Prince Xiu held the title of Prince of the First Rank, but his descendants could only inherit the title of Duke.
Duke of Jin’an was specially granted his title by the Emperor. Although he was of the same generation as his siblings, his status was higher than the rest.
Duke of Jin’an walked briskly to the center, knelt formally, first bowing to Princess Consort Xiu, then saluting his siblings.
“Enough, we’re family. No need for formalities,” Princess Consort Xiu finally said, extending her hand.
Only then did the children in the room take their seats.
“Cong-lang, I heard that you spent another night sitting alone in mourning at your father’s memorial hall,” Princess Consort Xiu said, looking at the young man with tears in her eyes. “You must not do this anymore. You’ve traveled a long way to get here, wept for three days, and worn yourself out. How will we explain it to His Majesty if you fall ill?”
“A child owes a debt of gratitude for being raised by their parents. Not being able to fulfill my filial duty to Father leaves me deeply pained,” replied the Duke of Jin’an, bowing with a hoarse voice.
Princess Consort Xiu raised her hand to wipe away her tears.
“Stand up now. There’s no need to say such things anymore,” she said.
One of the brothers moved aside to make room, and after bowing, the Duke of Jin’an took his seat.
The room remained quiet and solemn.
“Your father is no longer with us, but everyone’s studies must not be neglected,” said Princess Consort Xiu.
The children responded in unison, “Yes.”
Princess Consort Xiu continued speaking, mostly giving instructions about daily matters.
As she spoke, a voice came from outside the door.
“Mother.”
With the voice came a young boy, rushing in like a gust of wind. He was also dressed in mourning attire, about thirteen or fourteen years old, and bore a striking resemblance to the Duke of Jin’an.
Seeing him enter, Princess Consort Xiu immediately smiled warmly and extended her hand.
The young boy did not bow but went straight to sit down in front of her.
“Huang-lang, where have you been? Why are you back so late?” Princess Consort Xiu asked, placing a hand on his shoulder with unreserved affection.
“Mother, I went to the storeroom to find the painting Father gave me,” the boy said, his expression dimming. “Previously, I was lazy, and Father used that painting to admonish me. I deliberately hid it away… but now that Father is gone, I…”
At this point, his eyes reddened, and he choked up, unable to continue.
Tears had already welled up in Princess Consort Xiu’s eyes.
“Good child, your father would have understood your thoughts. Don’t be sad,” she said hurriedly.
The young boy nodded, then turned to look around the room, flashing a smile at the Duke of Jin’an.
“Brother,” he said, rising to bow.
The Duke of Jin’an returned the bow with a smile.
After some lighthearted conversation, the Duke of Jin’an stood to take his leave.
“Go on, and rest early,” Princess Consort Xiu said. Then, as if remembering something, she added, “No need to be so formal at home.”
The Duke of Jin’an bowed his head in gratitude, bid farewell to his siblings, and finally left the room.
The door closed, cutting off the view of the room, but the lively chatter inside grew even louder.
“…Mother, you should also get more rest…”
“…Brother, did you see who took my jade staff yesterday…”
The siblings’ conversation flowed warmly, sweeping away the earlier solemnity and restraint.
The Duke of Jin’an stood with his back to the main room, his steps paused for a brief moment.
“Your Grace?” a maid in the corridor asked softly.
The Duke of Jin’an turned his head, his face still wearing a faint smile. He bowed slightly toward the room one last time, then turned and strode away.
He strode forward with long, confident steps, so brisk that the attendants waiting outside the Princess Consort’s courtyard had to hurry to keep up.
He kept walking, on and on, seemingly unsure of his destination, yet moving ahead without a trace of hesitation.
The attendants behind him dared not speak, following him in silence until the Duke of Jin’an finally stopped on his own.
“Uh,” he said, looking around for a moment. “Where am I staying?”
After speaking, he broke into a wide smile, his white teeth gleaming in contrast to the pale lantern light by the roadside.
“I was too young when I left. Although nothing in the house has changed, I don’t remember any of it,” he said with a laugh.
The attendants quickly smiled in response, hurrying to lead the way.
The group turned around and headed in the indicated direction.
The night deepened, and Prince Xiu’s residence grew silent. The pale, piercing glow of the lanterns dotted the grounds like scattered stars, carrying an inexplicable chill.
A strange cry echoed from a corner of the estate, sounding like an owl’s screech yet eerily resembling a human wail. It faded as quickly as it came, drawing no attention.
One of the attendants lifted a foot and kicked, causing the person on the ground to roll over.
Inside the room, the dim light flickered faintly, casting indistinct shadows.
“Quite a stubborn mouth, Your Grace. Still not talking,” the attendant turned and murmured softly.
The Duke of Jin’an emerged from the shadows by the wall, still dressed in his white mourning attire. This time, he held a white silk handkerchief in his hand, which he pressed against his mouth.
“A loyal and brave man indeed,” he said slowly, removing the handkerchief to reveal his usual radiant smile as he looked at the person lying lifelessly on the ground.
One of the attendants nudged the figure on the ground with his foot. The person rolled slightly but did not wake.
The Duke of Jin’an gazed at the figure, the dim, flickering light casting shifting shadows on his face.
“Really, whether you speak or not, what difference does it make? I don’t need to know who wants to harm me; all I need to know is that someone wants me dead,” he said calmly. Then, with a wave of his hand, he added, “No need to question him further. Do as you like—after all, we must honor his loyalty and righteousness.”
The attendants responded with grins and a cheerful “Yes, Your Grace.”
Immediately, two or three others stepped forward, kicking the person so that he rolled over. Under the dim light of the flickering lantern, the exposed legs were revealed, covered with white bone and strands of bloodstained flesh, appearing to have been scraped off.
With the kick, the person suddenly woke, opening his mouth to scream. However, one of the attendants quickly reached out, choking him, while revealing a gleaming weapon in his hand.
“Steward Liao, don’t worry. The Duke said, no need for you to answer,” the attendant chuckled softly.
The man seemed to understand what was happening, and he struggled desperately. His eyes were filled with fear as he looked at the young man in white before him.
But it was too late, the servant had cut his tongue off with just one slash.
The blood was all over the place, and the Duke of Jin’an took a step back, lightly waving the handkerchief as if to disperse the smell of blood.
Steward Liao fainted on the ground.
The Duke of Jin’an glanced at him before turning and leaving.
The winter night wind howled as it passed, causing the lanterns in the corridor to rattle.
The young man looked up at the night sky, where a crescent moon hung crookedly. In the flickering light, his jade-like face showed no smile. He stood there in silence for a moment, then turned and walked slowly down the corridor. Under the stark white lanterns, his bright figure appeared especially tall and lonely.
As dawn broke, Chen Shao had already left the palace gates and arrived at the foot of the Imperial City.
Along the way, civil and military officials leaving the morning court moved aside to make way for him.
Today marked the first day the Minister of the Ministry of Personnel, who had been on leave for nearly two months, returned to court. Countless eyes followed him, some with joy, others with envy.
Just earlier, after the morning court session, the First Prince, who was temporarily handling the state affairs, stopped Chen Shao and said that the Emperor wanted to see him.
What did this signify? It signified that Chen Shao was still the most trusted person in the Emperor’s eyes. Initially, the only opportunity to replace him had been his father’s mourning period, but now, that opportunity had vanished.
A sickness that even the Imperial Physician couldn’t cure had actually been cured.
Chen Shao was truly incredibly lucky.
Chen Shao paid no attention to the gazes around him, his mind still on his recent audience with the Emperor.
After dismissing the First Prince, the Emperor spoke with him privately about state affairs. The two of them enjoyed a lively conversation, which revealed two things: first, the Emperor, though ill, seemed to be in good spirits, and second, it showed the Emperor’s deep trust in him.
Having gained fame in his youth, Chen Shao was fortunate not to fall astray. He passed the imperial examination and, with the Emperor’s deliberate guidance, gained experience. Just when he was about to be entrusted with important responsibilities, his mother passed away. Although he could have abandoned his mourning, the Emperor, for the sake of his reputation, did not take that route, allowing him to mourn for three years. Yet, just when he was once again being entrusted with significant duties, his father…
Fortunately, fortunately.
It was clear that the Emperor was also relieved; otherwise, he wouldn’t have made such a joke.
“Heard the whole city is hunting down sparrows, all for the Chen family,” the Emperor said with a smile. “Make sure to send some over so I can also taste your Chen family’s fine sparrows.”
Chen Shao couldn’t help but chuckle.
Having earned his reputation in the court and among scholars through his literary fame, he hadn’t expected to also become well-known among the common folk for his food.
It seemed that before long, he’d acquire a new nickname among the people—Chen “Sparrow.” From “Chen the Prodigy” to “Chen the Sparrow,” the shift from highbrow to lowbrow was quite drastic.
How did it suddenly turn out this way?
Ever since that lady entered the house, his father’s health had improved. And it was this sparrow dish she insisted on eating first; otherwise, the cook wouldn’t have made it.
This humble village fare, which never made it to the high table, turned out to be so delicious.
It seemed that true vulgarity could indeed be elevated to great elegance.
This lady was truly strange and interesting.
Chen Shao entered the house, changed into his regular clothes, and immediately headed towards his father’s courtyard. As soon as he entered the courtyard, he saw the wide-open door where his father and the others were seated across from each other.
The elderly man, although frail, sat upright with a sharp spirit, leaning slightly against a cushion with his legs crossed. The young lady, wearing a simple robe with wide sleeves and her black hair neatly tied, sat with her legs folded in a formal manner across from him, next to a chessboard. A little girl in a bright red robe, holding her head with her hand, was swaying beside the chessboard.
Chen Shao momentarily paused, seemingly reluctant to disturb this early winter scene of their chess game.
“Miss, you don’t know how to play chess?” Old Master Chen asked.
Cheng Jiao-niang had been staring at the chessboard for quite a while.
“I can’t remember,” she replied.
Can’t remember? Does that mean she knows how to play, or she doesn’t?
Old Master Chen was a bit confused.
“I know how to play backgammon, Grandpa. Miss, let’s play backgammon together,” Dan-niang interjected, breaking the conversation between the two.
The old man placed a black piece, and after a moment, he placed a white piece. It turned out he was just amusing himself.
“Father.” Dan-niang, spotting her father at the door, happily called out.
Chen Shao entered, knelt, and paid his respects. He greeted his father and then thanked Cheng Jiao-niang.
Cheng Jiao-niang returned the courtesy.
“Although you’re much better, for now, still avoid walking too much,” she said to Old Master Chen. “Haste makes waste. If the illness flares up again, even with more money, I won’t be able to help.”
Old Master Chen laughed heartily, patting his leg. The temptation to walk was just too great.
“After five more days of acupuncture, you’ll be fine. From then on, you’ll only need medicine to recover,” Cheng Jiao-niang added.
The father and son were both overjoyed—one because they would no longer suffer that pain, and the other because it meant full recovery was drawing closer.
“Thank you so much, Miss,” Chen Shao said seriously, once again expressing his gratitude.
As father and son were speaking, Cheng Jiao-niang stood up to take her leave, and Dan-niang followed her.
“Dan-niang, don’t be too noisy,” Chen Shao hurriedly reminded.
Dan-niang happily held onto her sleeve and walked out with her.
The weather had turned much colder.
“In three or five days, it will snow,” Cheng Jiao-niang said, looking up at the sky.
“Really? That’s great! Then we can go up the mountain to enjoy the snow,” Dan-niang said excitedly.
Not far along the way, the sound of ladies’ laughter came from ahead, and then four or five elegantly dressed ladies appeared. Upon seeing Cheng Jiao-niang and Dan-niang, they all stopped in their tracks.
