The light slanting into the study dimmed. Wen Zhuo looked up to see that Liu Qiying had already withdrawn, and Shen Zheng was standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, watching him.
Sunlight draped over Shen Zheng, outlining his figure in a soft, shimmering contour.
For some reason, Wen Zhuo vaguely caught a glimpse of a long-lost solemnity in Shen Zheng's eyes—a distant, observational gaze, as if searching for some dust-covered traces in him.
Perhaps it was because those eyes, inherited from Marquis Yongning, were simply too deep. Wen Zhuo was almost about to shiver under that stare when the look quietly vanished.
Without waiting for an invitation, Shen Zheng strode in on his own and sighed with a smile: "What a pity."
He hadn't expected those to be the first words out of Shen Zheng's mouth. It threw off the line of reasoning Wen Zhuo had carefully rehearsed in his mind, and he couldn't help but ask: "What's a pity?"
Shen Zheng's gaze swept across Wen Zhuo's collar: "Why isn't His Excellency the Director wearing his underclothes today?"
The air in the room seemed to congeal for a moment.
Unlike his earlier carelessness, Wen Zhuo was now treating Shen Zheng in his capacity as an imperial minister, so his attire was immaculate—his crossed collar rising all the way to his collarbone, and his green robe flowing down to his ankles.
He decided not to probe into whatever metaphor Shen Zheng might be implying by fixating on underclothes, because this man, after his rebirth, truly seemed a little unhinged.
"Does Your Highness know why I summoned you today?" Wen Zhuo said, even as his hand unconsciously drifted to his collar to confirm it was fastened snugly before meeting Shen Zheng's gaze.
"Seeing as you've even prepared chairs this time, I take it this can't be something bad," Shen Zheng said with a light laugh.
Four sandalwood chairs stood in a row, their surfaces polished to a gleaming sheen. Shen Zheng walked straight to the one nearest Wen Zhuo, unhurriedly flicking the hem of his robe as he sat, crossing his right leg over his left in one fluid motion.
He leaned back slightly, his back arching subtly, his right knee pushing a shallow curve into the silver-gray fabric. It was a deliberately casual posture, yet it carried an undeniable weight of presence—but his face remained all smiles. These two contradictory qualities somehow coexisted in him without seeming out of place.
"So you really didn't bring up the Spring Terrace Go Tournament back at the Hall of Military Valor."
"You were the one who told me not to."
"And you trust me that much, that I wouldn't trick you?"
"Well, I did save Miss Liu's life. Surely Director Wen wouldn't be so heartless toward me."
Wen Zhuo paused, his bewitching eyes lifting: "The current Emperor is unwell, and the Crown Prince and the Virtuous Prince have long been locked in rivalry—yet neither of them is a forgiving or virtuous man. I want a straight answer from Your Highness: do you truly wish to be nothing more than a prince sent to a distant frontier fief?"
Shen Zheng asked with apparent sincerity: "Do I have a choice?"
"No." Wen Zhuo enunciated the word slowly, coldly.
Shen Zheng wasn't surprised at all: "Seems I don't have much of a choice either."
"So is Your Highness a forgiving and virtuous man?"
"Honestly, I've got a pretty good personality. I'm even-tempered, generally positive and healthy, except…"
"Except what?"
"In matters of love, I have a few… particular tastes."
"…"
Wen Zhuo fell silent for a moment.
Matters of love had nothing to do with him, as long as it didn't interfere with the larger plan.
"How skilled is Your Highness at Go?" Wen Zhuo widened his sleeves a bit and sat up straighter.
In the Great Qian royal family, there was no one who didn't know how to play Go. But Shen Zheng had left the palace at age eight, so Wen Zhuo had to gauge the depth of his foundation.
"Hmm… amateur level, about youth recreational tournament tier?" Shen Zheng answered matter-of-factly.
Wen Zhuo picked out the key word from that strange sentence: amateur.
That made sense. Nanping never had a culture where everyone played Go, and later Shen Zheng had even gone and developed a passion for tomb-raiding.
He rose from his desk, his green robe cascading like a waterfall, and casually smoothed the creases in his garments: "In the capital, from ministers down to petty clerks, there are over fourteen thousand officials. Of those, three in ten are descendants of aristocratic families, and the most outstanding among them have each pledged themselves to the Crown Prince, the Virtuous Prince, and Third Prince respectively—like monkeys scrambling for the same branch, all fortunes tied together. You've been away from court for ten years. Your only allies are the idle Marquis Yongning and Jun Dingyuan guarding the frontier, yet you know almost nothing of the factions at court."
He lifted his chin with a hint of pride, the corners of his eyes and brows carrying a vivid, living arrogance: "I, Wen Wanshan—I passed the child examination at thirteen, won first place in the provincial examination at sixteen, and ranked second in the imperial examination at seventeen. In three years at Bozhou, I rose to be a fifth-rank prefect. In four years in the Hanlin Academy, I was promoted to Director. I only picked up a Go board after entering officialdom, yet in no time I was titled a national master. My prose and poetry are celebrated far and wide. By any measure, I am worthy of being a teacher to an emperor, fit to instruct you in taking the world. If you're willing, then what we have here today is settled."
Shen Zheng's expression turned slightly odd, and he remained seated without moving.
Wen Zhuo frowned. Every prince of the Great Qian dynasty would have jumped at the chance to have him as a mentor—it had always been Wen Zhuo who refused to take on students.
That flicker of wounded pride crackled inside him like sparks from a lamp wick.
He could choose not to give it, but Shen Zheng had no right to refuse.
Seeing the dangerous downturn at the corner of Wen Zhuo's lips, Shen Zheng finally pushed himself up from the armrest, his smile deepening by a notch.
"Don't be upset. I just want to ask—your conditions are this outstanding, Director Wen, so why me?"
"Who does Your Highness think I should choose?"
"Father has quite a few sons. Did the Director really not find a single one to your liking before me?" Shen Zheng asked.
It seemed the great beauty's vision was slightly lacking. If only he'd backed the future Emperor Shengde like Xie Langyang had, with the merit of aiding an emperor's ascension, he wouldn't have ended up a man villainized for ten thousand years.
Wen Zhuo said evenly: "Consider it a gamble on my part. A gamble that what you said that day came from your heart."
Shen Zheng raised two fingers: "I can swear an oath. Ever since I started school, this is the education I received."
So the common values of modern society worked wonders on ancient people, huh.
Which meant, from here on, he would be allying with the great villain, and in this battle royale of succession, he'd have to take down the rightful Emperor Shengde and the celebrated minister Xie Langyang?
Wen Zhuo didn't have the heart to point out—he'd heard that at age six, Shen Zheng had spent three months memorizing one single poem, "A Quiet Night Thought." What kind of education had that been?
Wen Zhuo: "I believe you, Your Highness."
Shen Zheng didn't rush to perform the bow. He tried to negotiate further: "Can I call you 'senior' instead?"
"Senior? What is that?" Wen Zhuo was puzzled.
"An elder in academic studies," Shen Zheng improvised.
"No. Sounds too much like a fellow disciple." The disdain in his tone was unmistakable.
Shen Zheng: "…" Hard to fool this one.
But he switched tracks quickly: "Fine, fine. Well, I really can't get used to kneeling for anyone. About this master-apprentice ceremony—can we do it the Nanping way instead? I'm not familiar with Great Qian's customs."
Wen Zhuo's brow furrowed slightly. Considering Shen Zheng had spent even longer in Nanping than in the Great Qian, he reluctantly nodded and relented: "What is the Nanping ceremony?"
"Hold on!"
With a swirl of his robes, Shen Zheng was out the study door.
In the courtyard, a white pear tree leaned at an angle. He snapped off a blade of grass from beneath it, and without a moment's hesitation, his fingers twisted and wove the stem—around and over, up and down—until it formed a small ring about the size of a fingertip.
Before the wind could catch up, he was already turning back into the study.
He walked up to Wen Zhuo and, utterly shameless, said: "Give me your hand."
Then he added in a manner most serious: "In a moment, when I ask if you're willing, you say 'I am.' In Nanping, this ceremony is extremely solemn—what's done cannot be undone. Otherwise it's a grave disrespect to the famous sage, Cupid Qiu the Great."
Wen Zhuo's gaze carried a trace of vigilance. He had never heard of Nanping's sage, but before he could dwell on it, Shen Zheng very naturally lifted the hem of his robe and dropped one knee to the ground.
One knee?
Shen Zheng suddenly smiled, then reached for Wen Zhuo's wrist.
This little liberty isn't going to hurt, is it?
Wen Zhuo hesitated for a moment, but not wanting to offend a sage, he didn't dodge.
Then he watched, helpless, as Shen Zheng slipped the freshly woven grass ring onto his finger without a word of explanation.
The grass ring carried a dry, clean fragrance, circling his finger—slightly too big.
"Director Wen, so... would you be willing?"
Wen Zhuo stared at the grass ring, feeling strange.
But he chose to respect Nanping's ritual, and let out two words: "I am willing."
"Good." The moment Shen Zheng spoke, he tugged Wen Zhuo's fingertip, leaving no room for reaction, and pressed his lips to it.
Wen Zhuo felt a warmth touch the base of his finger—dry, slightly rough from the lips—like lamp oil splashing onto his skin, startling him with a jolt.
Wen Zhuo's eyes flew wide open. His knuckles stiffened as he tried to pull his hand back.
Shen Zheng gripped it firmly, giving him no chance to break free, and said in a voice like stones striking a stone staircase: "Don't move. This is such a serious matter as taking a master—surely Director Wen isn't going to change his mind at the last moment?"
As he spoke, his warm breath seeped between Wen Zhuo's fingers, wrapping around the tender skin inside, stirring a shame Wen Zhuo had never felt before.
"...How could I."
This is too strange!
Nanping is simply outrageous!
From the corner of his eye, Shen Zheng caught Wen Zhuo's startled, doubtful expression, and simply pressed two more kisses between the fingers of this notorious, infamous minister of state.
So innocent.
How did he ever turn so crooked? So thoroughly bad?
Afraid of pushing too far, Shen Zheng stopped while he was ahead, dusted the remaining ash off his knee, and said in a deliberately solemn tone: "Alright, from now on Director Wen is my old—" He paused meaningfully, before unhurriedly finishing the final word, "—teacher."
Wen Zhuo, finally free, snatched his hand back as if burned, tucking it swiftly into his sleeve, his five fingers rubbing nervously together.
Shen Zheng's breath was still on them, making every knuckle feel stiff.
But his face was calm, pretending to be well-versed in the world, and he said in a steady voice: "Before Sage Qiu as witness, since you've taken me as your master, I will, from now on, do my utmost to scheme on your behalf."
Shen Zheng's gaze landed on his clutched sleeve, and he suppressed a smile as he said, "Thank you, teacher."
"After court tomorrow, at East Tower on Guangi Street, recite Zhao Shixiu's poem. Someone will lead you to a private room. I'll teach you to play weiqi," Wen Zhuo said.
"Why not at your residence?"
"I have eyes on me here."
Wen Zhuo had thought of what Xie Langyang and Shen Chen could scheme—of course he had. He knew better than anyone how crucial the Spring Terrace Go Tournament was to Shen Chen, and Xie Langyang, in his loyalty, would surely make a move on that front.
The most important thing now was to lull the informants of Xie Langyang and Shen Chen, until that decisive match.
"Until the Spring Terrace Go Tournament is over, you can't come again."
"Oh..." Shen Zheng drew the word out lazily.
Wen Zhuo said slowly, "In a moment, I'll have to throw you out again. Today you came to cozy up, and I turned you away."
"Wait— how are you planning to throw me out?" Shen Zheng suddenly had a bad feeling.
Wen Zhuo tilted his head, those black-glass eyes resting quietly on Shen Zheng's cheek.
A moment later.
Shen Zheng stood outside the gate of Wen Mansion, left cheek still burning, amused and exasperated.
No disciple under heaven was more unfortunate than he, it seemed. For every bit of sweetness, he had to pay it right back.
In the study, Wen Zhuo frowned at the grass ring on his finger, yanked it off, and swung his arm as if to hurl it into the courtyard.
But in the end, he loosened his grip, and placed the ring back on the desk, exactly where it had been, before flicking his sleeve and muttering in a low voice: "Nanping—a land of barbarians!"
