Shen Jinghong suddenly opened his eyes, a cold glint flashing in their depths.
He snapped the book shut, the pages striking his palm with a muffled thud.
“Brother Shen, what’s wrong?” Wang Ren leaned over from the side, his eyes red and round as a rabbit’s.
Shen Jinghong ignored him. He tossed the book onto the chair, rose, straightened his collar, and strode toward the center of the field.
When he reached Shi Huai, the Crown Prince was saying something to him. The two of them stood very close, with the Crown Prince’s hand resting lightly on Shi Huai’s shoulder.
The intimacy of the gesture made Shen Jinghong’s teeth itch.
He stopped on Shi Huai’s other side and reached out to pat his opposite shoulder. The touch was light, carrying the easy familiarity of old acquaintances.
“Shi Huai, that pass you made just now was excellent.”
Shi Huai turned to look at him, a trace of a smile at the corners of his lips.
“His Highness the Crown Prince taught me. He explained everything very carefully, and I was quick to learn.”
At the words “His Highness the Crown Prince taught me,” the smile on Shen Jinghong’s lips froze for an instant.
Then it deepened by several degrees, though the amusement in his peach-blossom eyes did not reach their depths.
He turned his head toward the Crown Prince. Their gazes collided in midair, sparks flying from an invisible clash of fire.
The Crown Prince’s hand tightened slightly on Shi Huai’s shoulder, his knuckles paling. Yet his voice remained calm, carrying the effortless composure of one looking down from above.
“I taught him well, and Shi Huai learned well. It’s a perfect arrangement. Young Master Shen needn’t worry.”
The curve of Shen Jinghong’s lips did not change in the slightest. His peach-blossom eyes narrowed faintly.
“His Highness certainly teaches well. I was merely curious—when did His Highness become so interested in cuju? I’ve never seen you so eager to teach anyone before.”
The Crown Prince’s expression darkened slightly. He was just about to speak when the Third Prince approached from the side, a handkerchief in his hand. With natural ease, he held it out to Shi Huai.
“Wipe your sweat. Your forehead is covered in perspiration.”
Shi Huai accepted the handkerchief and casually wiped his forehead twice before handing it back, a faint smile on his lips.
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
The Third Prince took the handkerchief. His fingers clenched around it, brushing against the lingering warmth of Shi Huai’s forehead, as though he had been burned.
He quickly tucked the handkerchief into his sleeve. His expression returned to its usual steady, polished composure, but a faint flush quietly spread across the tips of his ears.
Several sons of noble families nearby witnessed the entire exchange. Some gritted their teeth, some clenched their fists, some cursed inwardly, and some secretly nudged the companions beside them with a kick.
The youth in the dark blue robe was Jiang Muzhi, the eldest legitimate son of the Vice Minister of Rites. He had a handsome, elegant appearance and was counted among the capital’s renowned beauties.
But ever since Shi Huai entered the Imperial College, no one had mentioned his name anymore. All anyone talked about was Shi Huai, Shi Huai, and Shi Huai.
Jiang Muzhi drew a deep breath, lifted his teacup, and walked toward Shi Huai with a courteous smile on his face.
“Young Master Shi, your poetry is truly remarkable. I heard your line, ‘As if overnight, spring winds brought the pear blossoms,’ at the last poetry gathering, and I’ve spent several days pondering it without fully understanding its meaning. Could you explain it to me?”
His voice was gentle and refined, and his manner humble and courteous. He looked every inch the earnest classmate seeking guidance.
However, the friend behind him—the youth in the dark green robe—watched Jiang Muzhi’s retreating back and twitched the corners of his mouth before rolling his eyes.
The youth in the dark green robe was Fang Huaijin, the second son of a Hanlin Academician. He and Jiang Muzhi were inseparable in their daily lives.
At that moment, he held another cup of tea and stood three paces away, his gaze sweeping back and forth between Shi Huai and Jiang Muzhi several times. A sour, indescribable feeling churned in his eyes.
Fang Huaijin took a deep breath, then also carried his tea toward Shi Huai, his voice laced with deliberately restrained calm.
“Muzhi, didn’t you say you weren’t drinking any more? Why have you brought yourself another cup?”
Jiang Muzhi turned to glance at him. A cold glint flashed through his eyes, though the smile on his lips remained unchanged.
“I brought it for Young Master Shi. Drink your own.”
That glance sent a chill down Fang Huaijin’s back, but he did not retreat. Instead, he took another step forward, stopped on Shi Huai’s other side, and held out his teacup.
“Young Master Shi, this is the new tea harvested this year. Have a taste.”
Shi Huai looked at the two cups being offered to him at the same time and paused briefly. He reached out and accepted Fang Huaijin’s cup, taking a sip. His eyes curved slightly.
“Excellent tea.”
Jiang Muzhi’s hand remained frozen in midair, his smile stiffening for an instant before he resumed his usual gentle, refined expression.
He withdrew the teacup and took a sip himself, his voice still mild.
“It is quite good. Brother Fang’s family tea has always been excellent.”
The corners of Fang Huaijin’s lips lifted slightly—a curve so faint it was almost impossible to see.
But Jiang Muzhi saw it. His fingers clenched inside his sleeves, his knuckles cracking audibly.
Squatting at the edge of the field, Wang Ren had witnessed everything. The water flask in his hand had been squeezed out of shape, and water seeped through the cracks, soaking his fingers and sleeve.
He stood up, shoved the pitifully battered flask into the hands of a companion beside him, brushed the dust from his robe, and strode toward Shi Huai.
“Shi Huai, it’s time to get back on the field. Stop drinking tea—you’ll be too sluggish to run if you drink too much.”
Shi Huai nodded, handed the teacup to Qinghe, straightened his collar, and followed Wang Ren toward the center of the field.
Jiang Muzhi and Fang Huaijin remained where they were, watching Shi Huai’s retreating back. Both their expressions were unpleasant, each darker than the other.
Jiang Muzhi turned to Fang Huaijin and lowered his voice, anger unmistakable in his tone.
“Fang Huaijin, you did that on purpose.”
The corners of Fang Huaijin’s lips curved upward slightly. He lowered his voice as well, sounding faintly smug.
“Did what on purpose? I merely brought Young Master Shi a cup of tea. What’s wrong with that? Was I not allowed?”
Jiang Muzhi was so infuriated by his feigned innocence that his teeth ached. He drew several deep breaths before managing to restrain himself from losing his temper on the spot.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.”
Jiang Muzhi ground out each word through clenched teeth, his gaze stabbing toward Fang Huaijin like a blade.
The smile on Fang Huaijin’s face did not change in the slightest. If anything, it deepened.
“What am I up to? I merely wanted to ask Young Master Shi about poetry, unlike certain people who use asking for guidance as an excuse while keeping their true intentions hidden even from themselves.”
Jiang Muzhi’s face flushed bright red. His lips trembled several times before he finally forced out:
“You shameless bastard.”
Fang Huaijin chuckled lightly and turned away. After taking two steps, he stopped and said without looking back:
“What good is having shame? Will being respectable make Young Master Shi spare me an extra glance?”
The words nearly made Jiang Muzhi choke to death. He stood there in a daze for quite some time, his chest heaving violently like a fish tossed onto the shore.
He lowered his head and looked at the cup of tea in his hand, which had already gone cold. With a bitter laugh, he poured the tea onto the ground, set the cup on the stone table nearby, and turned back toward the field.
Zhao Huan sidled up beside Shi Huai, a broad smile plastered across his face:
“Shi Huai, that feint just now was beautiful. You sent every one of them the wrong way.”
His voice was loud enough for the entire cuju field to hear. Clearly, he had said it for the opposing team’s benefit. When he finished, he even deliberately jerked his chin toward them.
The faces of several players on the opposing team darkened at once. Some gritted their teeth, others clenched their fists, and one of them secretly kicked Zhao Huan in the back of the heel.
The kick sent Zhao Huan stumbling forward, nearly knocking him to the ground. He steadied himself, then turned around and glared.
The others immediately looked away in unison, pretending to admire the clouds in the sky.
Lowering his voice, Zhao Huan asked through clenched teeth,
“Who kicked me?”
