At the Hour of Xu (approximately 9 PM), in the Hall of Peaceful Delight.
The night breeze after the rain was unusually crisp, carrying the dampness of earth and grass through the window cracks, diluting the lingering warmth inside the bedchamber.
Water droplets still hung from the eaves, falling one by one onto the bluestone steps, producing a crisp, intermittent "drip, drop" sound.
Pei Cijing had already retired to bed with Shen Ninghuan in his arms.
After all, in this ancient era, the options for nighttime entertainment were quite limited.
He had no phone—couldn't scroll through silly short videos on Douyin, couldn't suffer through the scourge of mobile MOBA games, and couldn't freeload free novels on Tomato Fiction (such as outstanding works like this very book).
All Pei Cijing could do was hold his wife and sleep.
So he always turned in early.
After all, he had to report for duty at the crack of dawn—roll call was at Mao Shi San Ke (approximately 5:45 AM), and he had to be up before daybreak.
For the sake of his own hide, young as he was, Pei Cijing had already adopted a life of disciplined routine—rising with the sun, resting with its set, never staying up late, never overthinking.
He embodied the phrase "lying flat" in every corner of his life.
At this moment, he was sleeping soundly.
Shen Ninghuan pillowed her head in the crook of his arm, her dark tresses spread across the pillow, her breathing even and shallow.
His other arm wrapped around his wife's waist, fingers loosely resting on her side, his posture natural and intimate. The faint scent of orchid from his wife's hair drifted to his nose—clean, elegant, and serene, like the finest calming incense, warding off all restless dreams.
With his wife by his side, it was impossible not to sleep well.
He was having a sweet dream.
In the dream, he was eating melon—not figuratively, but an actual, green-skinned, red-fleshed, grainy-sweet watermelon.
The melon had been chilled, cool to the touch. He split it open, juice running down the blade. He held half the melon, scooped it with a spoon, bite after bite. The sandy flesh melted on his tongue, so sweet it made his eyes narrow with delight.
The sweetness was secondary.
The key thing was—this watermelon had no seeds. Now that was a win!
But just as he was enjoying himself, someone shoved him, and he face-planted into the watermelon, sweet juice splattering all over his face.
"Young Master, Young Master—"
The voice came from far away, first muffled, as if through a layer of cotton. Then it grew nearer, clearer, like a needle, pricking one by one into his sweet dream.
Pei Cijing turned over, muttered something groggy, and burrowed closer to his wife, burying his face into the hollow of her shoulder, refusing to wake.
But the voice that disturbed his slumber was persistent.
"Young Master, the Sixth Prince is here! The Sixth Prince is paying a nighttime visit to the Marquis's estate, saying he has urgent matters to discuss with you!"
Pei Cijing's eyes flew open.
What he saw was his wife's clear, limpid gaze, watching him with a hint of helplessness and amusement.
Clearly, Shen Ninghuan had been woken as well. Her lashes trembled slightly, and a faint, knowing smile touched the corner of her lips—she had heard the ramblings in his heart about watermelons and dreams.
Pei Cijing was dazed for a long moment, his mind still muddled.
The Sixth Prince?
Li Chengyu?
Coming to find him in the middle of the night?
He instinctively glanced toward the window.
Darkness pressed against the paper pane, only the faint glow of the lantern beneath the eaves leaking through, casting the blurred silhouette of the wisteria outside. The night breeze stirred gently, and the shadow of the branches swayed back and forth across the window paper, as if signaling some secret code.
Since Cheng Lu had been secretly brought to the Marquis's estate, everyone had deliberately kept their distance to avoid any slip-up.
Even at the Qionglin Banquet, the two had only exchanged polite pleasantries, keeping it brief and restrained, without even an extra glance or exchange of looks.
This Sixth Prince was usually cautious. Why was he coming in person to disturb someone's peace tonight?
Didn't even let a man finish his sweet dream.
Pei Cijing lay in bed, staring up at the bed canopy. That ominous feeling spread through him like ink dropped into clear water, slowly blooming outward.
He couldn't quite name the feeling.
It was just intuition.
For Li Chengyu to show up at this hour—it couldn't be good news.
Shen Ninghuan had already sat up. Her long hair spilled over her shoulders, moonlight and candlelight weaving a soft halo around her. She tilted her head, looking at her husband's face, which clearly read "I don't want to get up," and couldn't help curling her lips in a smile.
But when she spoke, her tone carried a note of seriousness.
"Husband, the Sixth Prince's late-night visit surely means urgent business. You must not be remiss."
Pei Cijing closed his eyes, then opened them again, letting out a long breath.
His wife was right.
Li Chengyu wasn't the type to drop by for no reason.
A prince, coming in person in the dead of night—not sending a messenger, not delivering a note, but arriving himself—that in itself spoke volumes.
It had to be urgent.
And for a prince to personally come calling, it couldn't possibly be to invite him for moon-viewing, a stroll, or tea. There weren't that many people with that kind of time on their hands.
Am I right?
A certain Mr. Su—writer, calligrapher, painter, foodie—who had been on a perpetual path of exile and demotion.
So regarding this big trouble that Li Chengyu had brought to his doorstep, he had no choice but to accept it.
He rose and got dressed.
Shen Ninghuan had already gotten out of bed, taking his casual robe from the clothes rack and holding it out for him.
Pei Cijing extended his arms, and his wife moved behind him, smoothing his collar and fastening his sash, her movements gentle and practiced.
Good thing he had his wife to help.
Only then could he get dressed quickly, neatly, and properly.
"Wife, you rest first." He took Shen Ninghuan's hand, lowering his voice, his palm pressed against her fingertips, giving them a light squeeze. "I'll be back soon."
Shen Ninghuan nodded, saying nothing more. She only adjusted his collar for him, retied the slightly crooked ribbon, and stepped back half a pace to look him over from head to toe. Only when she confirmed everything was in order did she say softly, "Go on. I'll wait for you."
The words "I'll wait for you" were spoken lightly, plainly, like an everyday phrase she said without thought.
But Pei Cijing heard them.
And something in his chest warmed unexpectedly.
He turned and walked out, stopped after a few steps, and looked back at his wife.
Shen Ninghuan stood by the bed, candlelight casting a warm golden glow over her, making her plain white nightgown appear soft and cozy, like a serene painting.
She smiled at him—a faint smile, but it seemed to say—whatever it is, we'll talk about it when you get back.
Most of the irritation in Pei Cijing's chest dispersed.
He took a deep breath.
And strode toward the main hall.
...
The main hall of the Hall of Peaceful Delight.
Candles burned bright.
Li Chengyu sat in the guest seat, holding a cup of tea in his hands, but he wasn't drinking.
The tea was fine, the water was fine, and the brewing technique was impeccable—the liquor was clear and bright, the aroma distant and refined. It was high-quality Dragon Well tea picked before the Qingming Festival.
He merely held the cup, occasionally lowering his head to inhale the elegant fragrance, then continued waiting.
No urging.
Not a trace of impatience.
He had come tonight to ask a favor, not to throw his weight around.
Li Chengyu knew very well that his father, the Emperor, letting him and the Eighth Brother each choose their own assistants for disaster relief was not as simple as it sounded. There were two layers of meaning here, and any clever person could read between the lines.
First, it was a test of their ability to judge people—who could be relied upon, who could help them properly carry out disaster relief, and, in the future, who would prove to be true confidants worthy of trust.
Use people well.
Only then can things be done well.
If one cannot even choose the right hands, how could they ever be entrusted with the realm later?
Second, it was a test of their skill in managing people—a craft with its own subtleties.
A dragon can be great or small, can rise or hide; when great, it stirs clouds and mists; when small, it conceals its form; when rising, it soars across the cosmos; when hidden, it lurks beneath the waves.
Now that he was not yet on the throne, the usual approach of balancing favor and authority was not appropriate.
Maintaining a properly low posture.
Treating the worthy with respect was the correct course.
If one did not even know the right way to command others, how could one ever make those cunning old ministers serve willingly in the future?
So he came.
In person, paying a night visit to the Marquis's residence, accompanied only by a few guards, without any ceremonial procession—simply arriving like that, keeping his posture sufficiently low and carrying sincerity enough to spare.
Pei Cijing was the first person he called upon.
Ever since their first meeting at the Imperial Academy, he had found this Second Young Master Pei quite special.
Back then, Pei Cijing sat in the corner, holding a handful of melon seeds, watching the young aristocrats brawl with a smile—that posture, that expression, made him look for all the world like a bystander enjoying a show.
But the clarity in those eyes, the sharpness hidden beneath that languid demeanor—
He had seen through it at a glance.
After returning, he did some research on him.
At the flower-viewing gathering, Pei Cijing, relying purely on observation, had seen through the Ninth Sister's disguise as a young man—that further convinced him this person was by no means as simple as he appeared on the surface.
Later, when Pei Cijing sat for the imperial examinations, he had kept an eye on him as well.
He read his papers for the metropolitan examination, and he read his papers for the palace examination too. That policy essay, which opened with the line "When pressed to the wall, change; when changed, one gets through; when getting through, one endures," was written with sharp edge and outstanding courage—not the kind of pedantic, book-droning twaddle, but something that reflected true thinking and genuine insight.
And he had also witnessed his rising edge.
After joining the Hanlin Academy, Pei Cijing made an even more striking mark.
First, he proposed emergency response strategies during the revision of the Commentary on the Water Classic, rallying the entire academy to pool their wisdom; then he presented the formula for cement.
These two achievements together benefited the people and the state—meritorious services to the realm.
Others might have been surprised, but Li Chengyu was hardly taken aback; instead he had a feeling of "just as I expected." He was even convinced—this fellow definitely had more hidden in store.
He had known all along.
That person's previously mediocre performance was simply due to a lack of a platform to shine.
Beneath those lazy, languid eyes, who knew how many unrecognized talents were still buried.
So when his father let him choose his own men, he instinctively thought of Pei Cijing.
The reason for the summons was also quite plausible.
This man had proposed the emergency response strategy and knew its contents better than anyone—disaster relief matters happened to be just the right application for it. This reasoning was perfectly sound and legitimate; no one could find fault with it.
And this kind of move—showing respect for talent, drawing people closer, gaining an opportunity to spend more time with a great mind to build future rapport—
He was not about to let it slip by.
And so came this visit.
Li Chengyu set his teacup back on the table, his gaze calm as he looked toward the doorway.
Candlelight cast deep shadows across his face, making his pool-dark eyes all the more serene—serene like an autumn lake, unruffled on the surface, yet hiding currents beneath that defied words.
Footsteps sounded from outside the door.
The steps were neither fast nor slow, carrying a trace of just-woken sluggishness, yet not dragging either.
Soles against the stone walkway produced a steady, unhurried rhythm—like a man walking from one end of a dream back to the other end of reality, one step at a time.
As Pei Cijing stepped across the threshold, his robes were neat and tidy, his hair bun properly secured—not a single thread out of place. The only hint of disruption was a trace of lingering sleep at the corners of his eyes, lending his already languid features an air of mild vexation at having been roused.
Like a cat pulled from its basket, yet nothing about him could be faulted.
He walked up to Li Chengyu.
Clasped his hands.
Bowed in greeting.
"Sixth Prince, paying a late-night visit unannounced—this one failed to receive you properly. A grave offense, a grave offense."
His tone was respectful but not servile, his bearing meticulous but not flattering, carrying a fitting sense of proportion—neither too close nor too distant, neither deferential nor neglectful. He neither groveled because the other was a prince, nor showed any hint of disrespect.
Li Chengyu promptly rose and returned the bow with clasped hands. His movement was equally unhurried, his bearing equally impeccable—neither condescending nor deliberately intimate.
And in that exchange of greetings,
the two of them had already completed a quiet mutual appraisal.
"Disturbing your rest so late—the fault is mine." Li Chengyu spoke, his voice neither loud nor low, carrying a touch of genuine apology in his tone. "I apologize for ruining Compiler Pei's good sleep. I hope you'll forgive me."
Pei Cijing straightened up, taking a look at Li Chengyu in the candlelight.
This Sixth Prince wore a hint of weariness on his face, yet there was a heavy business pressing down between his brows—clearly not here for idle chatter. In those pool-deep eyes was something earnest and weighty, like a general about to take up a post, paying a visit to an old friend on the eve of departure.
He let out a silent sigh in his heart.
Sure enough, someone who shows up at your door in the dead of night isn't here to invite you stargazing.
He dispensed with further pleasantries, straightened up, and cut straight to the point: "Your Highness comes late at night, no doubt on important business. Speak freely."
The words were direct.
Li Chengyu was not the type to hem and haw; he nodded at once, set aside the courtesies, and revealed the true expression of the night—somber, earnest, tinged with worry.
"Yunyang Prefecture's levee has broken. There's been a great flood." He dispensed with preamble, his tone sinking, as though the words were being squeezed from his throat, each one heavy. "The Emperor has ordered me and the Eighth Brother to go manage the relief. We depart at dawn."
Pei Cijing's gaze shifted faintly.
Yunyang's levee broken.
A breach in the main river's embankment.
Earlier today, he had been in the duty office, discussing the flood season with Liu Zhixing and Chen Wangbei.
Chen Wangbei had casually mentioned that "summer flood season is coming," and that uneasy premonition had risen in his heart.
Sure enough, premonitions never come without reason.
It really had happened!
But what did this have to do with Li Chengyu coming to see him?
He was a compiler at the Hanlin Academy, not a functionary at the Ministry of Works, nor a clerk at the Ministry of Revenue. How could disaster relief ever fall to a lowly rank-6 clerk like him?
No way.
No way!!
Pei Cijing's mind raced through several possibilities, yet his face remained a mask of composure.
He gave a slight nod, his tone still the same unhurried manner: "May Your Highness' journey go smoothly, and may you properly handle the disaster situation. But if I may ask—what business brings Your Highness here so late at night?"
Li Chengyu looked at him, making no detours.
"Father has left it to us to choose our own assistants." He paused, his gaze settling on Pei Cijing's face. Those deep, pool-like eyes held no probing, no calculation—only a straightforward, unguarded sincerity. "The emergency plan was proposed by Compiler Pei. You are most familiar with early warning, dispatch, and resettlement procedures. This disaster relief effort is exactly suited to your expertise."
He paused again, as if giving Pei Cijing time to absorb his words, then continued, his tone even more earnest than before: "So, Chengyu would like to ask Compiler Pei to lend me your strength."
With that, he stood there quietly, waiting for Pei Cijing's answer.
He did not press his status as a prince, did not command with authority. Rather, he made his request with an equal, sincere posture—to someone he deemed worthy of asking.
That stance did not resemble a prince summoning a subject. It was more like a general about to ride into battle, on the eve of departure, sincerely inviting a trusted friend to march at his side...
