Chapter Thirteen: Forming a Grudge

After night fell, the temporary palace became exceedingly quiet. Only the night guards continued their rounds without rest. Lying in bed, Feng Qiuji was lost in her own thoughts. Since crossing into this world, though she was confined to the Cold Palace, she wanted for nothing—food and clothing were plentiful. By that measure, Heaven had not treated her poorly. She ought to feel grateful that Ling Zetian had not taken many concubines nor drawn her into the treacherous intrigues of the harem; otherwise, she would have lost her mind by now.

In the rear garden, a bright moon hung in the sky, the vast dark blue firmament scattered with sparse stars. Within a pavilion, two figures sat, drinking and laughing together.

Ling Zetian wore a black brocade robe tonight, its inner lining edged with an elegant bamboo-leaf pattern, lending him an air both noble and devilishly alluring. At his side sat another man, garbed in a crescent-colored robe of the finest silk, the cuffs trimmed with snowy white and embroidered with openwork silver hibiscus flowers. A jade belt graced his waist, and he held an ivory folding fan in his hand, his posture leisurely, his bearing extraordinary.

This was none other than Ying Xuanyu, eldest son of the illustrious Ying family—the wealthiest clan in Ling Dynasty. Their shops and trading houses stretched across the empire, and they even engaged in overseas trade, making them powerful and as rich as a small country. Ying Xuanyu’s uncle was a high-ranking minister at court, and so he and Ling Zetian had known each other since childhood—a friendship lasting over a decade. Ling Zetian had especially written to invite him to Long Mountain on this occasion.

“I wonder what important matter has led Your Majesty to summon a humble commoner like me?” Ying Xuanyu tilted his chin slightly, smiling at Ling Zetian, his long eyes sparkling like a river of stars.

“With just the two of us here, you can drop the formalities,” Ling Zetian shot him a look. He still remembered when Ying Xuanyu, a snot-nosed brat, was always stealing his things and shifting the blame onto him whenever trouble arose. Time had flown—now that mischievous boy had grown into a refined, graceful young lord.

“A-Ye, don’t tell me you invited me because the imperial coffers are empty?” Ying Xuanyu chuckled, draining his cup. “Tsk, tsk—this is fine wine. Must have been buried underground for over a decade. If nothing serious was afoot, you wouldn’t be serving me such a vintage.”

“It’s nothing too grave. I just want to borrow someone from you,” Ling Zetian refilled his cup. Though Ying Xuanyu was not involved in the martial world, the Ying family harbored many retired masters—this much Ling Zetian knew.

“Oh? You’re the emperor—everyone beneath the heavens is your subject. Why would you need to borrow someone from me?”

“The person I want is Wen Changfeng, the legendary assassin who once shook the martial world. I hear he’s now chopping wood in your family’s backyard?”

“That’s true. But tell me, why does the emperor need to hire an assassin? Isn’t it enough to give the order?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“I can lend him to you, but what’s in it for me?” Ying Xuanyu smiled mischievously. A businessman to the core, even with an old friend, he kept affairs separate—dealing with the emperor was always fruitful.

“You never fail to live up to your reputation as a merchant,” Ling Zetian glanced at him, then smiled faintly. “Speak—what do you want?”

“Hmm… I haven’t decided yet. I’ll let you know when I’ve thought of something.” Ying Xuanyu raised his cup, gazing up at the bright moon. “The night is beautiful, yet there is wine but no song—not lively enough.” With that, he clapped his hands, and two women in green robes glided in under the moonlight, one carrying a jade flute, the other a precious zither, ethereal as immortals descending from the heavens.

Ying Xuanyu tossed the jade flute to Ling Zetian and sat cross-legged with the zither in his lap, laughing, “See? I’ve already thought it out. It’s rare for us to gather—why not enjoy a duet of flute and zither tonight?”

Ling Zetian frowned. He had always excelled at the guqin, but the flute was his weakness—Ying Xuanyu was the opposite. Now he handed him a flute—what was this about?

Ying Xuanyu seemed to read his thoughts and smiled, “Tonight, let’s compete at our weak points. We’ll see whose performance is better—your flute or my zither.”

As he spoke, his slender, graceful fingers swept across the zither strings like drifting clouds and flowing water. The two women in green danced under the moon, their movements light as sprites—sometimes raising their arms and lowering their brows, sometimes stretching their hands like floating clouds, their jade sleeves swirling elegantly. Faced with this, Ling Zetian had no choice but to bring the flute to his lips and play.

At that very moment, Feng Qiuji, deep in sleep, vaguely heard the clear, lingering notes of music drifting to her ears. Sometimes the zither soared high as clouds, then plummeted low as murmurs; sometimes the melody was ethereal as windblown silk, then steady as a pine on a cliff; sometimes it was passionate, sometimes hazy and distant. For all its beauty, Feng Qiuji’s reaction was to clamp a pillow over her ears. Yet the music persisted, joined by the lilting flute, never ceasing.

Feng Qiuji sat up abruptly, climbed out of bed, threw open the door, and stormed off toward the source of the sound. She wanted to see who was so spirited at this late hour, playing a duet instead of sleeping—didn’t they know disturbing someone’s rest was a crime?

But when she arrived, she was stunned by the sight before her. The wind stirred, petals drifted, the flute soared—the entire garden was filled with acacia blossoms swirling in the air. Two women danced under the moon like celestial beings, light and graceful to the music. It was like a dreamland—if only she had a camera, what a scene it would make.

“What are you doing here?”

“Hm?” Feng Qiuji looked around and, glancing down, realized Anuo stood at her side. “Oh, it’s you, Anuo. Look how handsome your father is.” She picked him up, enraptured, and pointed to Ling Zetian leaning against the railing.

“Hmph,” Anuo gave her a disdainful look. “What, have you fallen for him?”

Feng Qiuji was momentarily taken aback—this brat, he certainly didn’t talk like a four-year-old. Sigh, motherless children really are pitiable, so mature at such a young age. And to think it was Feng Qiuji who caused his mother’s death. Feeling a wave of sympathy, she patted his head. “Anuo, don’t worry. I’ll make it up to you—I’ll be sure to treat you well and try to fill the loss of your mother’s love.”

Seeing the sympathy and pity in her eyes, Anuo wriggled free from her arms, crossed his arms, and said, “You want to be my mother? Then come sleep with me first.”

“Anuo, you’re already five. You should sleep on your own.”

“Hmph, what’s it to you?”

“Children need to listen to their elders. How can you be so rude?”

“And who gave you the right to lecture me?”

…

“What are you two doing?” As their argument grew louder, Ling Zetian frowned and walked over.

“Father, she’s so annoying! Can you divorce her already?” Anuo clung to Ling Zetian’s leg, pouting and rubbing against him, pointing at Feng Qiuji with a look of melancholy.

“What?” At these words, Feng Qiuji was furious—she must have been too indulgent with this boy lately. “Such a young child and already trying to break up others—what will you become when you grow up?”

“You’re not worthy of my father,” Anuo glared at Feng Qiuji’s messy hair and disheveled clothes in disdain. “Look at you, so slovenly—not a trace of an empress’s dignity.”

Was this really something a four-year-old would say? She was about to explode from anger!

“You little brat, today you’re getting a lesson from me.” Ignoring Ling Zetian’s presence, Feng Qiuji grabbed Anuo, ready to teach him a lesson.

“You stupid woman, if you don’t let go, I’ll poison you.”

“Oh, you dare threaten me?!”

Watching a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old woman wrestle on the ground with a child of four or five, Ling Zetian’s face darkened, while Ying Xuanyu watched with relish, commenting to Ling Zetian, “A-Ye, where did you find such a lively wife? It’s the first time I’ve seen anyone handle Anuo this way.”

“Are you two finished?” At Ying Xuanyu’s words, Ling Zetian’s expression grew even grimmer. He seized Anuo with one hand, Feng Qiuji with the other, and marched them toward the west wing, tossing a line over his shoulder, “Xiao Yu, go to bed early.”

“Yes, Xiao Yu obeys,” Ying Xuanyu laughed and returned to his quarters.

Inside the bedchamber, Ling Zetian sat in the central chair, face stern, watching the two before him—one big, one small—head throbbing.

“Anuo, what does Father always teach you?”

“Father teaches Anuo to respect his elders, cherish the young, and treat others kindly,” Anuo hung his head, looking very aggrieved.

“Then why did you treat your mother that way?”

Anuo cast a glance at Feng Qiuji, then, sensing the situation, obediently said, “Father, your son knows he was wrong.”

Ling Zetian nodded with satisfaction, then turned his stern gaze on Feng Qiuji. “Feng Qiuji, you have no sense of propriety, tussling with a child on the floor—what kind of example is that…”

“Please forgive me, Your Majesty—I know I was wrong.” Feng Qiuji cut him off immediately, her expression earnest. She had no desire to listen to a lecture—she just wanted to get back to sleep.

Seeing her attitude, Ling Zetian didn’t bother wasting more words. He waved her away, signaling her to return to her room.

Anuo took the chance to scramble onto Ling Zetian’s lap, flinging his pudgy arms around his father’s neck, whining, “Father, I’m hungry. I want to eat.”

Ling Zetian stroked his head lovingly. “What would Anuo like to eat? Father will have it made right away.”

“I want something she makes,” Anuo said, pointing his small, chubby finger at Feng Qiuji, who was just stepping out the door.

Feng Qiuji realized at once—this brat was bent on making things difficult for her.

Ling Zetian glanced at her angry face and coaxed gently, “Anuo, be good. You mustn’t eat her cooking.”

At that, Feng Qiuji nearly fainted. What did he mean by that?

“No, no—I want her food.”

“Be good, Anuo. Eating her food will upset your stomach.”

Feng Qiuji couldn’t hold back any longer. She strode over, pulled Anuo from Ling Zetian’s arms, and said with a bow, “Since Anuo wants to eat, I’ll cook for him—and teach him how to do it as well.” Without waiting for Ling Zetian’s reply, she dragged the boy out of the chamber.

“What are you doing?” Anuo struggled. “I’ll have Father punish you…”

“Hmph, you little rascal! You dare go against me? Just wait and see how I deal with you…”

Leaning against the doorframe, Ling Zetian watched the pair—one tall, one small—vanish into the darkness. To his surprise, a rare smile tugged at his lips. He looked up at the moon overhead. Yes, the night was indeed beautiful.

—Extra—

Looking up at the sun, ah, the sunlight is just right. The setting sun is here to rob all you young ladies—howl, aoa)/?