of the entire Shanghai populace awarding them model worker banners.

Only two Western missionaries, carrying camera tripods, seemed to have accidentally stumbled into the excitement. Their reaction was more normal, leaning on walking sticks, craning their necks to see, both curious and slightly disgusted.

Lin Yuchan was also curious what tricks this “foot competition” could produce. But she felt ashamed of this curiosity. Using others’ deformed limbs as entertainment was morally troubling.

Besides, to her, they were just pairs of strangely colored shoes – she really couldn’t distinguish beauty from ugliness.

As she stared wide-eyed, her sleeve was suddenly tugged.

“Nothing worth seeing,” Su Minguan said coldly. “Let’s go around.”

Lin Yuchan couldn’t quite discern this ancient person’s attitude. He wasn’t flocking there like others, perhaps considering there was a girl beside him?

She pointed to the large restaurant behind the banner, saying softly: “There are many people there. If we squeeze through, you could also make a mark.”

He pondered a moment: “Forget it. One mark in Yu Garden should be enough.”

By then, the “master of ceremonies” had received the judges’ results and was reciting opening verses, about to “announce the winner.”

The venue atmosphere was tense, with crowds pushing and shoving, even harder to get around.

Seeing the little girl seemingly reluctant to leave, Su Minguan glanced at the platform again and suddenly sneered: “No need to guess. I’ll tell you – Number Eight wins.”

Lin Yuchan was dumbstruck this time: “How do you know…”

“Because her smile is the fakest,” Su Minguan observed Number Eight’s face, quietly teaching her. “Restless, with pain in her smile – can you see it?”

Lin Yuchan looked carefully and indeed saw it.

“But why would that…”

“To prepare for today’s championship, she used special methods to bind cruelly, to fit into even thinner, smaller shoes. I guess her feet inside are already rotted – she won’t be able to walk for a month.”

Then the master of ceremonies excitedly announced the champion: “Number Eight, Miss Ziyu from Tianxiang Tower!”

Cheers erupted. Miss Number Eight forgot her pain and smiled joyfully, casting flirtatious glances below, basking in glory.

Lin Yuchan: “…”

Sharing half a name with the courtesan, she inexplicably felt phantom limb pain and flexed her toes hard.

Then she looked at Su Minguan suspiciously: “You seem quite knowledgeable.”

What a dog of a man, full of feudal dregs.

Su Minguan sensed her displeasure and said gently, “When I was small, my mother competed for favor with other concubines and often did this. Her room… often had smells.”

Lin Yuchan made a soft “ah” sound. The half bread in her hand became inedible.

Young Master Su’s childhood was incredibly colorful, filled with countless dark secrets.

She finally understood why so many sons and daughters of modern bureaucrats and landlords would rather betray their class than abandon wealthy lives to pursue revolution.

So what if they had fine clothes and food, lived in luxury – this wasn’t a life for humans!

Her palm suddenly warmed as Su Minguan gently squeezed it, then immediately let go.

“A’Mei, look – you can run and jump now, already much better than my mother,” he smiled and said. “Before my mother was sold to pay debts, she tried to run. Unfortunately, she was different from you.”

Lin Yuchan suddenly looked up at his gentle, water-like eyes.

He found it hard to speak, but finally decided, saying in a low voice: “So this is called ‘the old man lost his horse – how do we know it’s not a blessing’… you don’t need to compare with others… actually you’re also very beautiful and striking, no worse than anyone…”

Su Minguan, with his limited experience, wondered – her frequent gazing at the courtesans’ leg display, could it be… self-consciousness?

Her father only cared about smoking, delaying her foot binding. Living to sixteen, she must have endured countless cold stares and abuse. This girl seemed optimistic and open on the surface, but privately, might she cry and worry because of her difference?

He rarely had heart-to-heart talks with people. Others’ joys and sorrows were just irrelevant daily trivia to him.

Today, having finally brewed a pot of confidence-building chicken soup, before he could sell it, he lost eight hundred first, talking about his mother, a flash of starlight in his clear eyes.

Only then did he regret it. Why so many words?

He pursed his lips and pretended to count money from his pocket.

Lin Yuchan finally understood his intention, not knowing what to say. Though his thoughtfulness completely missed the point, still…

It was quite touching.

She smiled obediently, drinking down this bowl of chicken soup two centuries late, expressing compliance with his teaching.

She couldn’t help asking again: “Is your mother still alive?”

Su Minguan shook his head with a bitter smile: “Not likely. She was hurt that badly.”

He couldn’t forget that rainy night when the young Ninth Concubine was carried back by servants, unconscious, shoes gone, foot bindings scattered, flesh mangled.

The mansion had few servants left then. He cried while fetching water, washing the blood from her feet – a place she never let him see. Even accidentally glimpsing her without bound shoes would earn a severe beating.

Nine-year-old Little Bai saw a woman’s bare feet for the first time.

He vomited.

Everyone said golden lotus feet were beautiful – beautiful were the shoes, not the lump of flesh inside.

Vomiting, crying, steeling himself to work, prying apart those broken bones and flesh, cleaning out the blood and mud. As he washed, he felt her body temperature rise, her feet swelling larger than his palms.

Until she was loaded into the sedan chair, Ninth Concubine never opened her eyes, never said goodbye to her son.

That night, he didn’t perform morning and evening greetings to his father, also violating curfew for the first time, seeking out Jin Lanhe, the family friend his father had long severed ties with.

…

The “Foot Competition” banner was slowly taken down. Below the lively platform, tourists who had bet on Number Eight were excitedly collecting prizes, competing to touch those city-champion jade feet, pushing and shoving in ugly displays.

Su Minguan saw Miss Ziyu’s frozen smile – quite pretty – but he only felt disgusted.

He thought: I’m probably abnormal.

But then again, if he were “normal,” he’d probably be sitting in some shop now, or drinking black tea and keeping accounts for foreigners, not fallen to today’s state – hands stained with blood, heart hardened. To support a crumbling mess, haggling over small money, and reluctant to buy a second buttered bread to taste it himself.

Thinking this, anger rose in his heart. He domineeringly snatched the half-hardened bread from Lin Yuchan’s hand and bit it fiercely, feeling slightly vindicated.

Unexpectedly, Lin Yuchan didn’t get angry with him. She didn’t even mind the bread, suddenly running like a little rabbit toward somewhere.

Running while shouting: “Stop! Let go! What are you doing!”

The “Foot Competition” had ended, but somehow, champion courtesan Miss Ziyu was still surrounded by people-spectators.

Two Western missionaries smiled broadly, gesturing to a middle-aged woman and handing over silver dollars.

That was the madam from “Tianxiang Tower,” dressed flashily with a fur cape, quite wealthy in bearing.

The madam had originally accompanied Miss Ziyu to the competition. Seeing her girl win, she was overjoyed, every pore on her face dilating with light.

The missionary was very polite. One claimed to be a doctor, wanting to photograph Miss Ziyu’s bare feet purely for scientific research with no lewd intentions, asking the courtesan to remove her shoes.

The Tianxiang Tower madam initially politely declined: “We are all respectable girls – how can we remove shoes in public! You gentlemen must also follow local customs and not make things difficult for us small folk.”

The missionary, well-versed in Chinese ways, said no more and immediately produced money.

The Tianxiang Tower madam: “Ziyu, be good, remove your shoes.”

Ziyu naturally refused coyly, crying and ruining her makeup: “Mama…”

The madam looked at her coldly: “Remove them.”

Just a money tree – having given her such great glory today, what right did she have to protest?

A crowd of onlookers gathered, delighting in watching the courtesan cry.

The madam, seeing things escalate and fearing offending the foreigners, grew more impatient: “Just a photograph! It’s not like you haven’t been photographed before – why act pure now? You’re bound so cruelly today, it’s probably burning inside, right? Take them off to feel better – you’ll be able to walk tomorrow! Hurry, quick battle – we still have appointments later. Gentlemen, I’ll have people hold her down while you quickly remove them.”

Thugs and lackeys all joined in. A bunch of rogues caught wind and came to jeer, drooling.

“The courtesan’s removing her shoes! The courtesan is removing her shoes! Free viewing!”

Lin Yuchan had been watching Ziyu from the corner of her eye. When she realized something was wrong, Ziyu had already been dragged to a secluded tent, with one embroidered shoe removed, revealing layers of white cloth inside.

The two Western missionaries exchanged glances, beaming with joy as one set up a tripod.

Photography was still in its infancy – to take a decent portrait, the model had to remain perfectly still for a long exposure, not just a quick snap.

So minutes later, the tent was surrounded three layers deep with dozens of eyes staring straight in.

Miss Ziyu desperately covered her face, tears sliding through her fingers.

Then a thin, small girl suddenly rushed in, standing in front of Ziyu and scolding in English: “What’s wrong with you? Can’t you see she’s unwilling? Our custom is that women cannot remove their shoes in front of others!”

Lin Yuchan never thought she’d defend “feudal dregs” one day. How ironic.

Actually, some bystanders felt pity too, but on the Shanghai Bund, foreigners were supreme – who dared dispute with them? At most they could shake their heads and walk away.

Lin Yuchan blocked the camera lens, saying restrainedly, “Please leave.”

The two missionaries showed anger, one pushing aside her arm.

“Va-t’en, va-t’en!”

Lin Yuchan: “…”

Damn, French.