Wang Ren was so furious that his eyes bulged. He reached out to protect the plate, like a fat rabbit guarding its food.
Shen Jinghong ignored him. He wiped his fingers with a handkerchief, then turned to Shi Huai. His gaze lingered for a moment at the corner of Shi Huai’s mouth before he reached out and used the handkerchief to wipe away a crumb of pastry.
His movements were light and natural—so natural that it seemed as though he did this every day. They were so natural that Shi Huai did not even have time to dodge.
Shi Huai froze for a moment, then smiled. “Thank you, Brother Shen.”
Shen Jinghong’s fingers trembled faintly beneath the handkerchief, but his face wore an insouciant smile.
“You’re welcome.”
Wang Ren watched, dumbfounded. He opened and closed his mouth several times. He wanted to say, “How could you do that?” But the more he thought about it, the more he felt that saying it aloud would make no sense.
So he pulled out his own handkerchief and waved it in front of Shi Huai, clearly meaning, I have a handkerchief too. I can wipe things for you too.
Shi Huai glanced at him, then reached into his plate and took another osmanthus cake. “Brother Wang, your Longjing tea cakes really are delicious. Will you have more tomorrow?”
Wang Ren was overjoyed. The dimples in his cheeks deepened so much they looked capable of drowning flies, and he nodded repeatedly.
“Yes, yes! I’ll bring you twice as many tomorrow!”
Shen Jinghong leaned back in his chair, his peach-blossom eyes half-lidded as he watched Wang Ren’s face bloom with happiness. The corner of his mouth twitched faintly.
He picked up the teacup on the table and took a sip.
The tea was cold and bitter, making him frown slightly. But he did not care, because all his attention was focused on Shi Huai.
Shi Huai was bent over his writing, the tip of his brush gliding across the rice paper. Every stroke was filled with beauty.
Shen Jinghong watched for a long time—so long that he failed to notice when the cold tea in his cup ran out. It was only when the bell signaling the end of class rang that he came back to himself.
He had discovered that whenever he watched Shi Huai write, his heartbeat slowed down.
Each beat landed heavily against his chest, like someone striking a drum over and over with a mallet.
Yet he did not find the feeling unpleasant. If anything, he was almost addicted to it.
The other students in Class A were gradually drawn to Shi Huai as well.
One of them was a boy named Lin Mo. He was handsome and refined, with gentle manners and a soft voice. At first, he was so shy that he did not even dare look Shi Huai directly in the eye.
One day, Shi Huai took the initiative and borrowed a brush from him. Lin Mo’s face remained flushed for a long while afterward, and he could barely speak without stammering.
After that, whenever a day passed without him exchanging a word with Shi Huai, he would remain gloomy from morning to night. He could barely eat anything at lunch.
Another boy, Chen Xu, came from a family of military commanders. He was broad-shouldered and powerfully built, with a voice like thunder. At the Imperial College, he swaggered about as though he owned the place and paid no one any mind.
Yet every time he saw Shi Huai, his voice would unconsciously soften, and his fists would loosen. Even his footsteps became deliberately lighter, as if he were afraid of startling the porcelain-like beauty before him.
Time flowed onward day by day to the ringing of the bells at the Imperial College. The spring cherry blossoms fell, the summer lotuses bloomed, the autumn osmanthus filled the air with fragrance, and winter snow drifted down...
In the blink of an eye, Shi Huai had spent two whole years at the Imperial College. He had grown from a nine-year-old child with his hair tied in little tufts into an elegant eleven-year-old boy.
During those two years, Shi Huai’s appearance did not change much.
After all, his looks had already been raised to the maximum. But the passage of time had sharpened and defined his features even further.
The softness of childhood had faded, replaced by a keen beauty poised between boyhood and young manhood.
The curve of his brow ridge had deepened, his cheekbones had become slightly more prominent, and his entire face had evolved from “exquisitely handsome” into “so beautiful that people scarcely dared look directly at him.”
“Ding! The Appearance Booster is operating in maintenance mode. You will automatically gain one point of fortune each month. Current fortune: 24/1000.”
Shi Huai stood before the bronze mirror in Shou’an Hall and adjusted his collar. The reflection showed a young man dressed in a bamboo-green robe, with a crow-black sash tied around his waist.
His raven-black hair was secured with a white jade hairpin, revealing a face that seemed to have been meticulously carved by a master artisan. Every curve was perfectly balanced—not a fraction too much, nor a fraction too little.
His eyes, black with a hint of gold, were so quiet that when he looked at someone, they gave the impression of being watched by a god.
Qinghe entered carrying a bowl of steaming white fungus soup. She also had a food box in hand. When she saw Shi Huai standing before the mirror, the tray in her hands wobbled.
The soup rippled in the bowl, forming an arc and nearly spilling over.
She hurriedly steadied herself and placed the tray on the table. Even so, her voice still held an unmistakable tremor.
“Young Master, it’s time for breakfast. The kitchen made your favorite red-date white fungus soup today, and they also steamed a basket of crab-roe buns.”
“Sister Qinghe, you get up so early every day to prepare my breakfast. Aren’t you tired?”
Shi Huai turned around, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. His smile was like winter sunlight, warm and enveloping.
Qinghe’s heart skipped a beat. She lowered her head and pretended to arrange the food box, the tips of her ears turning red enough to drip blood.
“Not at all, not at all. I like preparing breakfast for Young Master. If I don’t do it for even one day, I feel uncomfortable all over.”
Shi Huai sat down and picked up a crab-roe bun. The savory juice burst into his mouth when he bit into it.
He narrowed his eyes, his eyelashes casting a small fan-shaped shadow beneath them. His expression of satisfaction made him look like a cat that had just been fed to fullness—lazy and content.
Qinghe watched him from the side, twisting the handkerchief in her hands again and again. She pressed her lips together several times, but in the end, she could not stop herself from asking:
“Young Master, when you marry your future wife, will I still be able to prepare breakfast for you?”
The question made Shi Huai choke. He coughed twice, then lifted the bowl of white fungus soup and took a sip to soothe his throat.
He raised his head and looked at Qinghe’s eyes, which were filled with unease, then answered seriously:
“Sister Qinghe, you will always be my Sister Qinghe. Whether I marry someone or not, you can come and go from this household whenever you wish.”
Qinghe’s eyes reddened at once, and her nose stung as though she had downed an entire bottle of vinegar.
She turned away and pretended to straighten the bedding, using the movement to force back the tears that were about to fall. Her voice came out slightly hoarse.
“Young Master only knows how to sweet-talk me. I don’t believe you.”
“If you don’t believe me, so be it. The truth is, I mean every word.”
Shi Huai lowered his head and continued eating his bun, but the smile at the corners of his lips never faded.
The carriage traveled along Chang’an Street with a steady clatter. Two years had brought some changes to the street.
The sugar shop on the corner had been replaced by a silk merchant’s shop. The old man who used to sell wontons was gone, replaced by a young man selling scallion pancakes.
Shi Huai lifted the carriage curtain and glanced outside.
Morning light fell across his face. In the shifting interplay of light and shadow, that face looked like a living gongbi painting, every brushstroke exquisitely perfect and utterly captivating.
The coachman caught a glimpse of him through the gap in the carriage frame, and the reins nearly slipped from his hands.
He quickly looked away, then whipped the horse three times in succession.
