Jing Mu knew this little troublemaking brat.
As Consort Hui, as a mother, she was a rather free-spirited person. Jing Kuang was quiet and reserved, and Consort Hui found him dull, so she spoiled her youngest son, who had a sweet tongue, to the heavens. Jing Cong had grown up getting whatever he wanted—stars if he asked for stars, the moon if he asked for the moon. Even in his previous life after he became emperor, he was still a royal wastrel who knew only pleasure and cared nothing for power.
He glanced at Jing Cong and began to reel in the kite string. Seeing him pull it back, Jing Cong didn’t care about anything else and stepped over the threshold, running over on his short legs to grab his arm.
“You didn’t hear what This Prince said? This Prince likes that thing.”
As he spoke, he reached out to snatch the kite.
But Jing Cong was only a seven- or eight-year-old child after all. Though his hands were reckless, he could not do anything to Jing Mu. Jing Mu continued reeling in the kite string while lowering his head, expressionless, and warned, “This is my thing.”
“If I like it, then it’s mine!” Jing Cong shouted. “This Prince commands you—hand it over now!”
Though young, Jing Cong knew the identity of the master in this palace. It was nothing more than a wild boy found from the common people by his mother in order to deal with the Empress. A wild boy like that—how could he be a master in front of him?
He was a servant.
Thinking this, Jing Cong used even more force, reaching again for the kite string.
The surrounding servants did not dare step forward, only standing to the side helplessly watching the two masters struggle.
Jing Mu saw his hand hook onto the string and frowned impatiently, lifting it abruptly. Unexpectedly, Jing Cong was the type who never cut his nails. His fingernails were quite long, and with that forceful swipe, the kite string snapped.
The thin, silk-like string was pulled upward by the kite in the sky. Jing Mu reached out to grab it, but the slippery string slipped from his fingertips and rose into the sky.
Jing Mu said nothing, expression darkening, and with one hand he lifted the little fat boy who had snapped the string.
Before returning to the palace, Jing Mu had spent three to four years in the military. The army did not care whether he was a child or not—they made him wield heavy weapons. To him now, this child weighing several dozen jin was effortless.
Jing Cong had just been crying over the kite flying away when he was suddenly grabbed by the collar and lifted off the ground. His breathing was cut off by the collar tightening around his neck.
Terrified, he screamed and flailed, clawing at Jing Mu’s hand and crying for help.
“I already said it was mine—why did you touch it?” Jing Mu’s eyes were deep and bottomless, filled with anger and killing intent. His voice was low, and his hand showed no mercy, making Jing Cong feel as if he were about to be strangled.
Tears immediately fell from Jing Cong’s eyes.
The spring wind was not strong. The kite spun a few times in the air before slowly drifting downward.
Jing Mu saw it.
He casually threw the howling child to the ground and stepped over the palace wall of Zhongli Palace, chasing after it.
Jing Cong had never suffered such grievance in his life, nor had he ever been thrown to the ground like this. He felt as if his bones were falling apart, especially his backside, which hurt terribly. He did not know what “crushed to pieces” felt like, but in his life, this already felt like it.
He cried loudly. The surrounding servants panicked and rushed over.
His nursemaid screamed in terror and ran out of Zhongli Palace to find Consort Hui.
Jing Mu chased along the red walls all the way to a small forest half a li away. The kite had landed on a tree, its thin wings pierced by branches.
Jing Mu was displeased. Just now he had compared this kite to his Shifu in his heart, but now it had been damaged so quickly.
He climbed the tree in a few movements and carefully took the kite down, smoothing the torn part.
He wondered if it could still be repaired when he returned.
Holding the kite, he walked back toward Zhongli Palace.
Just as he reached the entrance, he heard chaos inside—crying, shouting, and comforting voices tangled together. Clearly, Jing Cong was still crying inside.
Jing Mu frowned and walked in with the kite.
The little fat boy was still sitting on the ground, crying loudly without real tears, his eyes already dry.
He handed the kite to a servant to take inside and store, then walked alone toward Jing Cong.
As soon as Jing Cong saw him approaching, he seemed to see a demon. The pain in his body that had just subsided flared up again. He quickly shut his mouth, but tears immediately rolled down again like beads, and he began sobbing uncontrollably.
This time it was real crying.
He grabbed the nearby servants for protection, but none dared to move against Jing Mu. Helpless, he could only cry loudly as Jing Mu walked step by step toward him and, like lifting a chick, picked him up from the ground again.
“You broke my thing, and you still dare cry at me?” he asked.
Jing Cong, driven by survival instinct, for the first time in his life, sincerely apologized: “I was wrong… Second Imperial Brother, I didn’t do it on purpose…!”
He thought this was already the greatest concession of his life, but Jing Mu did not care at all.
“Wrong?” Jing Mu said coldly. “What use is saying ‘wrong’?”
Jing Cong cried harder: “I… I… I’ll… I’ll compensate you!”
Jing Mu gave a cold laugh.
At that moment, a voice came from the palace gate: “Mu’er, what are you doing!”
Jing Mu looked up and saw Emperor Qianning accompanied by Consort Hui.
Through blurred tears, Jing Cong finally saw his real savior and immediately cried out: “Father Emperor! Father Emperor, save me!”
Jing Mu glanced at him and dropped him to the ground.
The little fat boy’s backside turned bruised and swollen.
Emperor Qianning watched Jing Cong being thrown down like a sack right before his eyes and was instantly furious. Consort Hui rushed forward, crying out Jing Cong’s name.
“Father Emperor,” Jing Mu said calmly, as if nothing had happened, and bowed.
“What are you doing hitting your Seventh Brother!” Emperor Qianning shouted angrily.
“He damaged my thing,” Jing Mu replied. “I merely gave him a lesson.”
“A lesson, and you throw him like that!” Consort Hui cried. “My poor child has never suffered such humiliation… Your Majesty! What difference is there between this and treating him like a servant!”
Jing Cong, already wronged and in pain, cried even louder at these words.
“Still standing there? Summon the imperial physician!” Consort Hui grabbed a servant and shouted. “If anything happens to the Seventh Prince, can your heads bear it?!”
Emperor Qianning’s expression was also very unpleasant.
Among his sons, Jing Cong—willful, simple, and sweet-tongued—was the one he liked most. Not because he could inherit the throne, but precisely because he could not.
In Emperor Qianning’s strange thinking, the sons capable of inheriting the throne were threats to the dynasty, while those with no ability to inherit were the only ones he could safely indulge.
Jing Cong was such a child, and thus he received the Emperor’s favor.
Seeing Consort Hui and Jing Cong crying together while Jing Mu stood indifferent, Emperor Qianning’s brows furrowed deeper.
“A lesson? For a dead object, you bully your Seventh Brother like this?” Emperor Qianning said coldly. “Jing Mu, do you know your mistake?”
Jing Mu stood before him, eyes lowered, expression calm and unchanged. “Father Emperor, what mistake has your son committed?”
He glanced at the crying Jing Cong.
“Damaging someone’s property requires punishment. That has always been the principle.”
Emperor Qianning was so angry he almost laughed.
“Good. Very good,” he said three times. “Since that is so, Jing Mu, you beat my child. Then I will punish you as well.”
He declared coldly:
“Someone! Drag the Second Imperial Prince Jing Mu away and give him twenty strokes of the board!”