Chapter Six: Where Did This Son Come From?

In the early spring, everything was bursting with life—tender grass, vibrant flowers, birds chirping merrily. On this fine day, with the sun shining bright, Feng Qiuji decided to take a stroll in the Imperial Garden, making the most of the splendid spring weather. The garden was adorned with verdant bamboo and elegant orchids, pavilions and waterside gazebos, rockeries and rare stones arranged with exquisite taste. It was truly a marvel of royal craftsmanship—beautiful beyond compare.

With her hands clasped behind her back, Feng Qiuji walked with her head held high, taking deep breaths of the fresh air. Suddenly, her attention was caught by the idle chatter of two passing palace maids.

“Did you see Prince Xin earlier, frantically tearing off his clothes?” one whispered.

The other giggled. “Of course I did. I heard he was drugged with an aphrodisiac.”

“That’s right. Apparently, Prince Xin teased the little prince, saying he was growing prettier by the day, and the little prince got angry.”

...

Feng Qiuji’s curiosity was piqued. Ling Zexin, drugged with an aphrodisiac? She rather wanted to see what he looked like in that wild, disheveled state.

As she mused, she caught sight of a small girl in green on the lawn not far ahead. The child was kneeling on the ground, head bowed, looking utterly dejected.

Feng Qiuji’s curiosity got the better of her. She ran over and squatted beside the girl. “Hey, little sister, what are you doing kneeling here?”

The little girl lifted her delicate face, blinking bright eyes at Feng Qiuji with a hint of curiosity, then dropped her head again.

Huh? No answer? Could she be mute? Feng Qiuji pinched the girl’s chin, lifted her head, and pried open her mouth for a quick inspection, but nothing seemed amiss.

“What are you doing?” the little girl protested, baring her teeth in a childish voice, clearly annoyed.

“So you can talk after all.” Feng Qiuji wiped her hand on the girl’s sleeve, muttering as she did, “Tsk tsk, your clothes are made from nice fabric.”

“Stupid girl, keep away from me.” Snatching her sleeve back, the little girl shot Feng Qiuji a fierce glare and shuffled away.

“What did you say?” Feng Qiuji wondered if she’d misheard. Did this little girl just call her... stupid?

“Stupid girl,” the child repeated, casting another disdainful look at Feng Qiuji. Standing up, she brushed the dirt from her clothes and made to leave.

Feng Qiuji grabbed the collar at the back of her dress. She swore, in all her years she had never encountered such an insolent child. The girl couldn’t be more than four or five, and yet she was utterly without manners.

The little girl turned, and with a wave of her right hand before Feng Qiuji’s face, a heavy fragrance of flowers wafted by.

“What’s this? Smells wonderful.” Feng Qiuji took a deep sniff, finding the scent quite pleasant. But in the next instant, she felt a strange crawling sensation all over her body, as if thousands of tiny insects were creeping across her skin. The itch was unbearable! She quickly stripped off her outer robe and began scratching herself frantically.

“You little imp, what did you give me?!” Feng Qiuji wasn’t going to let her get away. She seized the girl’s arm in a firm grip.

A flash of pain crossed the little girl’s face—Feng Qiuji was really hurting her.

At that moment, a cool voice spoke. “Ano, what are you doing?”

Feng Qiuji looked up, only to see the emperor himself—the one famed for his disinterest in women.

The moment the little girl saw Ling Zetian, her lips quivered and tears welled in her eyes. Breaking free from Feng Qiuji’s grasp, she ran to throw her arms around his leg, crying, “Father, this lady is bullying me.”

Father?!

Feng Qiuji was so shocked her eyes nearly popped out of her head. So this was Ling Zetian’s daughter? But wasn’t he reputed to be celibate and uninterested in women? How had a daughter suddenly appeared? She felt like Ling Zexin had played her for a fool.

Ling Zetian bent to pick up the child, then narrowed his eyes, regarding Feng Qiuji—who was still scratching herself—for a long moment before finally seeming to remember her. “Isn’t this the Empress? How did she bully you?”

Bully?! Feng Qiuji was nearly beside herself with indignation. In this state, who was bullying whom? The humiliation was bitter indeed—she, a top student of the twenty-first century, bullied by a five-year-old child from ancient times!

The little girl snuggled in Ling Zetian’s arms, pouting, tears shimmering in her eyes, chubby finger pointing at Feng Qiuji. “She called me little sister. Ano hates being mistaken for a girl.”

What?!

Once again, Feng Qiuji was shocked. This beautiful little girl was actually a boy?

“Father, you must stand up for Ano. Ano hates this lady...” He clung to Ling Zetian’s neck, burying his head in his father’s embrace, and began to fake-cry.

Feng Qiuji opened her mouth but couldn’t find a single word to say. She admitted defeat. At the same time, she couldn’t help but grumble inwardly—this child was a completely different person in front of Ling Zetian, so cunning and skilled at acting even at such a young age. Who on earth had taught him that?

“Ano, be good. Enough games. Give her the antidote,” Ling Zetian said, now fully understanding the situation. Ano was a good child, but far too mischievous. He sighed. He had just punished Ano for what happened with Ling Zexin, making him kneel here in reflection. He’d only just sent someone to escort Ling Zexin back to his residence, and now came back to find Feng Qiuji had fallen victim as well.

Ano walked over to Feng Qiuji, opened his small palm to reveal a candy-like pill.

Feng Qiuji took the pill and swallowed it. Instantly, the itching vanished. What a miraculous medicine! Seeing she was fine, Ling Zetian put on a show of scolding Ano before instructing a nursemaid to take him back to rest.

Seizing the opportunity, Feng Qiuji was about to slip away when she noticed Ling Zetian’s gaze fixed on her, expressionless. She felt a pang of guilt—after all, Xiaohui had told her that concubines relegated to the Cold Palace weren’t allowed to wander the palace freely, yet here she was, and caught by the emperor himself. This couldn’t be good.

“Hehehe...” She forced a silly laugh, mind racing for an excuse. “Actually, I just stepped out to use the privy. I was just on my way back. Please, Your Majesty, carry on.”

Ling Zetian said nothing, continuing to stare at her coldly. After some time, he spoke in a frosty tone, “You’d best not have any designs on Ano.” With that, he flicked his sleeve, turned, and walked away without a backward glance.

The palace was rife with danger. Throughout history, intrigue and power struggles had always been intense here, and Ling Zetian was well aware of it. He wanted to keep Ano far from these schemes and conspiracies. For that reason, he kept Ano in the Palace of Splendor, guarded by numerous nursemaids and palace women, and had strictly forbidden any concubine from entering—ensuring that none could approach the young prince.

He did this to shield Ano from harm, and to prevent any concubine from using him as a pawn in their quest for favor.

Back in the Cold Palace, Feng Qiuji was left utterly baffled. Ling Zexin had clearly said that Ling Zetian was indifferent to women—how, then, did he have a son?

Well, never mind. If he had a son, so be it; it had little to do with her. The only trouble was that her family’s ancestral impotence remedy would now be much harder to sell, and her expected windfall seemed to have slipped away. No, she’d have to get to the bottom of this with Ling Zexin another day.

Little did Feng Qiuji know that Ling Zexin was, at that very moment, hiding in a shadowy corner of his residence, sticking pins in a doll and cursing Ano.

He had run into Ano in the Imperial Garden earlier that day. Not having seen the boy in some time, he decided to tease him, saying, “Ano, you’re getting prettier by the day.” Who could have guessed that this would land him in such trouble?

The little rascal had promptly scattered a handful of aphrodisiac powder over him, smiling innocently. “Uncle, Ano knows you’re dashing and love beautiful women. So here’s a special gift—don’t waste Ano’s goodwill.”

The result was a total loss of face in the palace, his lifelong reputation for elegance and composure utterly ruined. How did such a young child come by an aphrodisiac? Next time, he’d make sure to deal with that so-called Sage of Medicine.

In the Palace of Morning Clouds,

Ling Zetian stood in his chamber clad in a simple robe of silver-gray brocade, his gaze lingering on a delicate ink painting hanging on the wall.

The painting depicted a river winding between green mountains, with a small boat in its midst. At the prow stood a man and a woman. The man, dressed in blue robes, stood tall and proud, a white jade flute at his lips, his sleeves fluttering in the breeze. The woman, in a pale green dress, sat cross-legged at the bow, a zither on her lap, her brows arched, her beauty radiant as peach blossom. Her slender hands plucked the strings. The whole scene was ethereal and beautiful, the two like immortals, a couple to be envied.

Ling Zetian remained silent for a long time, then his gaze dropped to the small inscription at the bottom: “Seventh day of the seventh month.”

Yes, the seventh day of the next month would mark the anniversary once again. Every year, he would take Ano, a jug of fine wine, and a few delicate Jiangnan dishes, and go outside the palace to visit the departed.

All he could do was take good care of Ano, shielding him from the slightest harm and raising him to be a worthy man. For this, he had invited the Sage of Medicine to teach Ano the healing arts, scholars to instruct him in poetry and classics, and musicians to train him in melody—all except that Ano, with his innate talent, was interested only in medicine.

After a long while, Ling Zetian came back to himself and walked to his desk, where he found a letter scented with the faint fragrance of violets, inscribed “For Xi Ye’s Eyes Only.”

He was startled. He had once used the name Ling Xi Ye, but very few people knew it—he could count them on his fingers. Could this letter be from an old acquaintance? So, she had returned?