Lamps lit at midnight, books read at dawn, this is the very time to rise early and study.
If one does not know to study hard while their hair is black, they will regret it when their head is white.
Everyone understands this logic.
But when a warm and cozy bed transforms into a seal forged from thousand-year cold iron, and when the soft breathing of the person beside you becomes the most lethal lullaby—waking up early becomes the most difficult cultivation in this world.
Anle Residence.
Inner chamber.
The first quarter of the hour of Mao, and the sky was not yet bright.
Driven by instinct and habit, Shen Ninghuan woke up on time. As soon as she opened her eyes, she felt a heavy weight on her body. She turned her head to look—
Pei Cijing was wrapped around her like an octopus.
His head was buried in the crook of her neck, one arm tightly circled her waist, and his leg was thrown over hers. His breathing was even and soft, and he was sleeping so deeply that he seemed completely oblivious to the world.
He looked as if he weren't sleeping on a bed, but rather sinking into a swamp made of a tender utopia, willingly succumbing without the slightest intention to struggle.
Shen Ninghuan lay quietly.
She didn't move immediately.
She could "hear" the lingering sleep-talk in her husband's heart:
"Zzz... Just sleep for another quarter of an hour... just one quarter..."
"The Blanket Demon King's Sealing Jutsu... Ninth Level... No one can break it..."
"Grammar and classics... go away... don't touch me..."
Shen Ninghuan: "..."
She silently stared at the intertwined lotus patterns embroidered on the bed canopy for a while, suddenly recalling the day before yesterday—the second day after returning from her visit to the Shen estate—when Pei Cijing had looked so remorseful, swearing a solemn oath to study with the utmost diligence, even if it meant tying his hair to the roof beam or stabbing his thigh with an awl.
He had woken up very early that day.
Truly.
Before the sky was fully light, he struggled out of the covers. With sleepy eyes, he moved a chair to the window, opened the Collected Commentaries on the Four Books, and struck a posture that declared he would not return until he had conquered his goals.
And then...
He yawned exactly seven times at the morning light.
Finally, he collapsed onto the pages, drooling, and fell back asleep.
When Shen Ninghuan came in to deliver breakfast at the time, what she saw was his face pressing against the line "The way of great learning lies in illustrating illustrious virtue," sleeping incredibly sweetly.
She didn't wake him up.
She merely tiptoed to keep the porridge and dishes warm on the stove, and covered him with a thin blanket.
At that moment, she knew—for this marquis's son of hers, who was used to a life of comfort, expecting him to work as desperately as those impoverished scholars who studied hard for ten years was almost impossible.
She didn't want him to, either.
Their family hadn't reached the point where he needed to risk his health for his future.
He still needed to take the imperial examinations and study, but he didn't have to suffer so bitterly.
It was just that...
Shen Ninghuan lowered her eyes and looked at her husband, who was still clinging to her tightly and sleeping without any regard for his image. This laziness seemed to be... just a little bit more stubborn than she had expected.
She sighed softly.
Very softly.
With a bit of helplessness, but also finding it somewhat amusing.
Then, she carefully and gradually began to pull her arm out from under Pei Cijing. Her movements were very slow and light, as if dismantling a delicate mechanism, afraid of waking him up.
Pei Cijing grumbled in dissatisfaction in his sleep.
His arm subconsciously tightened.
Shen Ninghuan paused for a moment, waiting for his breathing to steady again before continuing her movements. It took her a full cup of tea's time to finally free herself.
As she got up, the morning light had already filtered through the window lattice, spreading a patch of pale gold on the green brick floor.
She glanced back at the bed.
After losing his human body pillow, Pei Cijing instinctively rolled up the blanket, wrapping himself into a silkworm cocoon. Only half of his face was exposed, his brows relaxed, and his lips even held a trace of a satisfied, silly smile.
Shen Ninghuan stood by the bed and watched him for a moment.
The morning light traced his quiet sleeping face, his long eyelashes casting shallow shadows under his eyes. Without his usual lazy or teasing expression, he actually showed a rare bit of innocence.
The corners of her lips curved up unconsciously.
Then she turned and walked behind the folding screen to change her clothes.
Never mind.
Let him sleep.
Studying, after all, was not something that could be accomplished overnight.
She had plenty of ways to make him willingly become a little more diligent, step by step.
There was no rush.
...
Weiyuan Marquis Manor, Martial Arts Courtyard.
This courtyard was located on the east side of the manor and covered a considerable area. Paved with green bricks, the weapon racks on both sides held a complete array of swords, spears, halberds, axes, and hooks, gleaming with a cold, hard metallic luster in the morning light.
In the corner of the courtyard stood several heavily worn wooden dummies. The deep and shallow striking marks on the dummies silently told the history of the Pei family, which had established itself through martial prowess.
Pei Fucheng stood in the center of the courtyard.
He had already changed into a neat black martial arts outfit. With broad shoulders and a thick back, his spine was as straight as a pine tree. Although he was over forty, the physique honed by long-term martial arts practice remained vigorous, without the slightest hint of sluggishness or bloat.
At this moment, he was holding a black iron long spear in his hand.
The spear was eight feet long and completely pitch-black, with only a glint of cold light at the tip, flashing with a piercing sharpness in the gradually brightening morning light.
He exhaled with a shout, his wrist flicking as he thrust the spear!
Swish—!
The spear tip was like a poisonous snake flicking its tongue, suddenly piercing the air and bringing a sharp sound of breaking wind.
Immediately after, the spear shaft spun, transforming into a dark screen of light. Sometimes it was like a flood dragon emerging from the sea, magnificent and majestic; sometimes it was like a spirit snake coiling, unpredictable and treacherous. As his footwork shifted and turned, dust rose slightly on the green brick floor. Every stance was steady and powerful, carrying a murderous aura honed from long experience on the battlefield.
It moved with the fierce wind of a tiger.
Beads of sweat seeped from his forehead and slid down his deep contours, but he seemed completely unaware. His eyes were as sharp as an eagle's, entirely focused on the spear in his hand that seemed to have taken on a life of its own.
This kind of diligence continued every day without interruption, regardless of the winter cold or summer heat.
That he could have such a good physique and could still wield such a heavy iron spear at this age, he had to thank one person—his biological mother, Old Madam Pei.
When he was young.
He, too, was a young boy who coveted the warmth of his bed.
But his mother's whip never showed mercy. Before dawn, that cold and unquestionable voice would ring out in the courtyard: "Cheng'er, get up!"
If he dared to be even half a quarter late, the water-soaked rattan whip would fall mercilessly on his body, burning with pain.
At that time, he had resented it and misunderstood it.
Now that he had his own son, standing in this Martial Arts Courtyard, sweating like rain in the morning breeze, he finally truly understood—
A mother's strictness was the deepest loving care in this world.
Without this strong physique, without this resilient will forged day after day, he would not be able to uphold the honor of the Weiyuan Marquis Manor, much less stand firm amidst the open spears and hidden arrows of the royal court and the borders.
After finishing a set of spear techniques.
He retracted his stance.
Pei Fucheng let out a long breath of stale air. The white breath condensed into a thin mist in the cool morning air. He steadily placed the iron spear back onto the weapon rack, turned around, and swept his gaze toward the courtyard gate.
There was no one there.
His brows furrowed almost imperceptibly.
The time for morning practice was fixed. Pei Ciling's position had already been arranged, and he would be taking up his post in the military in a few days. Yesterday, he had someone send word to Pei Ciling, telling him to come to the Martial Arts Courtyard every day at three quarters past the hour of Mao to practice martial arts with him.
Now the hour of Chen was almost over.
Where was he?
Pei Fucheng's face darkened, and he summoned the personal guard waiting outside the courtyard: "Where is the Heir?"
The guard knelt on one knee, lowering his head to report: "To answer the Marquis, there has been no movement over at the Heir's courtyard... This subordinate went to invite him earlier, but the courtyard gate was shut tight, and the servants inside said... the Heir has not yet risen."
"He still hasn't gotten up?" Pei Fucheng repeated. His voice betrayed neither joy nor anger, but his abruptly clenched fists revealed knuckles that were already turning white.
The personal guard lowered his head even further, not daring to reply.
Pei Fucheng closed his eyes.
The fire burning in his chest could no longer be suppressed.
That unworthy wretch!
He is truly a disappointment to the extreme!
It has only been a few days since he took in a concubine, and he has already forgotten the very foundation upon which the Pei family stands?!
Accomplished in neither literature nor martial arts, all he knows is wallowing in the gentle embrace of women all day long. He has stirred up a storm in the city over a woman, turning the Marquis's estate into a laughingstock!
And now he even dares to slack off on his morning drills!
The Pei family has been a lineage of generals for generations, relying on the merits earned through real blood and steel on the battlefield! If he cannot even endure this little bit of hardship and temper his own body, what right does he have to support the Marquis's estate in the future? What right does he have to command the respect of those proud and fierce soldiers below him?!
"Go," Pei Fucheng opened his eyes, a chilling light gleaming in them. "Take some men to the Heir's courtyard. Tell Pei Ciling that I want to see him in the Martial Arts Courtyard within half an incense stick's time."
He paused, enunciating each word, cold as iron:
"If he doesn't open the door, smash it open."
"If he doesn't get out of bed—"
"Tie him up and drag him here!"
...
The Heir's Courtyard.
In stark contrast to the peaceful tranquility of the Anle Residence, a chaotic farce was currently playing out here.
"Heir! Wake up, Heir! The Marquis has sent people to hurry you!" The anxious voice of his personal servant rang out outside the door, accompanied by urgent knocking.
In the inner chamber, on the canopy bed.
The red silk curtains hung low, and the air still lingered with the sweet, ambiguous scent of last night's intimacy.
Disturbed by the noise, Pei Ciling furrowed his brows deeply. He instinctively pulled the soft, warm body in his arms closer, mumbling indistinctly, "What's all the noise... it's not even light out yet..."
Shen Ningyue, who was in his arms, was also startled awake. Her eyelashes fluttered as she opened her eyes and said softly, "Brother Ciling, it seems to be from the Marquis..."
"Ignore them." Pei Ciling didn't even open his eyes, burying his face into the crook of her neck. "Father is just too strict... I'm going to sleep a little longer..."
Before his voice could fade—
Bang!
A loud crash echoed!
The bedroom door was kicked open viciously from the outside!
Several burly, broad-shouldered men dressed in the uniforms of the Marquis's personal guards barged right in. The man leading them had a face as cold as iron. He cupped his fists in a salute toward the bed, his voice loud but devoid of any emotion:
"Heir, the Marquis has ordered for you to proceed to the Martial Arts Courtyard immediately!"
Pei Ciling was completely jolted awake by the commotion. He sat up abruptly, clutching his forehead due to the headache brought on by a hangover and overindulgence, and roared angrily, "Insolence! Who allowed you to barge in?! Get out!"
The captain of the guards didn't change his expression. "The Marquis said that if you refuse to get up, we are to tie you up and bring you there. We are only following orders. Pardon our offense!"
With that, he waved his hand.
Two guards behind him strode forward, actually intending to yank the blankets away!
"Don't you dare!" Pei Ciling was both shocked and furious, his face flushing crimson.
Shen Ningyue was even more terrified, all the color draining from her beautiful face. She let out a scream, desperately clutching the blanket to wrap around herself and shrinking into the corner of the bed.
A chaotic flurry of pulling, struggling, and furious cursing ensued.
In the end, Pei Ciling was no match for these iron-willed men who only listened to the Marquis's orders.
He was half-forced into his outer robe. Without even having the time to comb his hair, he was invited out of the Heir's Courtyard, stumbling along, improperly dressed, and bearing faint dark circles under his eyes from excessive indulgence.
By the time he was half-escorted all the way to the Martial Arts Courtyard, Pei Ciling's face was a mixture of livid green and pale white. He showed both the drowsiness of someone newly awakened and the humiliating indignation of being treated this way in public.
Pei Fucheng stood with his back to him, wiping down his black iron spear.
Hearing the footsteps, he slowly turned around.
His gaze fell upon his son's utterly wretched appearance. There was no anger, no reprimand.
There was only a bottomless abyss of disappointment.
That look was more piercing than any scolding.
A chill ran down Pei Ciling's spine. All of his dissatisfaction and grievances were instantly frozen over.
"Father..."
His throat went dry, his voice low and hoarse.
