Quick Transmigration: Underdog Turns out to be Untouchable

An Ran and An Lin turned around and saw those people, who had just been sitting there stiffly like dummies, suddenly move. Their motions were still mechanical as they clapped, palms smacking together, cheering and shouting in a rigid way.

Jolted back to themselves by the crowd’s strange behavior, An Ran and An Lin were abruptly pulled out of the spell of watching the opera. By then, the woman singing the qingyi role had already glided over to stand before the three of them.

Up close, even though this qingyi’s face was painted in heavy, gaudy makeup, it still couldn’t hide her exquisitely beautiful features—she was an absolute Beauty.

She flicked her flowing sleeves lightly and performed a graceful bow, the formal salute commonly used by a qingyi on stage, to Feng Shuangshuang and the two, An Lin and An Ran. Her voice clear and lilting, she said, ”Honored guests, how was my performance?”

Though a bit stiff, An Lin still thought it over seriously and answered, ”You sang very well—really incredibly well. The two of us don’t understand opera at all, and even we were utterly enthralled.”

An Ran nodded as well. ”Not bad. I never listen to opera, but I could really listen to yours.”

Their praise was very sincere. Hearing it, the qingyi’s face lit up with a joyful expression,

then she turned her head, looking to Feng Shuangshuang with even more expectant eyes. Feng Shuangshuang gave her a thumbs-up gesture. ”I’ve never heard anyone sing better than you.”

The qingyi couldn’t help but break into an extremely happy smile. She spun in place, her hem swirling into a blossom, and said with a laugh, ”I have a new story, and I hope you’ll listen to it.”

With that, she turned and in an instant was back on the stage. The sound of strings and flutes rose again as a new play began. This time, the story told of a servant girl working at a theater.

There was a girl born into a poor family. Her father valued sons over daughters: she not only never had enough to eat, she also had to work. When she reached ten, she still looked like a six- or seven-year-old child, dark and scrawny.

When she was eleven, her elder brother was to marry, but the family had no money. So her father cut off the girl’s hair, dressed her in a boy’s clothes, and sold her to a theater as his ”son” to learn opera.

The girl was muddle-headed and naïve. Although her father had warned her not to let anyone discover she was a girl, all the children in the theater slept in a shared dorm. In less than two days, they discovered she was female.

After the girl’s desperate pleading, the troupe master softened and did not drive her out, but he still forbade her from learning opera. Instead, he made her a servant pouring tea and fetching water.

Because in that era, girls were not allowed to perform. The qingyi and young dan roles on stage were all played by men in drag.

But the girl was deeply fascinated by opera. Every day she secretly watched the others do vocal drills, rehearse, and train in all kinds of stage movements, then practiced them herself when she had no chores.

The girl truly had remarkable Talent in this area. Practicing alone in secret, she turned out no worse than those who trained formally. One day, the troupe master accidentally saw the girl singing and was stunned by her voice.

Yet even though the troupe master thought she was astonishing, he still refused to break convention and let the girl appear on stage. He only allowed her to learn opera openly.

Before long, the girl became the best qingyi singer in the troupe. She longed to step onto the stage, to sing for others to see, so she begged the troupe master to let her perform.

But the troupe master told her that she was a girl and could not go on stage. Still, he couldn’t bear to let her skills go to waste, so he put her in charge of teaching the newly recruited apprentices how to sing.

Because of this, the girl’s treatment improved: she had her own room, and she received more Silver each month. Yet she was still unhappy.

What she yearned for, day and night, was to sing on the stage for everyone, to win the recognition of those who came to watch, to make them listen closely as she sang an entire opera.

But that wish was something she never managed to fulfill—not until the day the theater’s business withered. Their country was invaded by a neighboring state, and everyone fled as refugees.

The girl did not want to leave. In a world thrown into chaos, what good end could a woman, too weak to lift or carry, possibly meet? She thought: better to just let things be.

For the first time, she painted her own face with lavish makeup, put on an exquisite headpiece, donned resplendent wedding robes, then went alone up onto the stage and began to sing to the empty seats below.

The girl at last fulfilled her long-cherished wish and performed a grand opera on the stage she had always dreamed of. When the final scene ended, she dashed her head against the boards and died upon that stage, ending her life.