The Imperial Tutor's Instructions - Chapter 8

The pale pink crabapple blossoms, stained with dew, appeared even more enchanting in the night. Reaching toward the window, Song Nanqing plucked a branch, his fingers gently stroking and kneading the petals. He tilted his head slightly and said, “It is just for the sake of pleasing others, like playing the zither for them.” Clad only in his inner robe, he looked frail and vulnerable, his dark hair swaying as the breeze drifted through the window.

Shen Heng closed the window, silencing the wind and leaving the room in profound stillness.

“I have not,” he said without hesitation, rising to fetch ointment for Song Nanqing.

His fingers, still flushed with warmth, reached out and caught Shen Heng’s hand just as he took a step. Shen Heng looked down to see Song Nanqing gazing up at him, his eyelashes trembling, his eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight.

“I heard the Vice Minister of Rites is taking a second wife. He is about the same age as Master; this is already his second marriage,” Song Nanqing remarked casually, his tone light.

Shen Heng let out a soft “Hmm,” waiting for him to continue.

Song Nanqing watched the man before him. The royal bloodline of the Song clan was pursued, or perhaps cursed, for two traits: breathtaking beauty and a tendency to be driven by desire. Yet, he thought Shen Heng’s appearance was in no way inferior to the royal princes. Seen in the candlelight, he possessed an elegant temperament, a sharp nose bridge, and deep, focused eyes that seemed to hold only him. At the thought of such a teacher marrying, perhaps holding a child of his own as he once held Song Nanqing, a nameless, stifling frustration gathered in Song Nanqing’s chest.

“Master, when do you plan to take a wife?” Song Nanqing probed.

Shen Heng felt the heat radiating from Song Nanqing’s skin, a warmth that stirred a restless irritation. He subconsciously touched his wrist, only then remembering that his Buddhist beads were currently on Song Nanqing’s hand. He was responsible for the palace’s Buddhist rites; he did not chant because he was without desire, but rather, he chanted to remain without desire. His outward appearance of asceticism was merely the result of disciplined self-restraint. The beads were a weapon to shackle his desires, and chanting was the stream that washed them away. In his earlier years on the battlefield, his urge to kill had been so intense he had to rely on the Buddha to pull him back; his fearsome reputation had been forged in that era.

Shen Heng’s fingers twitched. “Does Your Majesty wish for me to marry as soon as possible?”

Song Nanqing thought, This is bad. If he married, he would have to settle in his own mansion, likely losing the unrestricted access he currently had to the palace. Once a powerful official married, the added influence of his wife’s family would make him a target of suspicion, and his power would inevitably be curtailed. Moreover, as the Prince Regent, Shen Heng’s marriage was a sensitive political matter.

Was Shen Heng testing to see if he wanted to curtail his power? Song Nanqing’s expression shifted, and he hugged Shen Heng’s arm, leaning in close. “Of course not!”

“I don’t want Master to marry,” he mumbled, resting his head on Shen Heng’s arm. “If you do, you will have even less time to accompany me. I refuse!”

Shen Heng’s eyes deepened as he looked at the person pouting against him. “Even the Emperor has no right to interfere in a person’s private affairs.”

Song Nanqing’s eyes widened, his voice rising. “Have you set your eyes on some young lady? Who is she?” If there truly was someone he liked, his strategy would have to change.

“None. Come here, let me apply the medicine.” In the candlelight, Shen Heng used the ointment to soothe Song Nanqing’s red, swollen palms.

Song Nanqing eyed him skeptically, pouting. “Truly, none?”

“None.”

“Then Master must hold me while I sleep tonight.”

Shen Heng paused, his tone laced with helplessness. “You have already grown up.”

Song Nanqing held out his hands to air the ointment, looking down. “Last night, when I slept alone, I dreamed again of that night in the well.”

The night the Second Prince staged his coup, painting the palace red in blood amid thunder and lightning, he had been thrown into a dry well to die. As the blood-soaked rain fell, he was slowly submerged by the corpses and gore. The icy chill of that night still made him shudder today. If Shen Heng had arrived even a moment later, he would not have survived to this day; he would have rotted away with the dead.

The palace candles were extinguished. In the massive bed, Song Nanqing lay with his eyes tightly shut, clinging to Shen Heng’s arm, refusing to let go. The faint, soothing scent of sandalwood filled the air, and he finally felt his body relax. He feared Shen Heng might want to eliminate him, yet he could not sleep without Shen Heng by his side. Proximity was dangerous, yet distance was agony.

Setting aside power and conflict, he could only sleep peacefully beside Shen Heng.

The arrest of the Censor Wang Qian at the brothel two days prior had sparked heated discussions among the ministers. The following morning at court, seeing the Vice Censor Chen Liwen standing in Wang Qian’s former position, everyone remained silent on the surface, while the whispers beneath the surface were numerous.

“I haven’t congratulated you on your promotion, Censor Chen. I have two bottles of rare vintage wine. Would you like to come to my mansion for a drink after court?” the Vice Minister of War asked.

Chen Liwen glanced at him. “Drinking leads to errors. Presumably, Wang Qian lost his wits because of drink, leading him to violate the laws of Great Sheng.”

After the Wang Qian incident, the number of officials visiting the Fengqi Tower had dwindled to almost nothing; no one wanted to be the next target.

As the bell rang, Song Nanqing walked slowly to the throne in his court robes. As he turned, the gold embroidery on his hem glittered in the sun.

“You may rise.” He rested his arms on the throne, his gaze sweeping over the ministers, specifically observing the expression of Jia Liang.

“I have a memorial to submit.” On his first day as the head of the Censorate, Chen Liwen was sharp and uncompromising.

“On the night the former Censor Wang Qian was arrested, Jia Shikai, son of Lord Jia Liang, caused a scene at the Fengqi Tower and injured several onlookers. They dared not report it due to the Jia family’s influence. I wish to ask Lord Jia, was this act authorized by you?”

The hall fell silent. Jia Liang was the Grand Secretary, the Emperor’s uncle, and the head of all officials. Never before had anyone dared to criticize Lord Jia. Most officials in court relied on the protection of their family heritage; they were all interconnected through generations of marriage.

But Chen Liwen was different. He was not from a prominent clan; his ancestors were peasants who struggled to survive. During a great drought, a local official had demanded taxes, and when they couldn’t pay, Chen Liwen’s father was beaten to death by that official’s men. Chen Liwen had been selected for the civil service examinations during the drought as a gesture of imperial empathy.

Only after entering the court did he realize it was no different from his poverty-stricken hometown—all those in power colluded, ignoring the lives of commoners for their own gain. However, precisely because he had no ties here, he could act as an official censor without fear.

“Do you know why Jia Shikai caused such a scene?” Song Nanqing asked.

Chen Liwen replied, “It is said that the courtesan he purchased for several thousand taels was taken by someone else. In a rage, he injured the manager of the Fengqi Tower, who remains bedridden to this day.”

Jia Liang, his eyes clouded, knelt first to plead guilty. “Your Majesty, it is my fault for failing to discipline my son. I had heard rumors regarding the courtesan—Shikai said she resembled his late mother, so he wished to help her. His methods were misguided, but I will make sure he reflects on his actions.”

Song Nanqing flicked his fingers. “Speaking of which, I haven’t seen Shikai in a while. He is nearing the age for the civil service examinations, is he not?”

Jia Liang’s lips curled slightly. “Thank you for your concern, Your Majesty. I will urge him to study hard and serve the imperial court.”

“Lord Jia’s son has the opportunity to serve, but the commoner whose right hand he shattered does not,” Chen Liwen persisted. “From Wang Qian to Jia Shikai, officials and their sons use their power to oppress the people. If left unchecked, many more like them will become the worms destroying this court.”

Someone stepped out to oppose him. “Chen Liwen! Don’t forget you are an official yourself. Don’t think that because you are a censor, you can say whatever you please.”

Song Nanqing looked directly at Chen Liwen. “What is your proposal?”

“Reform the civil service examinations,” he said sharply. “Give commoners more opportunities. It will select more talented individuals and put pressure on these aristocratic families, forcing them to study instead of remaining idle.”

The Minister of Revenue was the first to object: “If we expand the examinations, the costs of maintaining the venues will be immense. The Southeast is resisting the Japanese pirates, and the Ministry of War already owes the Ministry of Revenue a significant sum. Are we to survive the year at all?”

But there were also supporters: “The court is in dire need of talent. It is better to have strict selection procedures than to have people occupying positions without doing work.”

Jia Liang added, “The Ministry of Revenue truly has no extra funds. Military supplies for the Southeast and construction projects for the Ministry of Works all require money. It is my incompetence—I cannot even manage my own son, let alone the Ministry of Revenue.”

Song Nanqing looked at Shen Heng.

Shen Heng said calmly, “Lord Jia is busy with many important matters; it is difficult to manage everything. We should not be too harsh on him.”

“Censor Chen’s proposal is indeed worthy of consideration. After all, Lord Jia is aging and may have lapses in oversight. The court needs new blood to stimulate vitality. Let the Ministry of Rites deliberate on the refinements.”

Song Nanqing saw the change in Jia Liang’s complexion when Shen Heng mentioned his age, and he barely suppressed a laugh. “Uncle, the court cannot do without you. You must have been working too hard lately. Take a few days off and look after your health.”

“Hahaha!” Song Nanqing sat on the swing, laughing uncontrollably. “You didn’t see Jia Liang’s face turn green. ‘Aging’… Hahaha, ‘aging’!”

Shen Heng reached out to support the back of his head, preventing him from falling backward.

“That Chen Liwen is certainly bold,” he said to Song Nanqing. “What of Wang Qian?”

Song Nanqing stifled his laughter, feigning innocence. “He is in prison. Why?”

Shen Heng tapped his cheek and said nothing more.

“How do you view the civil service reform?” he asked.

Song Nanqing nodded. “It must be changed, but I cannot be the one to order it. Can Master provide some guidance?”

Shen Heng turned his head, neither agreeing nor refusing, but asked, “What is the benefit?” He raised his brows, his handsome face carrying a trace of mischievousness.

Song Nanqing leaned back, hooking his sleeves around the other’s arm while swaying. “Isn’t it expected that Master should help me?”

The rope swung the swing back and forth. Song Nanqing let his legs hang straight, swaying, his fingers hooking onto Shen Heng’s sleeves as they danced in the wind.

The garden was in full bloom. The verdant branches, pink petals, and golden yellow winter jasmine complemented each other. In the heart of April, the young Emperor swung in the vibrant courtyard. His eyes darted around. “Master, is there any treasure among those confiscated from the Japanese that you like? You said you didn’t want any last time!”

The unique, twisted stone table nearby was carved into the shape of tree roots, holding several white porcelain fruit plates decorated with auspicious cloud patterns. Song Nanqing plucked a plump, translucent purple grape, peeling the thin skin with care, the green flesh exuding sweet juice from his fingertips.

He held the peeled grape to Shen Heng’s lips. The sun shone onto the pond ahead, and the shimmering layers of light reflected in his eyes.

Shen Heng leaned down and took the grape into his mouth. The sweet and sour taste, combined with the fragrance from Song Nanqing’s fingertips, overwhelmed his senses. The grape juice was thick, leaving a sticky residue on his fingers, which he licked off as well.

“…Is it enough?” Song Nanqing looked up, dazed, his gaze shifting to Shen Heng’s thin lips, now stained with juice. For some reason, he suddenly felt the grape was incredibly fragrant—so fragrant that his mouth began to water. He stood on tiptoe, leaning in by a few inches, his eyelashes lowered, fidgeting with his fingertips which still held a lingering warmth.

“Enough.” Seeing Song Nanqing’s face was about to brush against his chin, Shen Heng pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the juice from his fingers, blocking the narrowing distance.

It was truly fragrant—the smell of grapes, and another aroma emanating from somewhere on Shen Heng’s body. Perhaps he had been to the shrine again, but the scent in the shrine was different. Song Nanqing looked down at his own fingers being wiped; through the cloth, he could feel Shen Heng’s warmth enveloping his hand.

“Since the Xi family was demoted last time, now is the time to reinstate them.” Shen Heng’s voice was steady as he provided the tip.

Song Nanqing’s thoughts raced, and his eyes suddenly lit up. “You mean!”

“Exactly,” Shen Heng said, his eyes filled with approval.

Song Nanqing said, “Master is cunning…”

Shen Heng stroked his head. “You were taught by me. I am second to none.”

Receiving this remark, which sounded both like praise and a reminder, Song Nanqing’s heart beat faster than before. He stood on tiptoe and rubbed against the warm palm above his head, smiling with pride and bravado:

“To be Master’s favorite student, one must be exactly like this.”