The Imperial Tutor's Instructions - Chapter 11

In front of the dragon bed, the royal physicians knelt in a row. The head physician, keeping his head bowed, said, “Reporting to the Regent, His Majesty consumed something tainted, causing gastrointestinal distress and inflammation. This led to vomiting and a subsequent high fever that has persisted. Your subject has already prescribed medication, and the Imperial Hospital will have it decocted and delivered shortly.”

Shen Heng sat at the edge of the bed. He tossed aside the hem of his robes, which he had been pressing down in his haste. The black fabric radiated an air of intense pressure. His expression was grim; he was not at all reassured by the reply. “Are you certain it is not poison?”

Song Nanqing had just returned from Minister Jia Liang’s residence, and given previous incidents, Shen Heng could not help but be suspicious.

Shen Heng lifted his thin eyelids, casting a deep crease. His authority radiated outward, causing the physician to tremble. The doctor bowed respectfully and said, “Based on my years of medical experience, Your Majesty does not show signs of poisoning.”

“What did His Majesty eat today?” Shen Heng swept a glance at Chun Jian, who was kneeling nearby.

Chun Jian replied tremblingly, “At Minister Jia’s residence, he had two bowls of cherry yogurt, and later at the market, he ate eel noodles, steamed buns, and mung bean cakes.”

Shen Heng’s gaze was heavy. “You follow His Majesty, yet you let him eat such casual street food?”

Chun Jian could do nothing but admit his fault. After all, everything Song Nanqing had eaten that day had been tasted by him first, and there had been no anomalies.

The royal physician added, “I have inspected the food His Majesty consumed today, and I have also thoroughly investigated the small eatery. There was no poison; the mung bean cakes were simply slightly spoiled.”

“Then why hasn’t he awakened?” Shen Heng gripped Song Nanqing’s hand, his eyes filled with worry.

The physician replied, “His Majesty’s constitution has never been strong. Overthinking inevitably leads to sorrow, and that internal stagnation combined with the high fever has resulted in this semi-comatose state. He will naturally wake up once the fever breaks, but his digestive system will be weak for the next two days, so please be mindful of his diet.”

A junior physician brought in a bowl of medicine. Shen Heng took it and dismissed them all.

In the quiet room, only the sound of breathing could be heard. Just as Shen Heng prepared to lift Song Nanqing to a sitting position, his arm was suddenly grabbed.

“Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!”

Song Nanqing saw men in armor breaking through the doors. Their heavy swords swung, flashing with white light and reflecting his own silhouette.

The shouting, the clashing of swords, the white light of the blades, and flashes of red—the color on lips, the color of blood. An ethereal voice came from behind him. One moment, it was Shen Heng holding a blood-soaked sword, telling him, “From now on, you are the Emperor of Da Sheng.”

The next moment, it was Shen Heng sitting at a desk, saying with an unreadable expression, “For an emperor, love is the most useless thing, Qingqing.”

A teacup shattered in his palm. Jia Liang stroked his beard and said to him, “The palace is full of treacherous hearts. If the Regent causes any more trouble, tell me.” Shen Heng, wearing dark robes, spat out black, poisonous blood before his eyes, murmuring, “Your greed is too great.”

A long sword pierced his chest. Shen Heng’s blood splashed onto Song Nanqing’s face. He widened his eyes, tears streaming down uncontrollably. He wanted to move forward, only to find himself trapped at the bottom of a dry well, with the man’s corpse falling from the sky.

Red liquid obscured his vision. An excruciating, piercing pain exploded from his heart. The sensation of his heart being gouged out left his throat tasting of bile, and his body shivered involuntarily. He froze there, unable to breathe or move. The world went silent, and boundless sorrow dragged him into an endless abyss.

Suddenly, the red on his eyelashes was wiped away, and Song Nanqing slowly opened his eyes.

Shen Heng was leaning over, using his thumb to wipe the tears from the youth’s eyelashes; his fingertips trembled slightly from the heat of the fever.

The moment Song Nanqing opened his eyes, he saw that familiar face. He was overjoyed, and as if trying to confirm that those terrifying images were just a dream, he lunged forward to embrace him.

Taken by surprise, Shen Heng stumbled back slightly before steadying himself. Song Nanqing buried himself in Shen Heng’s chest, sobbing as he wrapped one arm tightly around his neck, pressing his face firmly against the solid chest, his other hand gripping his shoulder tightly.

He stayed close, his legs drawn up as he sat sideways in Shen Heng’s lap, wanting to use every inch of his skin to feel the man’s warmth and presence. His muffled sobs were trapped between them.

His smooth hair was disheveled from sweating during his illness. Shen Heng held his legs with one hand and gently patted the youth’s back with the other.

“It’s alright, don’t be afraid.”

It had indeed been a long time since he had seen Song Nanqing cry, if you didn’t count the times he pretended to be pitiful to act spoiled.

The small sobs grew louder under Shen Heng’s comfort, filled with sadness and grievances. Shen Heng’s breathing faltered; he tightened his arms, pulling the youth’s shoulders into his embrace, his other hand circling his waist, completely enveloping him.

“It’s fine, hmm? What’s wrong? I’m here.” Shen Heng lifted a finger to wipe the tears from the youth’s cheeks, his heart aching as he looked at those tear-reddened eyes. “You had a nightmare, didn’t you?”

Hearing this, Song Nanqing pursed his lips and shook his head. Sniffling, his tears began to subside, his lashes sticking together in wet clumps, the tip of his nose red.

Shen Heng stroked his back to help him breathe, but just as he reached for a handkerchief, his neck was gripped tightly again.

The wet, tear-streaked cheek pressed softly against the base of his collarbone, with a look of absolute determination not to let go.

His body continued to tremble with intermittent sobs. He had stopped crying, but his physiological reaction had not yet calmed down.

Only within this warm, tight embrace, surrounded by that sense of pressure, could he confirm that he was in a place of safety.

“Can we drink the medicine before you continue hugging me?” Shen Heng lifted him, shifting him into a more comfortable position, and asked softly, his rhythmic patting continuing on his back.

Song Nanqing buried his face in the man’s neck. After a long while, he asked with a trembling voice, “Will you stay with me, Teacher?”

“As long as you need me to,” Shen Heng answered without a moment’s hesitation.

After quite some time, Song Nanqing finally loosened his grip and leaned back against the headboard, only then feeling the discomfort in his abdomen.

Pursing his lips, his eyes still moist, he cried out, “My stomach hurts!”

In the white jade bowl was warm medicine. Shen Heng held a spoonful to his lips. “Drink this, and it won’t hurt anymore.”

Song Nanqing refused to open his mouth. He furrowed his brows, complaining of the bitterness before even tasting it, appearing both spoiled and pitiful.

Shen Heng coaxed him for a long time. Seeing that he still wouldn’t open his mouth, he threatened, “The royal physician said your stomach is weak. If you don’t drink this and get better, you won’t be able to eat anything delicious anymore, and you’ll have to live on porridge every day.”

Song Nanqing’s eyes widened in disbelief. Seeing that Shen Heng did not look like he was joking, the pathetic tears began to well up again.

He let the tears fall drop by drop while clutching the bowl and drinking the medicine, unsure if he could even taste his own tears. Once the bowl was empty, Shen Heng popped a preserved plum into his mouth and wiped his face with a handkerchief, praising him, “Qingqing doesn’t even need to be fed to take medicine now. You’re more capable than before.”

“Will you like me more now that I’m more capable?” he asked, tugging on the man’s arm.

It was late. The room was lit, but not very brightly. Under the warm yellow light, Song Nanqing’s upturned face was covered in a jade-like soft glow, as if sunlight were filtering through mist onto a lake, with remnants of tears still hanging on his lashes.

Shen Heng looked away, then back again. He watched him for two seconds before moving the empty bowl away, his low voice drifting into the air: “I prefer you happy.”

Watching his back, Song Nanqing pulled up the blanket that had slid off him. An indescribable emotion welled up in his heart. He did not quite understand what it was. Perhaps the nightmare had been too real, or perhaps reality was just like a nightmare, where one wrong step would lead to total ruin, requiring constant caution.

Perhaps it was because he had stayed in his mother’s old house for too long; memories of the past flooded back, and his head throbbed.

When he woke from his dream again, the damp, cool cloth on his head had been replaced. He saw, in a daze, that Shen Heng was feeding him water. His headache had dissipated significantly, and his stomach rumbled from hunger.

“I want to eat the mung bean cakes you make,” Song Nanqing leaned on the man’s shoulder and took another sip of water, feeling the lingering bitterness of the medicine.

Shen Heng pinched his cheek. “You still dare to eat mung bean cakes? Don’t you know that you ended up like this because of that spoiled cake?”

Song Nanqing retorted, “Who said so? Maybe Jia Liang was trying to harm me.” He changed the subject, speaking as if he were still caught between dream and reality, whatever came to mind. “Today, I saw that the earrings worn by Jia Liang’s concubine were beautiful. That jade was so bright and clear, many times more beautiful than the one in the storehouse that was said to be worth a fortune. I want that too.”

“Mm. Do you have a place to wear earrings? Let me see?”

Having not slept all night, Shen Heng had lost his usual composed demeanor. His fatigue remained, but his spirit stayed tightly wound due to his worry for Song Nanqing. When one is physically exhausted but mentally stimulated, it is easy to do things that one would otherwise repress with reason.

His warm fingertips brushed against the youth’s earlobe, rubbing and squeezing the soft flesh. His index finger touched the root of his ear to check his temperature; only when he felt that the fever had finally broken did he let out a long breath.

Song Nanqing had been born prematurely and his health had always been poor. Having not been carefully raised from birth, he had a weak foundation, which made his illnesses frightening to witness.

The calloused fingers touched his sensitive earlobe, creating an itch. Song Nanqing couldn’t help but shrink back and push him away: “I hate this! Don’t touch me.”

When the fingertip brushed the small, recessed hollow behind his ear, Song Nanqing shuddered. The itch traveled from the root of his ear down to his armpit. Having been sweating from the fever, the touch made his entire body turn red.

Shen Heng saw his flushed cheeks and thought his fever had returned. As he leaned in to check, Song Nanqing blocked him, refusing to be touched.

With his long lashes lifted, he looked down, too shy to meet the man’s eyes, twisting his body as he pushed Shen Heng’s hands away. Finally, Shen Heng saw through the pretense.

“With that much energy, it seems you’ve recovered.”

Upon hearing this teasing remark, Song Nanqing pounced on him to cover his mouth, widening his eyes in threat: “You aren’t allowed to say that!”

Shen Heng lifted him as easily as a rabbit, placing him back into the blankets with one hand. Glancing at the sky outside, he instructed, “You are excused from court today. Get some rest. I’ve ordered the Imperial Kitchen to bring porridge later; drink some before sleeping more. I will come to see you after the court session.”

Song Nanqing, exhausted from the commotion, nodded obediently and curled back into the blankets. Seeming to remember something, he raised his head and said, “Chen Liwen’s character still needs further observation. Teacher, please look into it for me.”

Shen Heng nodded in agreement.

Just before leaving, he turned back to look at Song Nanqing, adding as a well-intentioned warning: “You are currently very weak. You must not indulge your own whims to do certain things.”

“I know!” Song Nanqing snapped, cutting him off as if his fur were standing on end. He buried his face in the quilt, sticking one arm out with a clenched fist directed at Shen Heng.

“The porridge was cooked an hour ago; it’s your favorite. Even if I’m not here to feed you, remember to eat some.” The door creaked shut. Song Nanqing poked his head out from the quilt, peered outside to make sure there was no one there, and then buried his head back halfway.

A fresh bouquet of lilies had been placed in the vase by the head of the bed, their subtle, elegant fragrance soothing the mind. The other side of the bed and the small daybed nearby showed no signs of having been slept in. It seemed Shen Heng had not slept all night.

Song Nanqing turned over and saw the prayer beads on his wrist. He leaned in and smelled a scent similar to the one on Shen Heng. The smooth, green sandalwood beads rolled across his cheek and slowly nudged against his full, upturned cupid’s bow.

He was surrounded by the scriptures of the Heart Sutra engraved into the wood.