Your Majesty, Please Be Obedient - Chapter 7

Last night was too cold and he had not slept well. Being so young, he began to feel drowsy as soon as darkness fell.

In a daze, he felt Master lean down, lift him from the water, pat him dry, and dress him in an inner robe. When Master opened the wardrobe, Jiang Qiyan opened his eyes slightly, followed by a long period of stunned silence. His mind suddenly cleared.

Why were there so many sets of small clothes in the wardrobe?

Jiang Qiyan pursed his lips, feeling a wave of inexplicable fear. Master had said that his arrival was sudden and that he had not even prepared a room for him, yet these clothes, no matter how one looked at them, seemed preplanned. Was it possible that his Father Emperor casting him out was also Master’s doing?

No, that cannot be! Do not think about it!

Jiang Qiyan covered his eyes, scolding himself harshly in his mind. How could he think such things? Master was not a bad person; Master was the only one who was kind to him. Perhaps his Father had long ago mentioned sending him to Master, which was why Master had carefully prepared the clothes. Even if Master had lied to him, there must be a reason. Master did not prepare a room because he wanted Qiyan to sleep with him. Master had been lonely for a long time and simply wanted company. What was wrong with that?

On the contrary, how could he think of Master this way?

That feeling of guilt began to spread through his heart again, growing more intense by the second. Jiang Qiyan did not dare to look into Pu Tingsong’s eyes. He was afraid. He was afraid to see Master’s gentle, light smile; that extremely soft expression would only make him feel more guilty for his previous thoughts.

As Pu Tingsong dressed him, his slender fingers inadvertently brushed against the boy’s skin. Such slight contact made him shrink back repeatedly. He feared the touch of those fingers. Every touch felt like a small stone thrown into the lake of his heart, stirring his soul and making him tremble. Yet, he also wanted more, much more. He did not care where he was touched.

Those were Master’s fingers. He could not control himself; he craved the feeling of his Master.

Once Pu Tingsong finished tying the robes, he prepared to withdraw his hand. Jiang Qiyan did not know where he found the courage or what he intended to do, but before he realized it, he had grasped Master’s finger. It seemed like a silent plea for him to stay, or perhaps an invitation. Pu Tingsong paused for a moment, allowing him to hold it.

“What is it?”

He gave a smile that was as blurry and difficult to discern as a flower seen through the mist.

“Do you like your Master touching you?”

Jiang Qiyan looked up abruptly, but he saw that Master’s expression seemed to be merely joking. For some unknown reason, Jiang Qiyan felt a small sense of disappointment. He stared at Pu Tingsong without a word. Only in his heart did he whisper a very soft “Yes.”

Yes, I like you touching me. When I am touched, I feel that you cherish me. Only when I am allowed to touch you do I feel a moment of peace. At least for now, you still want me.

When his Mother Empress was alive, she never allowed him to get close. His admiration and dependence had nowhere to go. His Mother had developed a heart sickness; she detested him as if he were something filthy. He would approach her with trepidation, wanting to comfort her. He wanted to tell her about the happy things he cherished, but he would be knocked down by a slap before he could even finish a sentence. He would sit on the floor, feeling miserable. He did not dare to cry in front of her and could only endure until dark.

After nightfall, he would hide under the covers and cry silently. He comforted himself over and over again. It is all right, it is all right. It is not that Mother does not love me; she is just sick.

His Mother hated it when he cried and hated it when he touched her. Touching her or crying would lead to a beating. Later, he gradually stopped crying in front of others and stopped daring to touch anyone. Fear was carved into his habits through repeated attempts to get close followed by beatings and scoldings. It became a reflex. Touching made him feel afraid; he always felt that the person touching him would find him disgusting.

He seemed to have fallen ill as well, bit by bit. He had developed a sickness where he was afraid to let anyone touch him. Expectation and fear coexisted, and the contradiction filled his young heart, tearing it apart. Self-loathing became an indelible chronic illness.

But Master was the only exception.

Master was so gentle and so meticulous. Master always looked after his emotions, observing every small word and action to accurately guess every thought in his heart. Just as he was doing now, Pu Tingsong used his thumb to rub the corner of the boy’s eye.

“Are you going to cry? Why are you going to cry again?”

Yes, why did he want to cry again?

“Do you like crying in front of your Master that much?”

Yes, he clearly did not dare to let others see him cry. Why did he always cry with Master?

“Has your Master wronged you?”

No, but in front of Master, he often felt a sense of grievance. He did not know where the feeling came from. Those nights of crying under the covers and that sour feeling in his heart were like dough fermented by tenderness. It made him feel so uncomfortable that he could not help but burst into tears.

He sat on the edge of the couch while Master knelt before him. Master scooped out some white, smooth ointment from a porcelain jar, held his ankle, and applied it gently. His foot was injured, but no one had noticed. Or perhaps someone had noticed but did not care to ask. Only Master, from the moment they met, had looked at his injured ankle.

“How did you get injured?” Master had whispered to him back then. “When did it happen?”

Master’s tone was full of pity. “Be smarter in the future. Do not let yourself get hurt again.”

Master was truly too gentle. A tenderness as deep as water was far too easy to drown in. He had no way to resist; he even wanted to throw himself into the trap. Even if the water was deep and dangerous, he wanted to cast himself into Master’s embrace without regard for the consequences.

But self-loathing and cowardice took the upper hand in an instant. He wanted Master to hold him, but why should Master hold him?

Jiang Qiyan gently withdrew his small foot. “I will do it myself. I can apply it myself.” His voice was very soft. “I do not want to trouble Master.”

“Yes,” Pu Tingsong covered the porcelain jar. “Now that it is finished, you remember not to trouble me?”

Seeing the light in the boy’s eyes dim, Pu Tingsong rubbed his head and gave a low laugh. “Be good. It is no trouble. Applying a bit of medicine is not enough to tire your Master. Go to sleep. I know you are tired.”

Pu Tingsong blew out the oil lamp and climbed onto the couch.

Qiyan moved inward to make room for Master. That indescribable feeling surged in his heart again; he could not say for sure if it was gratitude. He had only been drowsy for a short while, yet Master had seen it and remembered it. Jiang Qiyan closed his eyes, listened to the steady breathing beside him, and smelled the faint scent of pine. In the quiet and peaceful night, he fell into a deep sleep. He had never slept so soundly in his life, simply because Master was beside him. He felt incredibly safe.

Pu Tingsong did not close his eyes immediately. Jiang Qiyan did not know that Master stared at him in the darkness for a long time, only closing his own eyes after the boy was asleep. Those hidden thoughts behind the sunlight, those unmentionable things, had nowhere to hide in the night.

Pu Tingsong fell asleep. Just as he had every night for the past four and a half years, he dreamed. In his dreams, his hatred deepened over and over again.

His father took him to the front courtyard to receive a decree. The imperial decree for death by a thousand cuts sounded so unbearable to his ears. It stimulated his eardrums; his fingernails broke into the scars on his palms, turning all his resentment into blood dripping into the soil. That blood had long since dried, and the wounds had completely healed. But his father’s words still echoed in his ears, day and night, without end.

“I do not blame him.”

The elder Master Pu was dressed neatly, smoothing every wrinkle on his body. “Suihan, the end for the line of Imperial Preceptors has always been like this since ancient times.”

To be put to death by the child they had raised and educated was a fate they could not escape.

“From ancient times to the present, there has never been an exception,” the elder Master Pu’s tone that day was especially earnest. “Suihan, you are the same. The Emperor will not allow anyone to stand above him because the imperial authority is inviolable.” The elder Master Pu patted his shoulder. “To look lightly upon life and death and to have a clear conscience is our only choice. All we can do is give everything we have learned and then face death calmly.”

“Jiang Beiwang had so many dignified choices, yet he chose death by a thousand cuts!” That year, the nine-year-old boy had discarded all the manners he had learned. Rage burned fiercely in his eyes. “I will not let go of my hatred, and I will not allow myself to be slaughtered by others.”

“Suihan…”

“I will use my own methods to let Jiang Beiwang know the meaning of regret.”

On the day the elder Master Pu went to the execution ground, he looked up at the sky and sighed deeply.

“The line of Imperial Preceptors was born to be sacrificed.” The sound of his sigh traveled far. “To educate a wise Emperor so that the people of the world can live and work in peace, sacrificing this old man in exchange for the peace of the world makes this life worth living.”

Pu Tingsong knew those words were meant for him, hidden in the crowd. That was the first and last time Pu Tingsong shed a tear.

“It is impossible, Father,” he whispered. “I will surely stand above all living beings and hold my destiny firmly in my own hands, whether it is my life or the lives of others.”

Blinding blood stained the execution ground. Pu Tingsong hid the arrow in his sleeve with a cold expression. That arrow, once fired, struck the elder Master Pu accurately in the heart, killing him in a single strike.

Pu Tingsong woke up and rubbed his chest for a long time. The arrow had clearly not struck him, so why did he feel such heartache every time he dreamed of this? Why was he unable to bear it and forced to wake up?

In the long night, Pu Tingsong clenched his fists tightly. He looked at the person beside him, trying his best to restrain the killing intent in his heart. His hatred for the Jiang family did not just stem from the fact that generations of the Pu family had worked themselves to death for the royal family only to meet a miserable end. It also stemmed from his anger at his own tragic fate.

When the burning rage swallowed his reason, Pu Tingsong placed his hand on Jiang Qiyan’s slender neck.

Such a thin little neck is right in your hands. With just a gentle twist, your enemy will perish immediately and never wake up again. His fingers tightened slightly. Pu Tingsong scanned the child’s unaware, sleeping face and could not help but let out a cold laugh.

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