The emperor wasn’t particularly shocked—just dazed.
Meng Xizhao’s tears were so childlike. Unlike ministers who cried to show loyalty, or concubines who sobbed constantly while catching his eye, he cried like a child: wronged, bullied, with no one to turn to, silently crying on his own.
Meng Xizhao scrubbed his tears desperately, ashamed, trying to normalize his voice. Each word choked with emotion.
“Your Majesty… my elder brother… I’m sorry, Your Majesty. We’ve failed to live up to your expectations. It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have taken my brother out drinking… I just wanted him to relax, and… and I ruined his life. I…”
After that, he could no longer speak. He simply sank to the ground, kneeling and wailing with his face turned skyward.
“Our brothers… can no longer serve you! Waaah! My elder brother studied so diligently for fifteen years—fifteen whole years! He was so confident, telling me he would score the top rank in the imperial exams to show Your Majesty that you had not misjudged him… and now… now it’s all ruined! Waaahhh!”
The emperor listened and exhaled in relief.
So this was why Meng Xizhao had been crying. For a moment, he had feared that Meng Xian had fallen gravely ill or even died. This child… it’s just that he failed one year of the exams. As long as he was alive, he could try again next year.
Moreover, it wasn’t certain he’d fail—if Meng Xian recovered before the start of the exam, he could still participate.
…Although after a severe illness, performance might be affected.
The emperor wasn’t truly concerned about Meng Xian. He didn’t even remember exactly how many noses or eyes he had now; he simply felt the pressure on his own head lift. Look at that pure, innocent heart: when his elder brother was poisoned, Meng Xizhao’s first reaction wasn’t anger or rushing to plead to the throne—it was guilt. He felt responsible for causing the emperor to lose a talent.
The emperor felt a twinge of emotion.
He quickly ordered Qin Feimang, “Feimang, help him up. You—crying like this? And talk about being unable to serve? I see your young age, so I won’t punish you, but don’t speak such inauspicious words again, understand?”
With Qin Feimang’s support, Meng Xizhao reluctantly rose, dabbing at his eyes.
“Understood… But Your Majesty, my elder brother is in this state, he…”
The emperor hesitated a moment, then asked, “Is he seriously hurt?”
At the mention of this, Meng Xizhao’s tears streamed anew. “He just took the antidote, but he hasn’t woken. Even in his unconscious state, he cries in pain, clutching his abdomen. The physicians, the palace doctors, they said…”
Two more tears slipped down as he shook his head.
Meng Jiuyu watched his son with an odd, almost bewildered expression.
They had come together from the Censorate to the palace. Before leaving, Meng Xian had already been examined by the imperial physicians, household physicians, and even a folk healer. Their expressions were complicated—they acknowledged that he had been poisoned, but not as if he were at death’s door like Meng Xizhao acted.
Finally, Meng Jiuyu bowed his head, tucked his sleeves, and forced the corners of his eyes red, remaining silent, presenting the image of a worried father for his eldest son. The rest—he left to Meng Xizhao’s performance.
No life-threatening danger meant the emperor considered the matter minor; after all, he himself wasn’t poisoned, and the pain wasn’t his.
“Enough. Crying like this before the throne—what is the meaning of it? Tomorrow is the National Academy graduation. Are you going to attend roll call like this?”
Meng Xizhao’s sobs lessened. He lowered his head and, in a small but clear voice, said, “I don’t have the heart to attend graduation…”
The emperor slammed the table. “Nonsense!”
With a clatter, everyone knelt. Qin Feimang noticed that Meng Xizhao, despite being the one who had angered the emperor, dropped to his knees faster than anyone else, as if he had anticipated this.
“…”
The emperor continued, “A mouthy child, knows nothing of propriety!”
Meng Jiuyu pleaded for his son: “Your Majesty, forgive him. He is only overly distressed, that is why his words were unguarded.”
The emperor’s expression softened. He glanced at Meng Xizhao, who cautiously raised his eyes and saw the emperor looking at him. He stiffened, pursed his lips, and displayed a look of remorse.
The emperor snorted in his heart. Truly a child’s temperament.
But he liked it—boldness was better than timidity.
Moreover, these two brothers clearly cared for each other deeply. Otherwise, Meng Xizhao wouldn’t have acted so outrageously before the throne.
The emperor made up his mind. With a wave of his hand, he told them to rise: “The incident was sudden. I understand your feelings. Leave this matter to the Grand Court of Justice. I will order them to find the culprit and give you an explanation. As for Meng Xian…”
He hesitated, then said, “It is a pity. If he can recover from this, I will provide some compensation. It is merely misfortune of timing. Things cannot be delayed forever.”
Meng Xizhao’s face lit up with emotion, excitement, and a surge of courage.
“With Your Majesty’s words, my elder brother will surely recover! You are the Son of Heaven, the incarnation of the true dragon—no villain in this world can surpass you!”
He clenched his fists, utterly convinced of his own words.
Whether he truly believed it mattered little; the emperor did. Feeling empowered by this faith, he nodded in satisfaction, granted the Meng father and son a generous reward, and dismissed them.
After repeatedly bowing and thanking the emperor, Meng Xizhao, taking advantage of his “ignorant of protocol” persona, asked one last question:
“Your Majesty, may I assist the Grand Court of Justice in investigating this case?”
If allowed, he hoped to be placed in the Grand Court itself.
The emperor casually nodded, but then suddenly recalled Meng Xizhao’s appointed post and shook his head: “Leave it to the Chief Justice of the Grand Court. Jiao Liguang is upright and impartial; he won’t disappoint you.”
Meng Xizhao: “……”
He was disappointed.
The Grand Court had been one of the places he most wanted to go. Judging by the emperor’s tone, it wasn’t going to happen. And it seemed the place he would go was very close to the Grand Court, so he couldn’t cross jurisdictions to handle the case himself.
Yingtian Prefecture? Impossible. That office was full of men of genuine talent and proven ability. Even if the emperor were completely unaware, there was no way he could place Meng Xizhao—someone who had spent his time on the fringe of pleasure quarters—there.
Unable to come up with an answer, the eunuchs came forward to escort the father and son out. Meng Xizhao could only obediently turn and leave.
Walking down the outer corridor, his eyes still red, Meng Jiuyu watched him the whole way with a strange expression.
Meng Xizhao felt awkward. “Father, I really am your son. No need to look at me like some strange creature.”
Meng Jiuyu choked for a moment, then scolded him: “You little rascal, I know you’re my son! I just… didn’t realize you had this kind of talent.”
Meng Xizhao shrugged. “Who’s to blame? Clearly, you’ve never paid attention to me. You didn’t see the great wisdom I’ve been hiding beneath my foolish exterior.”
Meng Jiuyu: “…………”
Great wisdom? Don’t let the wind blow too hard and twist your tongue!
Meng Cenzheng, still within the palace walls, was ready to teach his son a lesson with a stick, but noticed a group approaching. Seeing it was the Crown Prince, he quickly lowered his arms, stepped aside, and bowed.
Meng Xizhao’s eyes brightened. Unlike the others, he didn’t step back; instead, he lifted the corners of his mouth and tried to smile.
Cui Ye’s cold gaze swept over him, then quickly moved away.
As he passed, a little eunuch behind him glared sharply at Meng Xizhao, as if to scold him for disrespecting the Crown Prince.
Meng Xizhao froze, turning to glance at Cui Ye’s retreating figure again, but Meng Jiuyu grabbed him and pulled him along.
“What are you looking at? In this palace, don’t stare at anyone! Look at you, claiming great wisdom—wait until we get home, and I’ll show you what real wisdom looks like!”
Meng Xizhao: “……”
＊
By the time they returned to the Censorate, Meng Xian had already awakened. The physicians had left, leaving only prescriptions, saying that after a few doses, he should recover mostly.
As for whether the imperial doctors would be questioned again by the Emperor—Meng Xizhao thought it unlikely. Even if they were, it didn’t matter.
After all, he hadn’t revealed Meng Xian’s condition. And just as he was about to speak, the emperor had interrupted him. Any misunderstanding was now conveniently his to own.
Back at his courtyard, he washed his face and asked Jin Zhu about the tavern situation. He learned that all the staff had been taken by the guards, and the leftover food on the tables had been completely seized.
Meng Xizhao smiled. “Then it’s no longer our concern. Let them handle it.”
Jin Zhu looked worried. “What if they find out that the poison my lord consumed wasn’t the same as what the other party used…”
Meng Xizhao asked, “Jin Zhu, if you heard of someone taking poison and yet surviving without harm, what would you think?”
Jin Zhu paused, then replied, “That person is protected by the gods.”
Suddenly, Jin Zhu laughed. “I understand now.”
In ancient times, there were no laboratories. Even if someone died, testing for poison would require needles, but with a living person, the tiny doses of poison could simply be metabolized over a few meals. Finding evidence? Impossible. And in this superstitious era, anything unexplainable could be attributed to spirits. Even the Grand Court wouldn’t suspect too much. Poisoning had occurred, a stranger had appeared in the kitchen—all the links of the crime were real. The only unknown was the victim, but the Grand Court’s concern was never the victim—they measured success by catching the culprit.
Thus, the Grand Court wouldn’t investigate further. Outsiders and the emperor would marvel at how fortunate Meng Xian was, his head metaphorically crowned with a “lucky” label—a big plus.
The only one who might obsess over the incident would be the Third Prince—but what could he do? If he claimed that the antidote would render someone mute, and Meng Xian wasn’t, it would reflect poorly on him. If he tried, Meng Xizhao could probably laugh himself awake in his sleep.
What a convenient enemy—he didn’t even have to act, and his own actions ensured his defeat.
…
That night, Meng Xizhao went to bed early. In the Censorate, Meng Jiuyu paced his room. Meng Madam, yawning, watched him.
Meng Jiuyu remained puzzled. “When did Erlang become so clever?”
Meng Madam, exhausted from the day—her eldest son had almost scared her to death but was now safe after minor abdominal pain—asked lazily, “When has our second son ever not been clever?”
Meng Jiuyu slammed down beside her. “No, Madam, you didn’t see him before the Emperor! When has he ever cried like that? Today, I watched him, the way he looked at His Majesty… to be blunt, it seemed as though the Emperor was his father, and I was just a familiar stranger!”
Meng Madam: “…You mean Erlang has filial admiration for the Emperor?”
Meng Jiuyu paused, then said, “Uh… maybe not.”
Out of curiosity after leaving, he asked Meng Xizhao how he had cried so quickly and so profusely. Meng Xizhao produced a small, bulging medicine pouch from a hidden sleeve. The surface appeared dry, but when squeezed, a clear, slightly cooling liquid flowed out. Meng Xizhao asked him to squeeze a bit and then said, “Father, there’s something on your eyes.”
And… well, better not mention what happened next.
It was only after Meng Jiuyu had cried himself out that he realized why his son had been constantly dabbing his eyes before the Emperor—he hadn’t been wiping away tears; he had been applying medicine!
…Harsh enough that a single experience was enough for Meng Jiuyu, yet Meng Xizhao still thought it wasn’t strong enough.
Hearing Meng Jiuyu’s account, Meng Madam straightened. “Erlang, why bother?”
Meng Jiuyu was silent for a long moment before sharing his guess: “Erlang… he must have seen how anxious the eldest brother was these past days and devised this method. No wonder he insisted I accompany him into the palace.”
As he spoke, his eyes actually grew red. “Madam, after leaving His Majesty, I asked Erlang how he had acquired such skills, and I honestly don’t know. Erlang said, ‘Who didn’t pay enough attention to me in daily life?’ Thinking carefully, I realize that during Erlang’s upbringing, I indeed didn’t fulfill my duty as a father. I would come home after he had already fallen asleep, and when he was awake, I would be gone attending court. To him, perhaps it was the eldest brother—who spent the most time with him and cared for him—who seemed more like a father.”
At that, he turned to Meng Madam. “I feel so guilty.”
Yet Meng Madam felt even worse. She took out a handkerchief, dabbing at her tears as she said, “It turns out Erlang is so thoughtful… I haven’t been a good mother either. I spent all my time managing the household and insisting on personally overseeing the estates and shops. But we have only three children—what’s the point of earning all that money? Every time I saw him, I only asked if he had eaten, if he needed money, or if he wanted to go out and play. Erlang is sensitive; he probably realized long ago that I had no real expectations for him. I only wanted him to live happily, yet it was this very intention that made him sad. Now, whatever he does, he won’t tell me…”
Her voice trailed off, and she lifted her head to meet Meng Jiuyu’s gaze.
The middle-aged couple looked at each other silently, and in the next instant, they embraced and cried out loud.
Meng Family couple: Erlang, Father/Mother has wronged you!
…
In his sleep, Meng Xizhao shivered.
＊
The next day, Meng Xizhao first checked on his eldest brother, who was cozily asleep under a thick quilt with the brazier still glowing, before energetically going to receive his graduation certificate.
After collecting it, he learned that his official appointment would soon be issued, and he only needed to wait at home.
Meng Xizhao thought it a bit troublesome but smiled outwardly, even giving two golden coins to a man in gratitude. The man accepted with joy and respectfully called him “Lord Meng,” to which Meng Xizhao casually responded, satisfied. Then he went outside the East Hua Gate, bought a bowl of red date black-bone chicken soup, and headed home.
Meng Xian looked at the red date chicken soup in Meng Xizhao’s hand, his expression strange.
“Erlang, isn’t this food for women during confinement?”
Meng Xizhao blew on the steaming soup. “Who says? When did nourishing blood and qi become exclusive to postpartum women? Big brother, you were poisoned and your body is weak—you need this.”
The antidote Meng Xizhao had given yesterday may have still been insufficient. Meng Xian had sweated through the pain and slept fitfully all night. Today, he seemed no different from a normal person.
He frowned at the soup, reluctant to drink it.
Setting it aside, Meng Xizhao changed the subject. “Have they caught the person who poisoned you?”
Meng Xizhao shook his head. “No idea. But it wouldn’t be that fast anyway. If they catch them, the Grand Court will notify the Censorate.”
Yesterday, Meng Xian had been too weak to think clearly. Now awake, the more he pondered, the stranger it seemed. “Erlang, why do I remember nothing about what I ate? After drinking the wine you gave me, I seem to remember nothing at all…”
Meng Xizhao’s face remained calm. “Big brother, your tolerance is too poor. I told you not to drink too much; the aftereffects are strong. I tried to take the wine away, but you wouldn’t let me. You told me to return it, and now you don’t remember?”
Meng Xian recalled vaguely. “Seems something like that happened.”
Meng Xizhao gave him a look that said, See? Told you so. Then continued to “reprogram” him: “Later, you got angry with me and sulked, eating only the roasted lamb placed in front of you. I suggested other dishes, but you ignored me.”
Meng Xian nodded blankly—his usual sulking behavior. The more he remembered, the more confused he became. “Hmm… and then I fainted?”
Meng Xizhao replied calmly, “Yes. You knocked over the chair when you passed out. I nearly fainted myself! I held you and shouted your name many times. You even opened your eyes to look at me. You don’t remember that either?”
Meng Xian’s eyes brightened as he recalled a fragment. “I… I remember.”
So that’s what happened. Poison plus wine had blurred his memory.
After the “montage,” Meng Xizhao had fully convinced Meng Xian of his account. He then spoke with ease about other matters:
“Big brother, now you don’t need to worry. His Majesty said, as long as you get through this, he won’t treat you unfairly. Honestly, how unlucky can you be? Last time, the Spring Examination coincided with our grandfather’s mourning—you couldn’t attend. Now, someone poisons you. If it weren’t for me, who knows if the imperial edict for early death would have applied? I’d suspect the exams were conspiring against you.”
Meng Xian, still recalling yesterday, snorted instinctively. “Early death, my foot. I’m supposed to be an official—how can you talk so recklessly?”
Meng Xizhao shrugged, maintaining his carefree façade.
Seeing his expression, Meng Xian realized he hadn’t been listening. He felt a fleeting sense of relief, then slowly settled.
This time, he had escaped the danger. But escaping for a moment doesn’t mean escaping forever. Even if others are unaware, does he not know himself? He is no longer that kind of weakling. Moreover, in three years, the County Princess will marry him. When the groom rides to fetch her, and someone asks who he is, can he still answer, “I am Meng Xian, son of a Censor”?
With the looming pressure gone, his mind regained its clarity. He carefully considered his situation and analyzed whether he could pass if he retook the exam in three years.
After long silence, Meng Xian’s gaze gradually hardened. He lifted his head and said:
“Erlang, I’m not going to take the exam again.”
Meng Xizhao froze for a moment.
“But… if you spend another three years preparing, maybe…”
Meng Xian gave a bitter smile. “It seems you’ve noticed by now that I can’t be certain of passing. Indeed, if I fail, I can always try again—only a little shame will follow. But now, I can bear shame, I just cannot wait for time.”
Meng Xizhao: “….”
Shame? You can’t even afford that! Who was it that stressed so much the other day he nearly went bald?
He glanced faintly at the top of Meng Xian’s head, still bare in patches, then continued listening as Meng Xian spoke with growing resolve:
“I’ve decided. I will not take the exams again. Once my body is fully recovered, I’ll ask Father to transfer me from the Taixue to the Guozixue, and study properly for one year. When I graduate, I will become an external official and serve diligently.”
He looked at Meng Xizhao affectionately. “In the future, if your teahouse ever lacks money, come to me. I am your elder brother. Wherever I go, I will care for you, my little brother.”
Meng Xizhao: “….”
Wait a minute—are you saying you’re going to go around skimming funds from everywhere?
＊
Leaving Meng Xian’s courtyard, Meng Xizhao felt a buzz in his head.
He was about to go back and rest a bit to calm his tangled thoughts when Zitong came over with an invitation. “Young master, someone just delivered this, saying his master invites you out to catch up.”
Meng Xizhao’s reputation preceded him. Anyone sending him invitations would be a playboy; normally, he would simply refuse. Zitong, without hesitation, went to take it away—but seeing the faint purple on the card, Meng Xizhao suddenly called out, “Wait, let me see the invitation.”
Zitong calmly handed it over.
The invitation had no words—just a long, slender bamboo painted in pale purple.
Meng Xizhao stared blankly for a moment, then inspiration struck, and he laughed.
He instructed Zitong: “Prepare the carriage. Young master, I’m going out to meet a friend.”
Zitong acknowledged and went to prepare.
Half an incense stick later, Meng Xizhao stepped out of the carriage and entered Bu Xiantian.
In the third-floor private chamber, Cui Ye had already been sitting for quite some time. He had ordered a table full of dishes, half of which he had already eaten.
“Did you walk here?”
Sensing the Crown Prince’s displeasure, Meng Xizhao grinned shamelessly. “I left as soon as I got the invitation. If anyone is at fault, it’s that Your Highness came too early.”
The Crown Prince glanced at him. “You seem… arrogant.”
“I’m about to take office, so naturally, I must carry myself properly.”
Cui Ye asked, “So you already know your official position?”
Meng Xizhao cupped his hands. “Please enlighten me, Your Highness.”
Cui Ye, disliking Meng Xizhao’s obedient demeanor, drummed his fingers on the table to signal him to sit. Only then did he explain: “Your appointment will be issued to the Censorate at the latest the day after tomorrow. The Emperor has assigned you as Junior Secretary of the Honglu Temple.”
Meng Xizhao blinked.
Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs?
Ah, the position sounds respectable.
Wait—only in appearance. In reality, the Honglu Temple holds a low status among the Nine Ministries. Its officials only deal with foreign envoys, outside the core political circle. At present, Da Qi is quite weak… aside from Nan Zhao, which has been at war with Da Qi for twelve years and has never sent permanent envoys, the other four countries can all pose some threat. Their envoys here are essentially in charge, and the Honglu Temple’s role is mostly ceremonial.
Ah…
Meng Xizhao understood. The Emperor must have been impressed by his playful skills recently and decided to assign him here.
The shift in his thoughts happened in an instant. To Cui Ye, it seemed that Meng Xizhao had paused, then suddenly broke into a wide grin. “Quite a good starting point. Thank you, Your Highness, for letting me know, and thanks to His Majesty for giving me this opportunity.”
Cui Ye frowned. “Though it’s a sixth-rank position, it’s not easy. You can easily offend people.”
Otherwise, why would it be vacant? The Honglu Temple rarely changes its officials; the Junior Secretary rotates every few months, either because they can’t handle the envoys or they can’t tolerate being a subordinate, resigning outright.
Meng Xizhao chuckled: “No worries. Your Highness need not fret for me. I never offend anyone—and those I offend are never really people.”
Cui Ye: “….”
Since Meng Xizhao said that, Cui Ye could do nothing but let it slide. The two of them continued eating and drinking. Cui Ye had wanted to explain his cold attitude yesterday in the palace, but Meng Xizhao never brought it up and didn’t seem to mind. Cui Ye, seeing this, lowered his head and continued drinking.
After they finished, Cui Ye prepared to leave. Before exiting, he asked: “Your elder brother’s case…”
Meng Xizhao replied: “Everything is in the hands of the Grand Court. Whatever verdict they give, the Meng family will accept.”
Cui Ye voiced doubt: “Really?”
Meng Xizhao grinned, showing eight teeth. “Absolutely.”
Seeing that smile, Cui Ye realized it wasn’t so simple. Originally, he intended to warn Meng Xizhao that someone in the Grand Court might cover for the culprits, but now he thought it would be wiser to warn the Grand Court to watch out for traps set by Meng Xizhao himself.
…
Meanwhile, peace reigned on their side, but the Grand Court was clouded with worry.
Not because evidence was too scarce to find the culprit, but because there was too much—and every piece pointed directly toward the palace.
The coronation of the prince hadn’t even started, and the news hadn’t fully spread. All the princes were still living inside the palace, including the Third Prince.
Meng Xizhao had acted too fast initially, seizing the entire teahouse, preserving every dish carefully, even delivering the serving trays along with the evidence. Honestly, if the evidence weren’t so obvious, the Grand Court might have thought Meng Xizhao did it himself.
The evidence was glaring—clearly the work of someone inside the palace. And the suspects were obvious too. After all, over the past month, only the Third Prince had publicly labeled Meng Xizhao as a treacherous schemer, Meng Xian as a pampered weakling, and their father, Meng Jiuyu, as the greatest parasite of Da Qi, someone who deserved to have his household confiscated and face execution as a warning.
Just as the investigation was about to trace all the way to Consort Lin’s quarters, the Grand Court minister urgently ordered a halt.
They weren’t the Imperial City Office, which could act entirely on the Emperor’s behalf. If anything went wrong, the Emperor would shield them. But if the matter involved the harem, one cry and it could all blow over for the royals, while the officials’ careers might be ruined.
Even a Grand Court minister, known for incorruptibility, hesitated in such circumstances. Unable to make the decision himself, he instinctively tried to pass it down to his subordinate. “Xie You, leave this matter—”
He cut himself off mid-sentence, recalling Xie You’s position. Clearing his throat, he changed course: “Never mind, keep it with me.”
Xie You saw the awkward expression of his superior and smiled, acknowledging the order before leaving.
＊
On the day of his appointment, Meng Xizhao officially took office.
Dressed in his square-collared, patterned official robe and wearing his official hat, he admired himself briefly in the mirror before stepping out to the carriage.
The Honglu Temple was also within the Inner City, but on its outskirts, near Zhuque Gate and not far from the Beiyan Bridge, which spanned the Huai River. Across the river stood the grand Da Bao’en Temple, a royal temple so significant that even the Emperor personally offered incense to its Buddha statues during festivals.
Da Bao’en Temple had stood for centuries; it existed even when Kumarajiva translated scriptures. A solid temple with a continuous line of emperors—its location would never change, so it must be that the Honglu Temple was positioned nearby, perhaps deliberately, to “share” the sacred aura and keep the foreign envoys in check.
…
On his first day, Meng Xizhao was to meet his superior, the Minister of the Honglu Temple. When he arrived, the minister refused to see him, claiming age and fatigue and asking Meng Xizhao to wait.
Meng Xizhao, unimpressed, raised an eyebrow, peered through the window, and realized it was a warning. He turned and walked straight out of the temple, not caring where he went.
Minister Han Daozhen of the Honglu Temple, around fifty, with half-black, half-white hair, was an interesting man. A Taoist, he had served at the temple for many years. Surrounded by the bustling incense of Da Bao’en Temple, one could only wonder what went through his mind.
Though low in rank, the Honglu Temple ran its own rules. Han dismissed his attendants who tried to occupy Meng Xizhao and continued meditating in his Taoist robes. When he finally felt it was time, he rose and slowly went out to meet him.
Once there, Han Daozhen blinked slowly and asked his subordinate: “Where’s Meng Xizhao?”
The subordinate: “Sir, he left an hour ago, but he left a message for you.”
Han: “What message?”
After a moment of hesitation, the subordinate relayed it truthfully: “He said… age and love of sleep are early signs of dementia. His grandfather passed that way, and he couldn’t bear to see you in the same state. So he went out to find a Sanskrit copy of the Longevity Sutra, and will have you write it a hundred times yourself. That should suffice.”
Han: “…Damn brat!”
＊
Now an official, Meng Xizhao could no longer parade around with his maid freely. His mother assigned him a young servant, who was sent to buy the sutra, while he wandered into the Outer City.
Still part of Ying Tian Fu, but the Inner and Outer Cities were like night and day.
The Inner City thrived endlessly—bright lights from dawn to dusk, laughter along the Qinhuai River, vendors displaying stylish wares. The western district housed the elite, while the eastern district bustled with merchants from all over, all kinds of people mingling—perhaps more vibrant than even future capitals.
The Outer City, however, was cut off by walls. Houses were noticeably poorer, people’s faces lined with hardship. Laughter was rare, replaced by hurried footsteps; residents commuted between Inner and Outer City simply to survive.
Despite appearances, Meng Xizhao knew that life in Ying Tian Fu itself was a blessing. Travel just two hundred miles beyond, and one would see people scantily clothed, emaciated, struggling for food.
Meng Xizhao removed his hat and robe but couldn’t shed the air of nobility. People stepped aside as he passed; those who didn’t wore greedy expressions, hoping for favors.
Ignoring them, he relied on memory to navigate, finally spotting the massive willow tree he sought. He breathed a sigh of relief—he had found it.
At midday, Zhan Hui sat sewing indoors, his grandfather napped, and Zhan Buxiu practiced martial arts in the yard. Under the strong sun, wearing only a short shirt, he struck his training post repeatedly.
He had trained daily since age four, and now, after thirteen years, the habit was ingrained. Even if he had no practical use for his skills, he persisted. Moreover, he enjoyed the focus it brought; his sister and grandfather found comfort in watching him practice.
After finishing a set, Zhan Buxiu wiped the sweat from his face and turned, pausing suddenly at the sight of a figure by the door.
Meng Xizhao clapped lazily, raising both hands: “Fine technique.”
Zhan Buxiu’s first instinct was to glance back, checking if his sister or grandfather had noticed Meng Xizhao. Seeing no reaction, he frowned, quickened his pace, and yanked Meng Xizhao out of the courtyard.
His strength was impressive; Meng Xizhao was spun half a circle and stumbled a step. “Stop, stop, I can walk myself!” he called.
Once outside, Zhan Buxiu immediately asked, “What are you here for?”
Meng Xizhao straightened his clothes, lifted his head, and pulled a freshly issued appointment decree from his sleeve. “I’m here to tell you—I’m now a sixth-rank official.”
“And you? Are you planning to spend your whole life moving grain in a warehouse?”