Qian Jiaoniang was still in a daze, but Xing Pingchun was over the moon. He had always both respected and feared Xing Muzheng, but over these past two years had grown closer. In these formative years, a father’s personal instruction was nothing like having only a mother. Moreover, Xing Muzheng had promised that upon returning this time he would teach him swordsmanship and gift him a fine sword. From the day his father left, Xing Pingchun had been counting down with his fingers. Now that he was finally back, how could the boy restrain himself?
“Mother, Mother, did you see Father’s luggage? Did you see the sword he brought me?” On the carriage, he pressed close to Qian Jiaoniang, eyes shining.
At that moment she hadn’t even noticed the luggage. She coughed lightly and shook her head. Xing Pingchun looked a little disappointed. Knowing how long he had been yearning for that sword, she reassured him, “Since your father promised, he won’t short you. Perhaps he’ll give it to you tonight when we return.”
Xing Pingchun’s face instantly lit up. “That’s right! Father is tired, he should rest first.” The boy paused, then said, “But Mother, why was it that when Father was resting, you were also in the room for so long without coming out? Could it be that Father, such a big man already, still needs you to coax him to sleep?”
The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was—it wasn’t the first time he’d seen Father say he wanted to rest but insisted on dragging Mother along too.
Qian Jiaoniang had just popped a green fruit into her mouth to moisten her throat, and when Xing Muzheng suddenly asked that question, she nearly choked on it. She coughed violently, thumping her chest, her face heating up—truly not knowing how to answer her son’s talk about “being coaxed to sleep.” Hongjuan and Chunwu, sitting to the side in the carriage, both quietly stifled laughter. Though still unmarried girls, after years of serving in the main courtyard they had heard more than enough of things they shouldn’t. What’s more, the Marquis was vigorous as a dragon and tiger, and his relationship with the lady had only grown closer—so naturally their conjugal matters had grown ever less restrained.
They had thought that after a short separation, practically like a newlywed parting, their master and mistress would certainly not sleep at all tonight. But instead, as soon as the Marquis returned he threw aside his sword and went straight to his lady, not even allowing them to announce it. When the young master went looking for his mother and saw the sword, he realized his father had returned. The maids hadn’t managed to stop him before the young master had already knocked on the door. Since both master and mistress valued the boy, Hongjuan and the others feared they had ruined the couple’s good moment. Who would have thought the Marquis would actually coax the young master away? And now this—leaving behind the reputation of a grown man who still couldn’t sleep without his wife soothing him.
“You’re talking nonsense. Your mother was already napping, and when your father returned, we just slept together.” Qian Jiaoniang secretly took two deep breaths before finding this excuse.
Xing Pingchun tilted his head. “Mother, aren’t you happy that Father’s back? Could you really still sleep?”
“What’s there to be happy about? It’s not like your father brought me a sword.” Qian Jiaoniang’s gaze flickered, her words weak and guilty.
Xing Pingchun quickly said, “That’s not right, Mother. Even if Father doesn’t bring you a sword, every time he comes back from a trip, he always brings you gifts. I just don’t know what it is this time.”
What he said was true. For the past two years, whenever Xing Muzheng returned from traveling far, he always brought something for Qian Jiaoniang—sometimes a set of dresses, sometimes a pair of bangles. There had never been an exception. The maids even made private wagers among themselves, guessing what the Marquis might bring back for his wife this time.
By the time Qian Jiaoniang led everyone in distributing porridge to the refugees and returned to the manor, Xing Muzheng had already had a good sleep, taken a bath, and changed into casual clothes. Xing Pingchun ran happily to greet him. Xing Muzheng, not as stern as usual, spoke to his son with a faint smile, though his gaze kept drifting to Qian Jiaoniang—burning in a way it never had before. Qian Jiaoniang met his eyes only once before quickly looking away, pretending to busy herself with this and that whenever he looked at her again.
The family of three dined together in the main hall, chatting as usual. Though curious about what his father had been doing all this time away, Xing Pingchun knew Xing Muzheng would never say and so didn’t ask. Instead, he chattered on about how he and his mother had been helping distribute porridge to the refugees from Changzhou. Qian Jiaoniang added that she had made the decision to allow the refugees into the city today. Xing Muzheng nodded, telling her she had done well.
But Xing Pingchun frowned with worry. “Father, locust plagues are really that terrible. The refugees looked so pitiful! I asked Mister Cao, and he told me some simple methods for controlling locusts. Why couldn’t Changzhou manage to stop them?”
“Eradicating a locust plague is very difficult.”
“Then if our Yunzhou also suffers such a plague, wouldn’t the people here be destroyed too?”
“The government would aid them.”
“Then why didn’t the Changzhou officials help their people, but instead let them flee their homes?” Xing Pingchun asked earnestly.
A flash of coldness passed through Xing Muzheng’s eyes, but he said nothing. The relief silver and grain that the court allocated had never reached the people’s hands. The Changzhou officials were aligned with the Third Prince. Now that the Crown Prince had suddenly died, the Third Prince would stop at nothing to seize the succession. Silver flowed from his coffers like water—naturally the disaster relief funds of Changzhou had been entirely offered up to him. Word was that Hang Zhi had even smashed a memorial tablet in fury over it.
“These things—if you truly wish to know—let Mister Sima explain them to you.” In the past two years, Xing Pingchun had gained several teachers; Mister Sima was one of them.
Hearing this, Xing Pingchun agreed quietly and didn’t press further.
He finished his meal first, then obediently sat waiting for his parents. Normally he would have long since run off, unable to sit still, but now he was thinking of the sword, eyes gleaming like a little dog waiting for a bone.
Qian Jiaoniang found his expression amusing and deliberately ate slowly. Xing Muzheng, in good spirits and knowing well what his son was waiting for, noticed her intent and played along with her. Xing Pingchun, clearly seeing that his parents were nearly done eating, only to have them set down their chopsticks and chatter idly, felt as though his heart was being scratched by claws. He dared not urge them. At last, when they finally finished, he leapt up immediately.
Xing Muzheng did not tease his son any further, but personally went to his study to fetch the finely forged steel sword he had commissioned from a smith, and handed it to Xing Pingchun. The boy received the heavy weapon with both hands, impatiently drawing it from its scabbard. The blade shone brightly, cold air radiating from it. He had long admired his father and masters with their swords at their sides, and now, imagining that he too could wear one, he couldn’t help but grin in pride.
Xing Muzheng, however, clasped his hands behind his back and asked, “You want to learn the sword. But can you kill a man?”
The sudden question froze Xing Pingchun’s smile. Qian Jiaoniang gave Xing Muzheng a glance.
The boy thought for a while before stammering, “I want to learn the sword to save people.”
But Xing Muzheng said coldly, “The sword is for killing. Do you think it’s medicine?”
Xing Pingchun stared at him blankly.
“The sword’s edge always points at the enemy. You must see the enemy as already dead—do you understand?” Xing Muzheng’s eyes were icy as he delivered the first lesson in swordsmanship. “If what you wield is a merciful sword, then you need not learn it at all.”
Xing Pingchun understood—but was afraid to understand. He looked to his mother for help.
But Qian Jiaoniang could not speak, for Xing Muzheng was teaching him. Xing Muzheng, naturally noticing his son’s pleading glance, said in a low voice: “You and your mother once spoke of me ordering General Yuan to execute the prisoners of war. Your mother was not wrong—she spoke from a woman’s perspective, fearing men would never return home. But neither was I wrong. On the battlefield, at the faintest sign of danger, one must never show mercy. Otherwise it won’t be he who fails to come home—it will be you. Do you understand?”
The joy Xing Pingchun had felt upon receiving the sword drained away entirely in the face of Xing Muzheng’s cold, ruthless words.
