Pei Cijing was enjoying this rare, tender moment when the plump little bundle in his arms suddenly grew restless.
Pei Yan'an squirmed between him and Shen Ninghuan, his little face scrunched up as he let out a series of garbled "ah ah" sounds from his open mouth—as if protesting something, or perhaps reminding them of something.
Shen Ninghuan glanced down at their son, and the corners of her lips curled upward.
"An'an is hungry."
An'an—that was Pei Yan'an's nickname.
Pei Cijing had chosen it himself: simple, easy to remember, and smooth to say.
Pei Yan'an, on the other hand, was the formal name Pei Cijing had bestowed upon the little beast in his arms.
The generational naming poem of the Pei family ran: "Rich, Ci, Yan, Shi, Ze; Shi, Shu, Qi, Hou, Kun." His father Pei Fugui belonged to the "Rich" generation, he himself to the "Ci" generation, and his son to the "Yan" generation.
The gist of that generational verse was something like: use abundant wealth and virtuous renown to carry on the grace of one's ancestors, and through the study of poetry and books, inspire and educate future descendants.
A fine meaning, indeed.
But when Pei Cijing named his little rascal, he hadn't harbored any particularly profound intention. He simply hoped that this brat would live out his days in constant peace and safety.
Peace is a blessing.
That was the most down-to-earth truth he had gleaned in the eighteen years since he'd transmigrated and taken it easy.
But then again—
Pei Cijing looked down at the little one wriggling furiously in his arms, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
This little thing was hungry?
He glanced at the sky outside the window. Dusk had just barely settled in, and it was indeed mealtime. But couldn't all that dog food his parents had been feeding him have given the boy at least a little sense of fullness?
Here he was, enjoying a loving moment with his wife.
All lovey-dovey.
And this little rascal—bless his heart—had zero sense of romance, his mind occupied with nothing but chow.
Fine then!
Time to eat!
Food comes first, no matter what.
Pei Cijing bounced Pei Yan'an up a bit in his arms, adjusted to a more secure hold, and flashed a grin at Shen Ninghuan. "Come on, let's go eat."
Shen Ninghuan watched her husband's expression—the one that clearly said "our son doesn't understand romance"—and couldn't help the smile tugging at her lips. She said nothing, simply turning to instruct the maid to serve the meal.
The food arrived quickly.
Four dishes and a soup—two meat, two vegetable—all dishes Pei Cijing loved. Shen Ninghuan's palate matched his closely, so the couple never had any disagreements when it came to eating.
Pei Yan'an had his own special seat.
A high chair crafted especially for him, a notch taller than an ordinary chair, with railings around the sides and a small tray table in front, just the right height for him to feed himself.
Pei Cijing settled the little one into the chair.
Secured the railing.
Then set a small bowl in front of him, filled with steamed egg custard—golden yellow, soft as pudding, still steaming.
The little spoon was custom-made too, a size smaller than a normal one.
The handle was short and stubby.
Just right for an eighteen-month-old baby's chubby hand to grip.
The moment Pei Yan'an caught sight of the steamed egg, his eyes lit up.
Those round, bright eyes sparkled like they held two little stars.
He stretched out his chubby little hand and grabbed the spoon—not exactly skillfully, even a bit clumsily. The spoon tilted this way and that, as if it might slip out of his grip at any second.
But he held on tight, his tiny fingers clenching the handle, wearing on his face a plain and clear look: "Nobody's taking my spoon."
And then, he got down to business.
The little spoon dipped into the bowl, scooping up a bit of steamed egg. The motion was wobbly and unsteady, and half of it spilled onto the table before it ever reached his mouth. Only a small portion actually made it in.
But Pei Yan'an didn't mind in the least.
He opened his mouth, stuffed that tiny spoonful of steamed egg in, puffed out his cheeks, chewed a couple of times, and his eyes curved into two little crescent moons.
"Mmmm~~~"
He let out a satisfied hum, the sound drawn out and contented, like a kitten being petted just right. Pure happiness was written all over his face.
Then he scooped another spoonful.
Spilled half again.
Ate another small bite.
And let out another satisfied "Mmmm~~~"
Pei Cijing and Shen Ninghuan watched from the side. Once they confirmed that their son wasn't eating too fast and wouldn't choke, they relaxed and began chatting over their meal.
Pei Cijing picked up a piece of braised pork with his chopsticks, popped it into his mouth, chewed a couple of times, and let out a contented sigh.
Home cooking was still the best.
"So the abdication ceremony was held at court today," Shen Ninghuan said as she lifted her soup bowl and blew on it gently. Her tone was as casual as if she were asking about the weather.
Pei Cijing nodded, still chewing on the braised pork. He mumbled an answer around the meat: "Mm, been running around nonstop."
He swallowed, took a gulp of tea, and continued: "Sixth Son — no wait, I should say His Majesty now. The new Emperor's enthronement, even though it was settled long ago, actually pulling it off is a process so tedious it makes you want to curse."
Shen Ninghuan listened to his thoroughly irreverent grumbling, and the corner of her mouth twitched upward. She didn't interrupt.
She knew her husband only spoke this freely in front of her. Outside, his lips were tighter than anyone's.
"But," Pei Cijing shifted gears, a note of pride creeping into his voice, "your husband here, as a close aide to the Eastern Palace, naturally got a well-deserved promotion."
"From Left Advisor to Left Steward," Pei Cijing put down his chopsticks and made a gesture. "Attending the Emperor, still a close servant of the throne."
He said it in a calm tone, but the smile he couldn't quite suppress at the corner of his mouth gave away his inner smugness.
Shen Ninghuan nodded, said nothing, and waited for him to continue.
"The Hanlin Academy didn't lag behind either," Pei Cijing said, picking up a piece of fish and carefully picking out the bones before putting it in his mouth. "Promoted from Compiler to Lecturer."
"Only, I can't stay hands-off like before." He paused and sighed. "Every so often, I have to go teach the little princes."
One person, one employer, but two jobs!
Pei Cijing grabbed a piece of greens, chewed it, and privately complained to himself — predictably, the court still wouldn't pay him two salaries.
Sixth Son was really evolving into a heartless capitalist!
That thought was a bit too cheeky.
Pei Cijing didn't say it to Shen Ninghuan, afraid his wife would laugh at him. And besides, saying it wouldn't make Sixth Son pay him extra just because he complained.
Better save his breath and eat a couple more pieces of meat.
While Pei Cijing was busy calculating his salary, Shen Ninghuan had already moved on to thinking about something else.
She set down her soup bowl, her gaze settling on her husband's face, thoughtful.
"Husband, your current positions are Left Steward and Hanlin Lecturer?"
Pei Cijing nodded. "Yes."
Shen Ninghuan gave a soft "Mm," her gaze drifting downward, as if she were calculating something.
A moment later, she lifted her eyes to look at Pei Cijing, her tone still calm, yet carrying a seriousness that could not be ignored: "Husband, you are currently quite trusted by those above."
Pei Cijing nodded again. This time there was no smugness, just a calm reply: "Not bad."
Shen Ninghuan continued: "Your career path right now is very orthodox. A retainer of the Eastern Palace, a close minister to the emperor, a prestigious member of the Hanlin Academy. You've got all of them covered."
She paused, as if organizing her thoughts, or weighing her words.
"In a few more years, His Majesty will most likely send you out to serve as a local magistrate. After you achieve solid results in the provinces, you'll be recalled to the capital. And then..."
She looked at Pei Cijing, her gaze carrying a firm, unshakable certainty.
"Then, husband, you'll be groomed for the position of Prime Minister."
Pei Cijing, who had been holding his teacup, paused slightly.
He looked at Shen Ninghuan's clear eyes, was silent for a moment, and then the corners of his mouth slowly curved upward—higher and higher, until it spread into a grin that looked anything but proper.
"Old Sixth has good eyes."
He said this in a relaxed, casual tone, with more than a hint of mischief.
Pei Cijing chuckled twice, put down his teacup, straightened his back, and lifted his chin slightly. That smug, self-satisfied look was exactly like the cat in the courtyard that had just stolen a piece of dried fish.
"And," he held up two fingers, waving them in front of Shen Ninghuan, "my dear, I'm now a fifth-rank official."
He stressed it again: "Fifth rank."
And once more: "Senior fifth rank."
Shen Ninghuan watched him carry on like this, the corners of her mouth tugging upward, but she didn't interrupt.
"Your husband here, you see, in terms of rank, has finally caught up to you, my dear!"
Pei Cijing said this with a triumphant, long-suffering-relieved sort of joy, like a downtrodden peasant finally singing after throwing off his burdens.
Back then, when he was a man of no rank and married Shen Ninghuan—the legitimate daughter of a Minister—although his wife had never looked down on him, the disparity in their statuses was undeniable.
His wife had clearly married beneath her.
Later, he passed the imperial examinations with high honors and entered the Hanlin Academy, but his wife's honorary title had always remained a rank above his.
When he was seventh rank, she was sixth.
When he was sixth rank from, she was fifth.
And now—
He had finally reached fifth rank!
On equal footing with his wife!
Pei Cijing savored the thought, the grin on his face growing wider and wider, radiating the sheer delight of "I've finally caught up to my wife."
Shen Ninghuan watched her husband's smug, carried-away expression, finding it both amusing and a little exasperating. Father of a child now, and still so fiercely competitive.
In that case.
She couldn't let her husband get too carried away!
"Husband, since your rank has caught up to mine, you'll have to keep working hard."
Pei Cijing didn't catch on yet, still grinning from ear to ear: "Of course—"
Shen Ninghuan picked up her soup bowl, blew on it gently, and said in that same plain, offhand tone: "My book should be finished by tonight."
Pei Cijing's smile froze for a second.
Shen Ninghuan took a sip of soup, set down the bowl, and looked at him, a gentle smile in her eyes: "If I present it above, who knows how many ranks it might raise me."
She tilted her head slightly, putting on a thoughtful expression: "But it's bound to raise me at least a little, wouldn't you say? And then—"
She paused.
"Still a bit higher than her husband, right?"
Pei Cijing's hand, holding his teacup, froze mid-air. The smile on his face solidified bit by bit. He sat there, struck as if by lightning, completely motionless.
Yama was dumbfounded.
Shen Ninghuan looked at her husband's utterly stupefied expression, then lowered her head, picked up her bowl, and quietly drank her soup, as if that remark had truly just been a passing thought.
Pei Cijing snapped back to reality.
He set down his teacup and looked at the woman across from him, who wore an air of serene indifference. A tangled knot of emotions he couldn't quite name churned in his chest.
His wife's book.
The fact that his wife was writing a book—he knew that. It was on the very subject he had once mentioned: "micro-expressions."
Pei Cijing had long felt that his wife had remarkable talent in this area, but it was a talent personal to her, for there was no established systematic theory in the Great Qian dynasty. Back when they were in Yunyang County, he had only briefly touched on the idea.
Shen Ninghuan had taken it to heart.
Not only had she taken it to heart, she had actually started writing.
And writing for years.
Pei Cijing looked at those clear eyes of his wife, and suddenly a strong sense of crisis welled up inside him.
Her book was a compendium on micro-expressions.
This field was a blank slate in the Great Qian.
What's more, it was foreseeable that this book would surely be applied to criminal interrogation. If it proved effective, then this wouldn't just be a matter of "which rank of officialdom to rise to."
This was—
Setting down words to establish a doctrine.
Founding a school of thought.
At that point, rank would be secondary, whether Sixth Son granted rewards would be secondary. Wouldn't everyone who read this book have to respectfully address his wife as "Master"?
A loud buzz went off in Pei Cijing's mind.
He thought of all these years—
Lying around the Marquis's estate, eating and waiting for death, being driven by the system to eat gossip and hoard points, being pushed by his wife into studying and taking the imperial exams, being supervised by his father-in-law to enter officialdom, and being dragged by Sixth Son to toil in the Eastern Palace.
Step by step, though it had gone smoothly enough.
But he strove through the exams, worked for the court, and in the end—how was the gap between him and his wife only growing wider?
At first it was just a difference in rank.
That was still easy to catch up on.
But now, his wife was about to become a founding master of her own lineage. How was he supposed to compete with that?
Pei Cijing sat there, his expression shifting ceaselessly—from complacency to stupefaction, from stupefaction to bewilderment, from bewilderment to... resignation.
Oh well.
His wife being formidable was nothing new.
He was long used to it.
Pei Cijing took a deep breath, lifted his cup, and took a big gulp. Then he set the cup down, looked at the woman quietly sipping her soup across from him, and the corners of his mouth slowly curved up.
"Wife," he spoke, his voice filled with a relaxed, resigned laughter, "when will your book be finished? I have to be the first to read it."
Shen Ninghuan looked up, met his eyes, and said softly with a smile, "Your Grace isn't bothered by my surpassing your rank?"
Pei Cijing laughed.
"Bothered?" He reached across the table and took Shen Ninghuan's hand. "You're my wife. You being impressive—I couldn't be happier."
Shen Ninghuan heard these words, and a smile slowly spread across her lips.
She said nothing, only gripped Pei Cijing's hand in return, and gave a soft "mm."
The two stared at each other, neither speaking again.
On the table, the food still steamed with warmth.
In the baby high chair beside them, Pei Yan'an was concentrating on battling the last spoonful of steamed egg in his bowl. His little face was scrunched up, with crumbs of egg custard stuck to his forehead, making him look like a little tabby cat that had been caught stealing food.
He was completely oblivious to the fact that his parents were in the middle of a profound conversation about "official rank" and "writing books to establish one's legacy."
Or rather—
Even if he had noticed, he wouldn't have understood.
All he knew was that the steamed egg in his bowl was really, really delicious...
