The word “husband” still felt unfamiliar to Wen Zhuo. Though he knew it meant the same thing as “spouse,” he had not yet had time to feel embarrassed by it.
Since Shen Zheng had asked him to say it, he lifted his eyes to look at him and obediently called, “Husband.”
The cool, clear sound struck Shen Zheng squarely in the heart. In that instant, he was seized by the urge to pull Wen Zhuo into his arms and kiss him until he was breathless.
But they were in a museum, surrounded by people coming and going, so he had to restrain himself. He pressed his fingertips against the zipper that reached up to Wen Zhuo’s throat, rubbing it lightly for a moment before chuckling, “How lovely.”
The two of them held hands and headed straight for the special exhibition hall on the second floor.
Wen Zhuo was curious too. What pieces of his calligraphy and painting, exactly, had survived into the present day?
Before they even reached the hall, they saw the line winding away, packed with people holding tickets and waiting to enter.
Wen Zhuo stopped and raised an eyebrow, genuinely astonished. “The crowd here is even thicker than the one outside Granny Wang’s date-and-rice-cake stall.”
Shen Zheng, however, was secretly delighted. The special exhibition had been open for more than twenty days, yet it was still packed. That was proof enough that Wen Zhuo was admired and cherished by countless people in later generations.
He quietly joined the end of the line with Wen Zhuo. Just then, a young man carrying a canvas tote asked a girl in front of them, who was holding a folding fan, “Hi, are you a Zhuo stan?”
The fan in the girl’s hand depicted a small figure in an unusual art style. Wen Zhuo had never seen such a style before, yet he recognized at a glance that the little figure was wearing the official robes of Great Qian.
“Ah… I’m not a solo stan. I’m a shipper,” the girl hurriedly explained.
Wen Zhuo was utterly bewildered. The slang of the modern world was complicated, and there were countless words and phrases he had never heard before.
Naturally curious, he leaned toward Shen Zheng and lowered his voice. “What are table legs? What are single legs? And what does ‘color-pi fan’ mean? Why is she insulting herself like that?”
Shen Zheng jumped in alarm. He quickly covered Wen Zhuo’s mouth and drew him gently into his arms, afraid the two people in front might hear them and mistake them for lunatics.
He whispered into Wen Zhuo’s ear, “Those are modern colloquialisms. ‘Zhuo’ is your name, and ‘stan’ means to admire and revere someone. A Zhuo stan is someone who admires only you.”
“Being a solo stan means liking only one person. She said she’s a shipper, which means she likes both you and me. Generally speaking, solo stans and shippers often argue online, but in real life, everyone is much more restrained and polite.”
“I see.”
Wen Zhuo gently pulled Shen Zheng’s hand away and turned slightly toward the front of the line, focusing on the conversation between the two people ahead.
The young man was indeed being perfectly courteous. “It’s the same for me. I think those of us who admire historical figures should respect the official records. The relationship between Zheng and Zhuo clearly transcended that of sovereign and subject, as well as teacher and student. Even we Zhuo stans acknowledge that.”
The girl’s eyes lit up. “Exactly! The History of Great Qian made that perfectly clear.”
Wen Zhuo suddenly understood. They were discussing the History of Great Qian—and the relationship between him and Shen Zheng.
Back then, Shen Zheng had deliberately issued an edict ordering all the officials to continue addressing Wen Zhuo as Grand Secretary. He had made it clear that Wen Zhuo was first a great minister who brought peace and order to the realm, and only afterward the emperor’s spouse. He had done so because he feared that later generations would focus solely on their romance and overlook Wen Zhuo’s achievements throughout his life.
Now it seemed that concern had not been unfounded. Even hundreds of years later, people were still far more interested in their love story.
The young man took a delicate keychain from his canvas tote. “I made this fan merch myself. Here, have one.”
The girl accepted it with both hands, delighted. She could not bear to put it down. “Thank you, artist! It’s gorgeous!”
Wen Zhuo glanced sideways at the young man and thought, So this person’s name is Tai Tai? What an uninhibited fellow.
The young man seemed to notice Wen Zhuo’s gaze and turned around. Then he froze.
Though the person before him wore a mask that concealed all but his eyes and brows, he was still breathtakingly ethereal, as though he had stepped out of a painting.
The young man stared for a moment before awkwardly asking, “Are you a Zhuo stan too?”
Wen Zhuo thought about it and replied, “I am a color-pi fan.”
The young man: “…”
A foreigner, and one with an accent.
“Then I’ll give you one too. We’re all fans of Chancellor Wen.” He rummaged through his canvas tote and took out another keychain for Wen Zhuo.
Wen Zhuo accepted it. Resting in his palm was a tiny pendant painted with a red-robed official holding a scroll, standing neither servile nor arrogant. It was presumably a likeness of himself.
Imitating the girl, he inclined his head. “Many thanks, Brother Tai.”
The young man stiffened.
What did “too fierce” mean? Had the shipping community come up with a new term he had somehow missed?
“You’re welcome.” The young man did not want to reveal how ignorant he was, so he merely smiled. Then he turned to Shen Zheng. “What about you?”
A smile played at the corners of Shen Zheng’s lips. He answered calmly, “I ship them, but I lean toward Zhuo.”
“Ah!” The young man immediately felt that he had found a fellow traveler. He pulled out two more keychains and handed them both to Shen Zheng.
After they passed through the ticket check, they entered the exhibition hall. Cool air brushed against their skin, and the lighting was dim.
Near the entrance, a projector played a looped introduction to Wen Zhuo’s works. Only a few visitors stopped to watch. Most of the crowd had gathered in the center of the hall, competing for a chance to admire the centerpiece of the exhibition: The Treasure Ship Sets Sail.
Wen Zhuo looked up and recognized it at once. It was the old painting that had once hung on the wall of the bamboo house in Jinhai.
The corners had suffered some damage, and the ink of the two lines of poetry he had personally inscribed had faded somewhat under the sea wind. Only the image of the treasure ship remained perfectly intact, protected behind a thick transparent barrier that prevented anyone from touching it.
In his lifetime, he had painted many works with finer brushwork and greater spirit. He did not understand why later generations treasured this particular painting above all others.
“I have painted many pieces better than this one on a whim,” Wen Zhuo murmured. “What, exactly, are they standing here to admire?”
“The meaning behind it,” Shen Zheng replied with a smile.
Wen Zhuo turned his head in puzzlement. At that moment, a woman standing beside the painting, with a strange device hanging from her ears and an exceptionally loud voice, addressed a group of children in front of her.
“Welcome to the National Museum. The priceless work before us was painted by the famous minister of Great Qian, Wen Zhuo. It is titled The Treasure Ship Sets Sail.”
“Everyone, look closely. A magnificent treasure ship rides the wind and breaks through the waves, its sails stretching across the horizon. This is the grand scene of the Great Qian court opening maritime trade and sending envoys on voyages during the Hongyu era.”
“This painting is not merely a beautiful seascape. It also marks a turning point in the fortunes of Great Qian.”
“It officially opened the curtain on Great Qian’s overseas trade. It marked the beginning of the nation’s economic takeoff and, more importantly, the starting point of the dynasty’s rise to strength. From that point onward, the Hongyu court’s treasury overflowed, diplomatic ties spread far and wide, and the foundations of the realm grew secure. It extended Great Qian’s lifespan by a full century.”
Wen Zhuo had never imagined that the painting held such far-reaching significance.
The children gazed up at the painting with faces full of admiration. They tapped the devices around their wrists toward it, one after another, and exclaimed in wonder.
The woman continued, “Unfortunately, the poem inscribed at the end of the scroll has suffered some damage over the years. The first line, ‘Sails stretch across the boundless sea,’ can still be identified. Based on historical records and local gazetteers, later scholars generally believe the second line was ‘My heart races toward the peace of ten thousand miles.’ It expresses the lofty ambition of a minister whose heart was devoted to the realm stretching across all those miles.”
“That is incorrect.”
Wen Zhuo’s voice was cool and clear as he interrupted without hesitation. “The second line is ‘My heart shares its course with one person.’”
Someone nearby immediately sucked in a breath and muttered, “Holy crap. ‘My heart shares its course with one person’… That hits way too hard! One sentence from the original artist, and it’s a whole feast!”
The guide froze for a moment, then gently explained, “My friend, the poem has not yet been conclusively verified. The mainstream academic view still favors ‘My heart races toward the peace of ten thousand miles.’ Lord Wen was a great minister who devoted himself to restoring order to the realm. Faced with such a magnificent national destiny, he would never have been concerned only with his private feelings. That would make his perspective seem too narrow.”
Wen Zhuo: “…”
Shen Zheng gently rubbed the corner of Wen Zhuo’s lips, which had instantly drooped, and coaxed him with a smile. “Don’t be angry, Wanshan. There’s a saying that being misunderstood is the fate of those who express themselves. Your husband only needs to know that it was an expression of your feelings.”
Half-embracing and half-guiding him, Shen Zheng led Wen Zhuo away from the painting.
The display cases held many of Wen Zhuo’s works: copies he had made of ancient calligraphy, notes on state affairs written during audiences with the emperor, and reflections he had jotted down while traveling through the realm.
Beside them, the annotations read in bold: “Wanshan style.”
Wen Zhuo had always known only the four famous calligraphic styles of Ouyang, Yan, Liu, and Zhao. How could he ever have imagined that his own brushwork might one day stand as a style of its own?
The hopes Shen Zheng had expressed to him all those years ago had, several centuries later, come true one by one.
At a corner of the exhibition hall, a figure painting hung inside a glass display case. It was not painted by Wen Zhuo himself, but by a renowned master of the Da Qian people.
The figure in the painting stood upon a high terrace, gazing down over the railing. His robes fluttered in the breeze, his red gown flowing like silk, his bearing majestic and otherworldly, as though an exiled immortal had descended to the mortal realm.
Wen Zhuo recognized it at a glance: this was the day of the Spring Terrace Weiqi Gathering.
Unfortunately, the inscription beside it gave no name for the artist, identifying it only as “A Portrait of Lord Wen, Handed Down Through the Ages.”
Beside the painting, an electronic screen cycled through a reconstructed likeness based on the portrait. Two young women stood in front of it, clicking their tongues in admiration.
“So beautiful, so beautiful! My Zhuozhuo really does deserve to be famous alongside Song Yu and Wei Jie as one of the great beauties of his age.”
“I’m so jealous of Emperor Zheng. If I had someone that gorgeous as my wife, I’d attend court eight hundred times a day.”
Shen Zheng whispered to Wen Zhuo, “My beloved wife’s beauty has been immortalized for all eternity.”
Wen Zhuo said softly, “In truth, three years later His Majesty stopped being a workaholic emperor, let alone attending court eight hundred times a day.”
He leaned forward and glanced at the reconstructed image. He felt that it bore only thirty percent of his resemblance and looked rather ordinary. He wondered whether the two women were praising it so extravagantly simply because they loved the person associated with it.
“You’re clueless. The Chancellor was already sleeping in Qianqing Palace by then. Why would he need to see His Majesty at court? He’d already had an eyeful eight hundred times over.”
“What if those old experts were right, and it really was only a deep teacher-student bond? Maybe they slept in separate rooms for the sake of the state.”
Wen Zhuo was speechless.
How could that be? How could it possibly be?
“Oh, please. How can you believe that brainwashing nonsense too? Then tell me, how did Emperor Hongyu relieve his desires? Unless he was impotent.”
Shen Zheng: “...?”
Wait a moment!
“True, an impotent man couldn’t have become emperor. But the Records of Da Qian clearly say that Emperor Hongyu once sent Chancellor Wen back to his residence to avoid suspicion.”
“Then the little lovers must have had a lovers’ quarrel. Think about it. The emperor allowed him to enter and leave through the central gate, and even permitted him to ride a carriage within the palace. Even the court historians admitted that the emperor treated the chancellor with extraordinary favor. But the arrow from Zhuozhuo’s side is a little vague. He left behind so much writing, yet not a single love letter to the emperor. Of course the emperor would get sulky! But after sending him home for a few days, he couldn’t bear it and hurriedly summoned him back to the palace.”
Shen Zheng’s anger was only half genuine; he was both amused and exasperated.
They were rather good at shipping them.
Wen Zhuo had been forced to hear the entire exchange. His ears instantly flushed red, and he could not help correcting them through his mask. “He did write them.”
Not just one, either. He had written many shamelessly unrestrained lines, at a considerable cost—one he remembered all too well.
The two women turned at the sound of his voice and saw two handsome men standing side by side. One had deep-set features and an amused, knowing smile; the other had long hair falling over his shoulders and a wandering gaze. The sight of them was extraordinarily suggestive.
Wen Zhuo clutched the front of Shen Zheng’s robe tightly. Embarrassed beyond words, he said, “Those private words between husband and wife—how could they be revealed to outsiders? And His Majesty never sent me... never sent the chancellor back to his residence. I slipped away because I was worried that His Majesty was indulging too much in pleasure and neglecting state affairs.”
After dropping that line, Wen Zhuo finally could not stand it any longer. He seized Shen Zheng by the collar and dragged him away.
The young woman savored his words, then frantically pressed her fingers beneath her nose to keep from fainting.
“Indulging too much in pleasure... Before I met you two, I had been shipping them all wrong!”
Wen Zhuo was thin-skinned. Having his private affairs discussed by people generations later made him want nothing more than to flee the museum as quickly as possible.
But after walking a few steps, he found himself unwilling to let the matter go.
Fortunately, an interactive area had been set up by the exhibition hall entrance. Rice paper and brushes were provided for visitors to copy and learn the Wanshan style.
At once, Wen Zhuo rolled up his sleeve, dipped the brush in ink, and wrote:
“His Majesty and I once stood together upon the shore of the River Crossing, where waves swallowed sun and moon, and their momentum reached into the clouds. How fortunate I was to have you at my side—what joy could compare? Alas, in later ages, they wrongly judged your noble character. My heart is bright and steadfast; though it be tested like stone, it will not waver. This love shall never change. I set these words down for the imperial heavens.”
A crowd of visitors gathered around to watch. Then, all at once, they realized that the small characters on the page were an exact match for the Wanshan style shown in the calligraphy samples.
