Wang Ren’s face flushed red from being silenced. He muttered something under his breath, then turned back to Shi Huai with a smile once more plastered across his face.
His gaze lingered on Shi Huai’s face as though he could never get enough of looking at him. Even the curve of his lips had taken on a cloying softness.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor, drawing steadily nearer.
A middle-aged man in his forties entered the second room of the east wing.
He wore a long indigo robe. His face was square and dignified, and a neatly trimmed short beard framed his features. His steady gaze and the air of upright refinement about him marked him unmistakably as a scholar.
“Everyone, sit properly.”
The middle-aged man walked behind the lectern and set the scroll in his hands on the desk. His gaze swept across the students before finally landing on Shi Huai, where it paused for the briefest moment.
Shi Huai noticed the man tap his fingers lightly twice against the scroll, as though something had taken him by surprise and he needed a moment to digest it.
“I am your teacher. My surname is Lu, and my given name is Yanli. From today onward, I will be teaching Class Jia.”
Lu Yanli’s voice was neither loud nor soft, and his pace was neither hurried nor slow. Every word was enunciated with perfect clarity.
His eyes fell on Shi Huai’s face once more. This time, they lingered for three or four breaths before he finally looked away.
Lu Yanli picked up the class register and began calling the roll.
He went through the names one by one. When he reached Shi Huai, his voice paused for a beat, as though confirming something, before he read the name aloud.
“Shi Huai.”
“Present.”
Shi Huai rose and bowed properly.
Lu Yanli nodded and looked him up and down. His gaze rested on Shi Huai’s face for a moment before he finally turned away.
He opened the lesson plan before him, cleared his throat, and began the first class.
The lesson was on The Great Learning: “The Way of great learning lies in manifesting one’s bright virtue, loving the people, and resting in the highest excellence.”
Lu Yanli explained it in great detail, unfolding the passage layer by layer—from its literal meaning to its underlying principles, from commentaries throughout the ages to his own interpretations.
Shi Huai listened intently, occasionally jotting down a few notes. The tip of his brush whispered over the xuan paper.
Shen Jinghong propped his chin on one hand and turned to look at him. In his amber eyes was reflected the sight of Shi Huai writing with his head bowed.
Shi Huai’s eyelashes cast a small fan-shaped shadow beneath his eyes. His nose was straight, and his lips were sharply defined.
The longer Shen Jinghong watched, the more lightly he dug his fingertips into his own palm. His heartbeat thudded loudly in his ears.
Wang Ren was secretly watching Shi Huai, too.
He did not dare to be as blatant as Shen Jinghong. He could only steal a quick glance whenever the teacher turned to write on the board, then hurriedly lower his head and pretend to read.
When he looked up again, his gaze happened to collide with Shen Jinghong’s.
The two stared at each other for a moment. The corners of Shen Jinghong’s lips lifted slightly, while Wang Ren’s face instantly turned red. He quickly buried his face in his book.
The slender, pale-faced youth sitting beside the bookshelves was named Gu Changning. From beginning to end, he never once looked at Shi Huai. The book in his hands turned page after page.
His back was ramrod straight, like a pine growing on the edge of a cliff—unmoved by wind, unbent by rain.
But a closer look revealed that he had only turned between the same few pages the entire time, rereading them over and over, as though something on those pages kept him from taking in a single word.
The Imperial College’s curriculum was heavier than Shi Huai had imagined.
Every day, he had to arrive at the school before dawn. First came half an hour of morning recitation, followed by lessons with the teacher. The afternoon was reserved for independent study and calligraphy practice, and classes did not end until dusk.
There was only one hour of rest at noon, including both lunch and a nap.
Shi Huai’s first month at the Imperial College passed peacefully enough.
Every morning, Qinghe saw him out, and every evening, she waited at the gate to welcome him home.
Qinghe prepared his lunch in advance and packed it in a food box. The dishes changed every day, with a balanced variety of meat and vegetables and plenty of nourishment.
Shen Jinghong had been the first person to speak to him at his desk on the first day of class. He was the eldest legitimate grandson of Grand Secretary Shen and one of the capital’s most notorious young wastrels.
It was said that even the emperor could do nothing with him.
After all, the emperor’s most favored consort was Shen Jinghong’s own elder sister.
Yet in front of Shi Huai, he behaved like a tamed cat. He caused no trouble, picked no fights, attended class on time, and handed in his assignments punctually. He was so well behaved that even Lu Yanli found it unbelievable.
“Shi Huai, your handwriting is beautiful. Could you teach me?”
One day after class, Shen Jinghong came over with a brush in hand. Ink still dripped from its tip, spreading into a dark blot on the xuan paper.
His peach-blossom eyes were brimming with laughter, and the corners of his mouth curved gently upward. He looked docile and harmless, utterly unlike his usual arrogant, unruly self.
Shi Huai glanced at his writing, then at his face.
His gaze was as calm as a mirror, reflecting every one of Shen Jinghong’s hidden thoughts with crystal clarity.
“You can learn if you want, but you have to take it seriously. No starting with great enthusiasm only to give up after a few days.”
Shen Jinghong’s heart raced beneath that pair of eyes, and the tips of his ears flushed faintly red.
No one had ever spoken to him in that tone before. No one had ever dared to look at him that way.
Yet this boy, five years younger than him, had managed with one simple, matter-of-fact sentence—“You have to take it seriously”—to make Shen Jinghong feel as though someone had seized his heart in their fist.
“All right. I’ll take it seriously.”
Shen Jinghong’s voice came out lower than he had expected, carrying a solemnity so unfamiliar that even he found it strange.
Wang Ren was not about to fall behind, either.
Every day at noon, he carried a plate of pastries to Shi Huai’s desk, claiming that the kitchen at home had made too many and he needed Shi Huai to help him finish them.
At first, he only did it occasionally. Before long, it became an unshakable daily ritual. If he failed to bring something one day, it felt as though something was missing.
“Shi Huai, try this Longjing cake. The chef at my house is from Suzhou, and he makes the most delicious pastries.”
Wang Ren pushed the plate in front of Shi Huai, his round face covered in smiles. His dimples appeared and disappeared, deep as two little whirlpools.
Shi Huai picked up a piece of Longjing cake and took a bite. It was soft, sticky, and sweet—truly delicious.
His eyes narrowed naturally as he chewed. To Wang Ren, that expression was like the first snow of spring melting away, so gentle it made him want to cry.
“Is it good? Is it good?”
Wang Ren leaned forward, practically trying to shove his entire face in front of Shi Huai. His chin nearly struck the edge of the desk.
“It’s good. Thank your chef for me.”
Shi Huai took another bite, leaving a tiny crumb of pastry at the corner of his mouth.
Wang Ren’s gaze fell upon that little crumb. His throat bobbed once. He reached out, intending to wipe it away for him, but withdrew his hand halfway there. The tips of his ears had turned red as fire.
Shen Jinghong had appeared at some point as well. He plopped down beside them, shoved Wang Ren aside, and took a piece of Longjing cake from the plate.
After one bite, he frowned and said, “Too sweet.”
Then he took another bite and, still frowning, finished the entire piece.
“If you think it’s too sweet, why are you still eating it?”
