The Longevity Festival had passed with some rejoicing and some sorrow.
That portrait of the Crown Prince caused Emperor Tian Shou to recall his own years of strength and talent, when he was both civilly and militarily accomplished. According to rumors from the palace, he sat alone in his bedchamber, refusing consorts and performers alike, simply staring at the painting and sighing repeatedly. When he had sighed enough, he even took out relics left behind by the late Noble Consort Gan—a silk handkerchief—which he held as if it were a priceless treasure. In moments of deep emotion, he even shed a few tears.
……
Meng Xizhao twitched his mouth and stopped paying attention to the Emperor, who was clearly immersed in nostalgic reverie.
After dismissing the attendants, he paused slightly, his gaze lingering in midair above the table.
Nostalgia for the past was dissatisfaction with the present. The more deeply he sank into melancholy, the more it showed how much he cared.
Meng Xizhao fell into thought.
After a long while, Jin Zhu, who had been standing nearby, finally spoke when she realized he had forgotten she was even there.
“Master—”
Meng Xizhao looked at her, his expression still slightly blank from being interrupted. “Ah? What is it?”
Jin Zhu smiled helplessly. “How do you plan to respond to Master Shi’s request?”
Ever since Shi Dashuang had become famous in Longxing Prefecture, Jin Zhu no longer addressed him by name, but respectfully called him “Master.”
In Longxing Prefecture, Shi Dashuang was deeply revered. In the eyes of the people there, their greatest benefactor was Meng Xizhao, and the second was this agricultural expert named Shi Dashuang—even Supervisor Xie Yuan ranked behind him.
Yet in the capital, where he had once been received with great ceremony, Shi Dashuang once again became almost invisible. Even dressed in the fine robes of the elite, no one paid him any attention, and few knew that he possessed such remarkable abilities.
It left Shi Dashuang deeply frustrated. The gap between expectations and reality was so great that even the excitement of a long-awaited family reunion had been dampened.
During the previous period, Meng Xizhao had been busy receiving honors, handling administrative handovers, and setting traps for others. Shi Dashuang’s family had moved into the inner city, and he had heard bits and pieces of all this, so he did not dare disturb Meng Xizhao. But after a long while, he could no longer sit still.
Ever since he had been reassigned to an estate to continue agricultural research, he felt that Meng Xizhao had once again begun to value farming. Overjoyed, he went to Jin Zhu to request permission to publicly spread the results of his research across the entire realm.
On one hand, he had indeed made progress and carried a sincere heart, wishing for all common people to enjoy abundant harvests just like the people of Longxing Prefecture, smiling with joy at their increased yields. On the other hand, he also had a bit of selfish desire—he still longed to return to the environment where he was the center of attention, the revered “Agricultural Master” admired by all.
But after hearing Jin Zhu’s report, Meng Xizhao shook his head without hesitation.
“Research into agricultural fertilizers is without end. This is only the beginning. He must steady his mind and continue his studies. The autumn harvest has already passed; there is no urgency in publicizing anything. When spring arrives next year, before the spring plowing begins, I will personally submit his achievements to the court and request rewards on his behalf.”
Jin Zhu silently looked at him, faintly feeling that these words were merely an excuse.
Indeed, the autumn harvest had passed, and this was a period of agricultural rest. However, aside from the northern regions where the winter cold froze the soil solid and nothing could be planted, in the south—even in Yingtian Prefecture—some crops could still be grown during winter.
Moreover, the promotion of new farming methods was not something that could be accomplished overnight. When they had been in Longxing Prefecture, rushing the promotion before spring plowing had not been an issue at all; at most it only slightly disrupted the farming schedule. But this time, they were talking about nationwide implementation—even one month earlier would have been worthwhile.
Her gaze lingered on Meng Xizhao’s face. He clearly felt it, but his expression remained perfectly calm, pretending not to notice.
—He could not possibly admit that he was acting out of selfish motives and simply did not want the credit for this achievement to be placed under Emperor Tian Shou’s name while the Emperor still sat upon the throne.
Even though the person who developed this was Shi Dashuang, and the one who supported Shi Dashuang was Meng Xizhao, the world would not distinguish between them. In the eyes of the public, one was the Emperor’s subject and the other was the Emperor’s minister—therefore all their achievements ultimately became the Emperor’s achievements.
After all, no matter how much effort they expended, when imperial edicts were issued in the end, they were still issued under the Emperor’s name.
…To attribute such a benefit for generations to come to Emperor Tian Shou, to the point where future historians might casually summarize him as “though muddled in life, he still accomplished some good deeds”—Meng Xizhao felt that even in death, he would be angry enough to come back to life.
So let him be selfish this once.
They would hold it back for now, and only submit it when the Crown Prince came to power.
Still, he knew this delay was not entirely proper. Fortunately, according to procedure, it should not actually be delayed all the way until spring plowing.
Letting out a heavy breath, Meng Xizhao waved his hand, unwilling to discuss the matter further. Instead, he lifted his chin and told Jin Zhu to report on the situation from the previous month.
……
After returning from the Xiongnu last year, all the fertile lands awarded by Emperor Tian Shou had been formally registered under Meng Xizhao’s name. Although the Emperor had granted him authority to develop new weaponry, Meng Xizhao still relocated his people to a new estate to avoid drawing attention.
The new estate was ten times larger than the old one. It had two hundred guards in total—half hired by him, and half provided by the Crown Prince. Since he had no authority to maintain an army, the weapons in the household were all wooden staffs. While they still had some effectiveness, they were clearly not comparable to real blades and spears.
The Crown Prince’s men, however, did not need to worry about such restrictions; they were proper imperial guards, most of them former members of the Yu family’s old forces, and therefore entirely trustworthy.
The estate was divided into several departments: civilian use, military use, water conservancy, agriculture, food, and a dedicated “alchemy” division.
Of course, in this era no one knew what “chemistry” was. Meng Xizhao presented it under the guise of fascination with mystic arts, inviting a group of fraudulent Daoist priests who were not particularly interested in cultivation but excelled at deception.
He even held an encouraging meeting, smiling gently as he told them he had no other hobby than enjoying mystical and mysterious things. For example, turning stone into gold—he did not expect them to truly accomplish that, but if they could use “immortal techniques” to transform one substance into another unknown to others—even if it only became a pile of powder—he would reward them handsomely.
The Daoists stared at him in confusion. Their previous skills had all been in concocting elixirs; Meng Xizhao’s requirements were entirely unheard of to them.
Seeing this, Meng Xizhao clicked his tongue in mild disappointment and reluctantly gave a few examples himself.
For instance, dissolving borax in hot water, placing an ordinary hairpin inside, and the next day discovering it covered in crystalline white deposits.
Or extracting juice from green onions, using it as invisible ink to write characters, then heating it over a candle flame to reveal brown writing.
Or mixing rendered lard with filtered wood-ash water, producing a solid compound that could be used for cleansing the body.
These modern “chemistry tricks,” normally used as children’s experiments, nearly made these self-proclaimed master swindlers kneel on the spot.
They had once believed themselves to be the pinnacle of fraud… but now they realized that Master Meng was on an entirely different level.
Stunned and shaken, they were also motivated by his promises, and immediately locked themselves in their rooms to begin experimenting. As for them, Meng Xizhao made it clear: anything they needed would be provided—but someone had to keep watch. Otherwise, he truly feared they would simply take the funds and waste them on eating and drinking.
He knew very well that expecting meaningful results from them would be as difficult as reaching the heavens. But these were already the best among the worst available. If he did not use this group of frauds, then he would only have one remaining option—start training them from childhood…
Meng Xizhao had held no expectations. After all, it had not been long at all.
Yet the Daoists he had forcibly recruited as laborers were afraid that if they produced nothing at all, Meng Xizhao would fly into a rage and drive them out of the comfortable research base—one that was well-fed, well-heated in winter, and cool in summer. Under this pressure, they racked their brains and, astonishingly, managed to present a result.
Because Meng Xizhao had previously used wood ash and pork fat to produce soap, this group—lacking creative genius but capable of imitation and variation—took those two materials and experimented endlessly. After countless dead ends, they somehow stumbled upon something entirely new.
They had actually created a face cream.
A cream made from pork fat naturally carried a faint oily smell, so—fearful of angering Meng Xizhao—they mixed in a large amount of herbal medicine. Not the rare or suspicious ones, but the common, well-known medicinal herbs: the kind that were believed to treat illness when sick and nourish the body when healthy.
The final product became a smooth, milky-white paste with a faint herbal fragrance. It was soft to the touch and melted instantly when spread.
The Daoists themselves had no idea what they had produced. They only felt it was barely acceptable as a submission, so they handed it to Jin Zhu. As for its effects, they had tested it: it made the skin slick and greasy, failed to clean anything, and instead coated the body in a sheen of oil.
The Daoists remained pessimistic. But Meng Xizhao, looking at the large box of white substance, wore a very strange expression.
This thing… somehow looked a bit like petroleum jelly.
Also somewhat like cold cream. But when he dipped a finger and applied it, he realized it probably should not be used on the face—its pork fat content was too high, leaving the skin overly shiny and unpleasant.
Still, it should be quite effective for preventing frostbite. If the herbal components were removed, it might even be useful for maintaining iron tools.
Although it was not yet mature, it was already somewhat usable. With further refinement, it could likely be divided into different functions: protection against frostbite, prevention of chapping, anti-wrinkle use—and if someone did not mind sleeping with an oily sheen, it could even become a night cream to be washed off the next morning.
As his thoughts turned, Meng Xizhao immediately came up with a whole range of derivative products.
However, this was not what he had originally intended. He had never planned to use these small inventions for profit—otherwise, he would have long since had Madam Meng begin selling soap.
What he wanted was for these people to grasp the usefulness of “chemistry” and apply it to improving people’s livelihoods, not to churn out cosmetics…
Never mind. At least it was useful in some way.
He listed his ideas to Jin Zhu and instructed her to tell the Daoists not to fixate on pork fat alone, but to experiment with other materials as well.
Jin Zhu acknowledged the order and went to pass on his instructions. Meng Xizhao stood up, stretched lazily, then glanced once more at the nearly two and a half catties of pork-fat cream. He silently thought that even if they made supplementary products, they could always be sold for a bit of income—at least to offset his constantly shrinking funds, so he would not have to keep meticulously calculating every expense while also draining the Crown Prince’s treasury.
After establishing the estate, he had once thought his finances were quite comfortable. But once the new manor was built, his purse quickly began to shrink again. Even with the Crown Prince’s support, it was not enough. The Eastern Palace’s accounts were not much better; in order to please Emperor Tian Shou, they had spent nearly a third of their wealth on a single exotic warhorse purchased from foreign lands.
Crown Prince Cui Yi did not mind much—he had always been indifferent to material desires. But Meng Xizhao was different. If not for the thought that what they spent would eventually return to them, he would have been so heartbroken he could not sleep.
After Jin Zhu left, Meng Xizhao reviewed the accounts and records she had left behind. Confirming there were no issues, he stretched again, yawned, and prepared to return to his residence.
The Eighty-Li River estate remained as quiet as ever. During his stay, he had not encountered a single neighboring household. Although part of this was due to ongoing military campaigns outside the region, even after the generals had departed, their families had not.
Curious, Meng Xizhao had asked Qingfu to investigate, and the ever-gossipy Qingfu quickly returned with the answer.
It turned out that after several households in the area had either died out or been exiled, people began to believe the region had bad feng shui. Even those who had nothing happen to them felt the place was unlucky and moved away immediately. The few who remained were mostly families too impoverished to relocate.
“…………”
Meng Xizhao did not comment. Coincidences, when repeated often enough, did invite suspicion. But historically speaking, many cities in the Central Plains had once been slaughtered clean during wartime and later repopulated; those people had lived just fine.
So in the end, it was all about human action. Once Emperor Tian Shou issued the edicts of reward and the victorious generals happily moved into their new residences, such rumors would naturally collapse on their own.
By mid-September, it was far from crisp autumn weather. After a night of autumn rain, a biting wind rose in the morning. Meng Xizhao did not even know how cold it was—he only knew he was freezing to death.
Wrapped in two layers of clothing, he returned home and immediately ordered Silver Willow, who was on duty, to light the charcoal brazier.
But Silver Willow did not move. Instead, she lowered her voice and said, “It is already lit.”
As she spoke, she glanced meaningfully toward his bedroom.
Meng Xizhao, hands tucked into his sleeves, saw her subtle expression and felt a sudden burst of joy. He abandoned her on the spot and ran straight toward the bedroom.
Silver Willow: “…………”
So the relationship between my lord and the Crown Prince really is as close as ever.
……
Meng Xizhao rushed inside. Cui Yi was sitting on the bed reading. When he heard footsteps, he had just begun to smile—
—but his vision blurred.
Meng Xizhao pounced beside him, knelt on the bed, and shoved his hands toward him with all his strength.
However, Cui Yi was just as afraid of the cold, so instead of pressing against him directly, Meng Xizhao lifted the outer robe—similar to an open-style jacket—and pressed his hands against his waist, still separated by two layers of fabric.
The room was already warmed by charcoal, and Cui Yi had been sitting steadily in place, so his body was naturally warm.
Meng Xizhao wrapped his arms around his waist, rested his cheek against his chest, and even stuck his hips up awkwardly without caring at all.
With a long, satisfied sigh, he said, “So warm.”
Cui Yi had not even had time to put down his book when Meng Xizhao charged in. Seeing that the target of the attack was his chest and abdomen, he reacted with remarkable speed and lifted his arms to shield them. As a result, he was left holding the book aloft while Meng Xizhao clung to him with his backside raised in the air—a truly peculiar sight.
After a moment of silence, Cui Yi set the book aside first. Then he reached his hand behind him, caught Meng Xizhao’s ice-cold hands, and brought them forward, covering them with his own palms to warm them.
Meng Xizhao straightened slightly, letting him do as he pleased. Only the crackling of the charcoal fire filled the room. Looking at their hands enclosed together, he suddenly smiled.
“Your Highness,” he said, “your fire has grown stronger and stronger.”
Last year, whenever winter arrived, Cui Yi had been like an ice sculpture. Even if he stayed indoors properly, his hands would not warm up. But now not only was he warm himself, he could also warm Meng Xizhao.
Cui Yi lifted his eyes at the words and curved his lips slightly. “When will Second Young Master’s fire become strong as well?”
His poor health stemmed from old ailments, which left him physically unwell. But Meng Xizhao, despite being young and rarely falling ill, was not someone who could easily be described as having a strong constitution.
Cui Yi was not the first to ask this, nor would he be the last. When others asked, Meng Xizhao would pretend not to hear. But that method failed with Cui Yi. So he used a different one.
He placed his feet on the floor, then leaned his fluffy head lightly against Cui Yi’s shoulder. After bumping him gently, he even rubbed against him a little, and then spoke beside his ear in a soft, almost coquettish tone.
“I’m still young. When it’s time for it to strengthen, it will naturally do so~”
Cui Yi: “…………”
His breathing suddenly tightened. He let go of Meng Xizhao’s hands at once, then lifted his chin with two fingers, forcing him to look at him directly.
Meng Xizhao showed no sense of danger at all. Instead, he blinked innocently at him on purpose.
A subtle change came over Cui Yi’s expression. After a brief pause, he curved his lips. “Then I suppose I should hope that Second Young Master’s fire strengthens sooner. Otherwise, on the hunting trip five days from now, you may suffer.”
Meng Xizhao had originally been preparing to continue their playful “Crown Prince and minister” role-play, but at those words he paused.
“Hunting trip?”
Cui Yi gave a faint “mm.” “You went out of the city today, so you probably have not heard. His Majesty summoned all the ministers, saying he wishes to enjoy himself with his officials. In five days, there will be a joint hunt at Zhong Mountain.”
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
Aside from the founding emperor of the dynasty, who had some martial spirit and enjoyed hunting, later emperors were generally uninterested in it.
Even the tyrannical ones rarely went out to hunt themselves; they preferred to let others do the killing.
Emperor Tian Shou was even more so. Meng Xizhao had hardly ever heard of him hunting before.
Sensing something unusual, Meng Xizhao instinctively asked, “Has His Majesty ever hunted before?”
Cui Yi smiled faintly. “Before ascending the throne, he went a few times with two or three close friends. After that, he never did again.”
Meng Xizhao: “……”
Understood. Nostalgia alone was not enough; now he wanted to relive his youth through action.
Zhong Mountain was not a true imperial hunting ground—it was a recreational place for aristocratic young masters. For Emperor Tian Shou to suddenly make this decision, the owner of Zhong Mountain was probably already worrying himself sick.
But that was not what concerned Meng Xizhao. After thinking for a moment, he asked, “Are you going?”
Cui Yi replied calmly, “Second Young Master seems to have forgotten—I am also one of the ministers.”
Meng Xizhao paused, then asked, “And the other princes?”
Cui Yi did not know either. After learning of the matter, he had come straight out of the palace to find Meng Xizhao. As for who would be included and who would not, the palace was probably already in chaos.
—
Just as Cui Yi had predicted, the moment Emperor Tian Shou announced the hunting trip, the concubines were relatively restrained. Even if they wished to go, they only spoke a few coquettish words.
The princes, however, reacted far more intensely in order to secure an invitation.
Among them, the Sixth Prince was the most extreme.
Emperor Tian Shou’s decision to appoint the Crown Prince as Vice Minister of the Ministry of Justice had been a huge shock to him. He was even more astonished than Grand Tutor Gan. The moment the Emperor returned to the harem, he rushed over to confront him.
At that time, Emperor Tian Shou was in an excellent mood, having just received a flood of gifts and looking forward to enjoying himself. Then the Sixth Prince arrived—disrespectful, sharp-eyed, and openly hostile.
It was like a bucket of cold water poured over him. Naturally, the Emperor’s good mood vanished instantly. He ordered Grand Eunuch Qin to throw the Sixth Prince out.
The Sixth Prince was deeply aggrieved. If not for his pride, he might have cried on the spot.
But crying might actually have been better. If he had cried, Emperor Tian Shou would likely have been surprised, and his anger might have dissipated. Unfortunately, the Sixth Prince was accustomed to being adored and carried the burden of believing himself destined for the throne. His pride was too heavy.
So instead of crying, he chose anger—arguing, protesting, trying to reason with the Emperor.
When he was younger, if a child threw a tantrum, adults would coax him. And because he was the only son of Noble Consort Gan, the Emperor would usually indulge him somewhat. A child trying to argue with an adult could even be seen as endearing.
But only when he was still a child.
Now the Sixth Prince was no longer one.
After a recent growth spurt, he was nearly the size of an adult—only slightly thinner due to his age. Standing there with a fiery, defiant gaze, voicing one objection after another against the Emperor’s decisions, there was nothing “cute” about it at all.
The last time, he had questioned why the Emperor treated the Crown Prince so well. This time, he questioned why the Crown Prince could accompany him on the hunting trip while he could not.
In truth, Emperor Tian Shou had never even said he would bring the Crown Prince. The Sixth Prince had heard rumors and rushed in to confront him.
Seeing that there was no remorse and that the boy had only escalated his defiance, the Emperor flew into a rage. This time, he did not even call for Grand Eunuch Qin. Instead, he summoned Wen Shiji and ordered him to take the Sixth Prince away and confine him for seven days. He would only be released after the hunting trip concluded.
Emperor Tian Shou was furious. Grand Tutor Gan was not present either, and he had not expected that his grandson would be so incapable of discerning the situation—having already angered the Emperor once, he had done so again in just a few days. By the time Grand Tutor Gan received the news and rushed into the palace to mediate, some time would still pass.
After hearing of the incident, Su Ruocun sat in her palace and thought for only a moment before decisively rising and leaving with Madam Guan.
A short while later, Su Ruocun—reportedly on her way to pay respects to the Emperor—happened to meet Sixth Prince, who was still refusing to be escorted away and venting his anger at Wen Shiji in a corridor.
Wen Shiji served directly under the Emperor. Although he did not dare to use force on the Sixth Prince, he also had no patience for his resistance. So, after a formal apology, he simply twisted the Sixth Prince’s arms behind his back and forced him to leave.
The Sixth Prince was nearly mad with rage. He hurled insults without stopping, repeatedly shouting threats like “I will not let you off in the future.” Wen Shiji acted as if he had heard nothing, his expression completely cold.
After they had taken only a few steps forward, Wen Shiji suddenly paused, sensing something unusual. The Sixth Prince also stopped struggling and turned his head.
Su Ruocun stood ahead as if startled. She pressed her lips together, lowered her head, and stepped aside to clear the path.
The Sixth Prince frowned when he saw her, recognizing her as one of Emperor Tian Shou’s newly favored consorts, Su Shuyi.
He disliked all of the Emperor’s women except his own mother. If it had been any other day, he would have asserted his princely authority. But today he was in such a humiliating state that he only darkened his expression, stopped arguing with Wen Shiji, and simply wanted to leave as quickly as possible.
To outsiders, however, it appeared that after Su Shuyi’s arrival, the Sixth Prince had become noticeably obedient.
After the group departed, Madam Guan asked Su Ruocun, “Your Ladyship, shall we—”
Su Ruocun smiled slightly. “Let’s go. We will go offer birthday congratulations to His Majesty.”