For Consort Kang relied on Denning, and if the princess could see reason and atone for her mother’s error, there might be hope.
But Denning, emboldened, seemed to believe her father was wrong and her mother right.
***
Emperor Jingxi was not one to show leniency.
If Princess Denning could heed the matrons’ guidance and mend her ways then all might go well for her after all she was the Emperor’s only daughter.
But if she remained stubbornly unyielding, in a few years, she’d be married off with a lavish dowry to a suitable match, with no mother in the palace to speak for her.
The bond between father and daughter had already strained, and would grow ever more distant.
At the heart of this lay Jingxi’s long-standing dissatisfaction with his daughter, but a key reason was undeniable: the day Denning had torn up the copied notes.
That act had sealed her fate, ensuring she’d be kept far from Chengyan Hall.
***
All eyes turned in unison to the unassuming young noblewoman seated quietly to the side.
Her delicate eyelids were faintly red, her head bowed as she gazed sullenly at the handwritten notes before her.
In that moment, a single thought rippled through the onlookers’ minds: ‘Never cross her.’
For a woman who could compel the Emperor to defy convention and bring her into the rear palace—she was nothing less than the apple of his eye.
As the murmurs of this realization stirred, a commotion sounded outside.
Curious heads turned, and in walked the Director of the Imperial Academy and the Overseer of Discipline.
The Director, a sixth-rank official, governed the academy’s six departments of female scholars, while the Overseer, an eighth-rank official, managed the Department of Discipline, upholding rules and decorum.
At their arrival, the consorts rose to greet them.
Though the consorts’ ranks surpassed those of the officials, court customs dictated otherwise.
The unwritten rule of the Great Hui demanded that inner and outer court interactions lower each side’s status by three ranks for courtesy’s sake.
Moreover, the bond of teacher and student took precedence over noble titles.
Thus, the consorts not only stood to welcome them but offered the respectful salute of disciples.
A wu also followed, bowing with the others.
The officials, mindful of their place, returned the courtesy with deep bows, their eyes carefully averted.
After the formalities, the Director spoke, declaring that the lectures in Jingyan Hall were for imparting wisdom and knowledge.
Those who entered must cast aside arrogance.
The Overseer then outlined the strict codes of conduct.
The consorts listened in silence, understanding the Emperor’s intent.
Denning’s antics had prompted this display—a warning to all, with the princess as the example.
None dared speak, nodding obediently.
Finally, the Director turned to “Noble Lady Ning,” presenting her with a complete set of Imperial Academy writing tools—brush, ink, paper, and inkstone.
A wu, startled by the honor, flushed.
The Crown Prince had once gifted her money and fine silks, the Emperor gold and silver hairpins, but no one had ever given her such scholarly treasures.
She bowed deeply, accepting the gift with both hands and offering her thanks.
As the officials took their leave, the hall settled into silence.
The consorts returned to their seats, and A wu stole a glance at her prize.
It was a pearwood box, exquisitely polished, engraved with the Imperial Academy’s insignia.
Elegant and understated, it carried a faint scent of ink.
Inside, the brush, ink, paper, and inkstone were of the finest quality, each wrapped in smooth silk, rare and precious.
A wu’s heart bloomed with delight, though a flush of embarrassment crept up her cheeks.
She wasn’t that diligent a student, yet here she was, praised by the Director and gifted such treasures!
During a break, Consort Hui sidled over, explaining the set’s origins and rarity, making A wu cherish it even more.
Her focus sharpened during the lecture—what once baffled her now seemed clear.
As for the envious glances from the others?
A wu had grown used to them.
Back at Langhua Hall, she arranged the items with care, marveling at each one, noting the Academy’s insignia carved into them.
The Imperial Academy was the dream of scholars everywhere, a place coveted by all.
Its bespoke writing tools were treasures in their own right.
She imagined showing them to her father.
He’d be stunned: ‘ “A wu, where did you get these?” ‘Â
A scholar who’d only achieved the rank of ‘xiucai’
After years of study, his dreams of the Academy dashed when he turned to trade.
This would mean the world to him.
Her thoughts drifted to Jingxi.
He wasn’t some depraved tyrant, she realized.
His visit to Consort Hui hadn’t been for dalliance—he’d gone to inquire about her feelings.
The thought warmed her cheeks.
Was she a little embarrassed?
Perhaps.
But he’d handled things well, settling matters neatly on her behalf.
If he was still cross with her, let him be.
She’d see who could outlast whom.
That evening, she half-expected him, but Jingxi remained absent over the next day or two, sending only a few rare pearl and jade ornaments instead.
As she toyed with them, A wu wondered if the old Emperor was deliberately keeping his distance, still piqued over that day’s uproar.
Her heart fluttered with a mix of sweetness and amusement.
He’d done right by her, so let him sulk.
She’d wait him out.
***
The winter had grown bitter, and on the road from the northern territories to the capital, the Crown Prince galloped relentlessly.
His lips were pressed tight, his silence unbroken as he rode day and night, his entourage struggling to keep pace.
Two horses collapsed from exhaustion before they reached the Nanchong region under starlit skies.
He’d come from the north, where mountains forced a detour south to the capital.
As his horse’s hooves crushed Nanchong’s dry, yellowed grass, he yanked the reins sharply.
The steed reared with a piercing whinny.
Clutching the reins, breathless, his bloodshot eyes fixed on a spot ahead—a weathered earthen fort, remnants of a camp.
Though time and wind had scattered dust and dead leaves across it, he recognized it instantly.
A guard glanced at the traces and ventured cautiously, “Your Highness?”
The Prince ignored him, dismounting swiftly and striding toward the main tent’s site.
Despair and pain burned in his gaze.
He remembered that day vividly—encountering his father here, the Emperor cradling a woman in his arms.
His fists trembled at the memory.
He’d glimpsed her dark hair, nothing more.
He’d even joked with his aide, Futai, about her lack of decorum, calling her unfit for the court.
Now, closing his eyes in agony, he understood.
It was A wu.
‘His’ A wu.
She’d been in his father’s embrace, hiding from him, fearing recognition.
The betrayal—by both his father and the woman he loved—struck like a tidal wave, nearly buckling his knees.
How could they deceive him like this?
He recalled that dawn, seeing his father carry her into the tent, their intimacy lingering.
He knew they’d been entwined within.
His teeth clenched, his handsome face twisting into something near-feral.
A wu had known he was outside, known it was his father, yet she’d lain with him in that tent.
How could she?
“Liar,” he whispered, his voice breaking.
“How could you do this to me?”
A guard’s voice broke through.
“Your Highness, there’s something here.”
His eyes snapped to a silk kerchief, embroidered with galloping horses—an imperial item.
He scoffed bitterly, “His.”
But then it hit him.
He lunged forward, snatching the kerchief, cradling it.
Soiled and crumpled, it was folded into the shape of a grasshopper.
A grasshopper.
He remembered their first meeting.
Awu had folded a kerchief into a grasshopper, laughing as she said she’d invented the trick because she loved eating them.
This was her work.
Trembling, he held it delicately, his voice low.
“Where did you find this?”
The guard, unnerved by his intensity, pointed ahead.
“Right there.”
The Prince stepped forward, eyes tracing the spot outside the main tent.
He recognized it instantly—the ground just beyond the camp’s heart.
His brow furrowed, his voice a murmur.
“She knew I’d recognize this grasshopper. Did she leave it here by mistake?”
The kerchief had been buried outside the tent.
He pictured it: Awu, fresh from his father’s embrace, while the Emperor stepped out to hunt with him.
She’d folded this grasshopper and left it here.
What had she been thinking?
He didn’t dare linger on it.
His jaw tightened, veins pulsing at his temples as he stared at the distant riverbank, where withered reeds lay fallen in the icy water.
Pain gnawed at him as he thought of his A wu.
Had she left this grasshopper as a cry for help?
Unable to confront the Emperor directly, had she reached out, hoping he’d see it and save her?
And he—he’d done nothing.
He’d even given his father deer antlers.
FINALLY, a storm of emotions erupted within the Prince, a torrent of anger, pain, and self-reproach.
He drew his sword and hacked wildly at the earthen fort, sending dirt and leaves flying.
The guards, alarmed, tried to intervene, fearing he’d harm himself.
They scrambled to wrest the blade from him.
But the Prince froze, staring blankly into the distance.
Then, with a muffled thud, he collapsed to his knees, his fingers clawing at the hard earth until they bled.
“Why, Father?” he rasped, voice raw.
“Why? She was mine.”
The winter wind whispered through the barren grass.
Slowly, he rose, his gaze locked on the capital’s direction.
A cold laugh escaped him as he brushed the dirt and grass from his clothes.
The guards watched, hearts pounding.
In that fleeting moment, the boyish glint in his eyes hardened into resolve.
He had grown up overnight.
Expressionless, he mounted his horse, his chiseled face stern and unyielding.
His thumb pressed against his sword’s hilt as he spoke, each word deliberate:Â “I will see him.”
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