The Imperial Tutor's Instructions - Chapter 7

The sky outside had darkened. The study was still lit, and Song Nanqing walked along a pebbled path to reach its entrance.

With a soft creak, the wooden door was pushed open. Directly facing the door was a landscape painting; the ink-washed mountains and water were layered in varying shades, appearing like clouds and mist. The person sitting before the painting sat perfectly straight, his long robes fluttering. His sharp, chisel-like nose bridge gave his face a sense of depth and fortitude.

He took a sip of tea and cast a sharp gaze toward Song Nanqing at the door. The gentleness he usually feigned was stripped away, leaving a look like a falcon watching its prey, or perhaps just a casual, dismissive glance. Despite the fact that he was sitting and looking up, there was an inexplicable sense of him being in a superior position, like a hunter who had been waiting for a long time.

Song Nanqing’s legs went weak under that gaze. He walked over with unsteady steps, only to see a leather paddle resting on the desk. The black board was wrapped in thick, shiny leather, a tool for punishment that was neither too soft nor too hard. Most chilling of all were the evenly distributed metal studs on its surface, which would surely leave lovely dotted marks on anyone struck by it.

Song Nanqing trembled at the sight. Before Shen Heng could even set his cup down, he busily stepped forward to hold the coaster for him. The crisp sound of white porcelain meeting wood rang out, and as his slender fingers held the cup, it was hard to tell which was whiter. Perhaps due to nervousness or fear, his grip faltered as he set the cup down, and half the tea spilled onto the boy’s robes.

“Oh my,” Song Nanqing exclaimed softly. He smoothed his soaked clothes and said anxiously, “I must change my robes. Chun Jian, someone, come quickly!”

He lifted his hem and ran toward the door. Just as he opened it, a powerful hand slammed onto the door frame above his head. With a loud bang, the door slammed shut. The youth was pinned between the door and Shen Heng, swallowing nervously.

Feeling the breath behind him, Song Nanqing breathed rapidly and cautiously admitted his fault. “I know I was wrong, really. I won’t dare do it next time!”

Shen Heng reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Song Nanqing’s ear, his calm voice sounding like the stillness before a storm. “Go inside and change your clothes first.”

On the soft couch, the youth sat hunched over with his head lowered. He had removed his wet outer robe and now sat in his translucent inner garment, his jade-like calves pressed against the soft blanket. The leather paddle lay beside his leg, its metal studs reflecting the light. He nudged the paddle aside with his foot.

Shen Heng approached with clean clothes, seeing the small movement. His wide sleeves draped down, and the paddle was swept up by his large, distinctively knuckled hand.

Song Nanqing trembled slightly, biting his lip as he pleaded, “Please do not strike my palms. They already hurt today.” He held out his palms, which were red from slapping the table, for Shen Heng to see.

As a monarch, he had been raised strictly by Shen Heng. Being a playful child, he needed stern discipline to remember his lessons; being punished for mistakes was natural. However, his teacher truly showed no mercy when it came to discipline, which was why he was so afraid. It had been agreed that he would study in the palace and stop reading those unruly storybooks, but getting caught red-handed at the Fengqi Tower left him no room to deny it.

Shen Heng reached out, using the paddle to lift Song Nanqing’s chin. The rounded leather edges of the paddle brushed against his cheek. “Do you still expect me to listen to His Majesty when it comes to deciding your punishment?”

The sudden proximity and the magnetic, gentle tone would have led one to believe Shen Heng was about to drape a coat over his shoulders. Song Nanqing mentally condemned the smiling tiger. He had long since stopped being fooled by Shen Heng’s gentle, Confucian appearance; while he sounded like he was negotiating, he was, in his bones, an uncompromising man.

He rubbed his cheek against Shen Heng’s wrist and whispered, “Does Master intend to strike my face? If so, the ministers will know that Master Shen enjoys corporal punishment on his students behind their backs.”

Shen Heng lowered his eyes and saw the youth’s soft, slightly puffed cheek pressed into an indentation by the paddle. As he lifted the paddle, the indentation smoothed out. Close up, he could smell the faint scent of rose balm on Song Nanqing’s cheeks. This season was full of flying willow catkins and pollen, which easily irritated the delicate boy’s skin. This rose balm was a remedy Shen Heng had specially formulated; it was best for this time of year, or else Song Nanqing would break out in rashes at the slightest breeze.

Shen Heng lowered his arm and said calmly, “Show me your hands.”

Hearing the relaxed tone, Song Nanqing hurriedly held his right palm up. Unlike Shen Heng’s calloused hands from riding and archery, his palms were fair and smooth. There was only a faint pink mark in the center, scarcely visible, almost fading, yet he had made it sound so severe.

Shen Heng used the paddle to lift his right hand, shaking it slightly. “Does it hurt?”

His black pupils held a hint of amber, appearing gentle when he looked at someone. He wore simple attire at home, his flowing robes making his movements seem casual. Song Nanqing pouted and nodded pitifully, his upper lip’s small, cupid’s-bow peak slightly curled and flushed red.

Smack!

The paddle fell onto his palm without warning, making Song Nanqing’s fingers tremble. A bright red print appeared on his palm, accompanied by plum blossom-shaped marks left by the evenly distributed metal studs.

Song Nanqing shrugged his shoulders upward, and his eyes instantly welled with tears. After the initial sting, a burning, numbing sensation spread outward. He curled his fingers, rubbing his fiery palms against the soft fabric of his trousers, trying to dissipate the pain.

“Ooh,” the youth lowered his head and blew on his palms, whimpering and on the verge of tears, looking thoroughly bullied.

Shen Heng used the paddle to lift his hand again. This time, the redness in his palm deepened. Song Nanqing’s hand trembled as he pleaded, “Don’t, no more.”

“Keep your hands straight. Do I need to teach you the rules of punishment again?”

The slight dip in his voice made Song Nanqing’s heart race. He sobbed, bringing his hands together and slowly straightening his arms before his chest. The string of Buddhist beads hung from his left wrist, while his right palm was flushed bright red.

The couch was not large; he was already kneeling at the edge, his feet pressed against the ridge of the cushion, his knees softening. Shen Heng sat in front of him, his sleeves hanging straight without a wrinkle. The paddle in his hand tapped rhythmically against the youth’s palm, causing him to shiver, never knowing when the next heavy strike would fall.

“Does Your Majesty know what you did wrong today?” Shen Heng asked.

Song Nanqing lowered his head slightly. “I left the palace without Master’s permission, and I went to a place I should not have gone.”

“Hmm,” Shen Heng replied calmly, seemingly unsatisfied with the answer.

Song Nanqing’s arms were beginning to ache. When he relaxed them slightly, his palm received another strike. This time, the heavy paddle was held against his palm. He tried to hold his hands in the standard position, eyes filled with tears, and finally squeezed out another answer: “I lied to Master, saying I was studying in the palace, when I was actually doing nothing of the sort.”

“Ooh, my arms are so sore, Qingqing really knows he was wrong. Master, please spare me.”

His slender arms looked as if they would snap at a touch; the Buddhist beads hung loosely on them. Song Nanqing had held his arms straight for so long that they began to tremble uncontrollably, not to mention he was still holding the paddle. Yet, he dared not lower them. He cast a timid look at the paddle and began to plead with Shen Heng in a soft voice.

The desire for protection, punishment, control, and conquest: this was the core essence of the Fengqi Tower Guest Reception Training Guide. But it also stated that different methods should be used for different men. For instance, a man with wives and concubines versus one with only a wife—or none at all—required different approaches.

Based on Song Nanqing’s observations, Shen Heng’s residence did not have a single shadow of a wife or concubine. Dealing with such men was the easiest, though he still needed further verification.

Strategy was paramount during a struggle; this was what Shen Heng had taught him. As long as he could survive and make the Prince Regent useful to him, what did it matter if he used the Strategies of the Warring States or the Fengqi Tower Guest Reception Training Guide? Achieving the goal was all that mattered.

Seeing the youth’s eyes wander off in a daze, Shen Heng reached out and pinched his cheek to bring him back. “I said, I do not like it when Qingqing keeps things from me. Ten strikes. You will be punished further for dodging.”

A small chunk of his soft, tender cheek was pinched, instantly turning red. The smooth, bouncy skin was more delicate than the finest silk. Song Nanqing’s face was pulled to one side, his speech garbled and his face wrinkled, but Shen Heng understood.

“You can still write, it will just hurt a bit.” He raised his hand, and the resilient paddle rose and fell, piercing the air to strike heavily against the crimson palm.

Song Nanqing let out a short scream, his fingers curling to block his palm. He hooked his feet onto the edge of the couch, his face flushing even redder than his hands.

The paddle gave his backhand a light, stinging strike. Song Nanqing whimpered, unfolding his hand again and holding it out, his arms shaking.

“Ah!” With another strike of the paddle, Song Nanqing abruptly pulled his hand back, his breathing becoming pitiful. “It hurts, ooh, it hurts so much, stop hitting me.”

His palms were swollen and numb, desperately needing a cooling touch, but Shen Heng’s board fell again. After three heavy strikes in succession, Song Nanqing finally reached his limit. He shook his head and rolled over to escape, but before his feet hit the ground, Shen Heng pulled him back.

His slender ankle was gripped and pulled upward; Song Nanqing collapsed onto the couch and was dragged back. In this moment, the Ten Arts and the Guest Reception Guide were forgotten; his only thought was to please Master and get him to let him go.

The youth clutched a pillow, sobbing pitifully and apologizing: “I’m sorry, I really know I was wrong. I can’t take it anymore. Can we finish the rest next time? Please, I beg you.”

Shen Heng reached out to wipe his tears, sighed lightly, and pulled him into his arms. He spoke to the little Emperor, who was crying like a rain-drenched flower: “Alright, stop crying. Be careful, or your eyes will hurt later.”

He wrung out a hot, damp towel and placed it over Song Nanqing’s eyes, wiping them gently.

“I didn’t keep things from Master. I went to Fengqi Tower because…” Song Nanqing sat on the couch, still sobbing softly. “Because I heard that Yun Xiu of Fengqi Tower plays the zither better than anyone in the world. In my heart, Master plays the zither the best, so I had to see if she was truly worthy of her name.”

Shen Heng’s lips curled upward. “And is she unworthy of her name?”

Song Nanqing widened his eyes. “She doesn’t play as well as Master. I only went secretly because I knew Master would never let me go to such a place.” He secretly hugged Shen Heng’s neck and buried his face inside. “Who told Master to be so busy lately with no time to accompany me?”

A drop of hot, damp tear slid across Shen Heng’s neck.

Shen Heng closed his eyes slightly and said, “It is not safe for you to come out alone. If you were noticed by those with ill intent, I would be worried. There will not be a next time.”

Song Nanqing had not expected that this was the real reason for his anger today. He had thought…

The heart on the left side of his chest tightened slightly. Song Nanqing gripped his hem; a warm current flowed through his heart, carrying both sweetness and astringency, and his breathing hitched. But soon, he returned to his normal state.

Shen Heng’s study was arranged like the man himself—refined and detached—yet the antique, dark-toned wooden furniture held a depth of profound foundation. Beside the couch where the two sat was a hexagonal window, facing a pink crabapple tree. Light pink and dark pink blossoms overlapped, with green leaves beneath, swaying in the night breeze against the moonlight, looking like a painting through the window.

A table placed by the window held a zither, crafted by the famous master Zhang, who was rumored to make only one instrument every three years, depending on whether the zither liked the person.

Song Nanqing, leaning against him while having his tears wiped, looked at the zither and suddenly asked, “Has Master ever played the zither for anyone else?”

Shen Heng turned to look at him. “Who do you mean by ‘anyone else’?”