Chapter 16

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Xue Jin’an declined the Fifth Prince’s ill-intentioned invitation and told him, “Someone is looking for you.”

Someone looking for me? Who would come looking for me? No one but Minghua Palace or the Empress Dowager’s people would act on his behalf.

The Fifth Prince’s expression changed drastically. He adamantly denied it, saying, “That’s impossible. They don’t know I’m here.” Yet, despite his words, the doubt and scrutiny in his eyes as he looked at Xue Jin’an betrayed him.

Xue Jin’an didn’t know martial arts—this was something the Fifth Prince was absolutely certain of. Yet, he had to admit that despite his lack of training, Xue Jin’an was not to be underestimated. Every breath, every movement—walking, sitting, lying down—was controlled with precision. Even yesterday, it was Xue Jin’an who first heard the imperial guards’ footsteps.

It was astonishing that someone without martial arts training could be more alert than a lifelong fighter. The Fifth Prince felt a hint of defeat. This was precisely why he couldn’t resist demonstrating his skills twice in front of Xue Jin’an.

Perhaps his closeness to Xue Jin’an wasn’t merely an act of rebellion against the elders.

The Fifth Prince suspected that Xue Jin’an was deliberately trying to trick him into leaving. He studied Xue Jin’an’s expression, searching for any sign of deceit, but the other’s face remained expressionless, his dark eyes calm and unreadable.

Uncertain, the Fifth Prince paced anxiously in place for a couple of circles before suddenly turning to Xue Jin’an with a grim face, “Are you playing me?”

Had the skill of lying with a straight face failed him?

“Yes, I’m playing you,” Xue Jin’an admitted without any guilt, nodding calmly before issuing a blunt expulsion order: “When will you leave?”

Xue Jin’an meant no more than that. He just found the Fifth Prince’s constant circling back to the same topic reminiscent of when he himself was a mere ordinary phone, often responding with “I didn’t understand” or “I temporarily cannot recognize your speech,” driving his human companions to curse, “stupid AI.”

He had never thought this was a problem before, but today he had to admit he could be a little annoying.

Neither the original Fifth Prince nor this one was known for having a good temper. Such a person was highly hypocritical—only allowing themselves to toy with others, never the other way around.

Xue Jin’an’s data predicted the prince would get angry and lose his temper, so he was prepared.

What he didn’t realize was that his calm, straightforward response—without giving it a second thought—was like a sarcastic slap after a good deed was met with ingratitude.

If the roles were reversed, and he was the one kindly warning someone only to be accused of playing them, he would have responded the same way: “Yes, I’m playing you, so can you just leave already?”

The Fifth Prince, projecting his own mindset, added several layers of dark filters onto the expressionless Xue Jin’an.

To Xue Jin’an’s surprise, the Fifth Prince stared at him for a long moment before his mood surprisingly calmed, and he pulled the corners of his lips into a genuine smile.

“I understand. Consider me in your debt,” the prince said, unusually gentle. After a moment’s thought, he added, “Next time I come to see you, I’ll grant you a request as a token of thanks.”

With that, he vaulted over the wall with a light skillful leap and ran off.

Xue Jin’an stared at the empty walltop, belatedly realizing the Fifth Prince had been deliberately toying with him.

Humans really are cunning. He noted the new skill in his memo.

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After finishing his meal and fully charging his device, Xue Jin’an tested the sound leakage issue with Xiao Luzi.

He had assumed that even at full volume—fifteen bars—he only used three bars, and that the Fifth Prince could still hear him from a distance on the beam indicated a severe sound leakage problem.

Yet when Xue Jin’an cranked the volume to maximum, Xiao Luzi sitting across from him suddenly nodded in realization. “I can hear it! What is this? It sounds wonderful.”

“Master, how do you make sounds without opening your mouth? Is it ventriloquism? And you can produce different voices? That’s amazing!” Xiao Luzi’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Master, I want to learn this!”

Xiao Luzi found nothing strange about his master knowing such things. After all, just yesterday his master had scolded the Fourth Prince without him knowing and had befriended the Fifth Prince. It was only natural that his master knew things beyond his understanding.

After all, his master was so clever and capable. From the day Xue Jin’an confronted the royal eunuch Wang, Xiao Luzi had swiftly adjusted his attitude—from blind protection to unprecedented blind admiration—rationalizing all of Xue Jin’an’s actions and supporting him blindly, even if it meant following orders to his death.

Xue Jin’an remained silent. Turning a phone into a person was one thing; turning a person into a phone was beyond his skills.

Seeing Xue Jin’an’s silence, Xiao Luzi felt a slight disappointment. “May the servant not? Ah, no, the servant is not blaming master, it’s just… the servant… the servant has overstepped, please punish your servant!”

Xue Jin’an only contemplated whether to accept the title of ventriloquist and vocal mimicry folk artist. Unexpectedly, Xiao Luzi thought up all sorts of things and even knelt down to beg for punishment.

Xue Jin’an told him to rise. “I’m not blaming you. I just… can’t teach you.”

He wasn’t lying—he truly couldn’t teach ventriloquism or vocal mimicry, since he never learned them himself.

“Master wouldn’t despise me for being stupid, that’s good.” Xiao Luzi brightened again and nodded energetically. “I’ll definitely find someone to learn from.”

“...Alright, good luck,” Xue Jin’an encouraged, patting his shoulder.

Later, Xue Jin’an didn’t know who Xiao Luzi found or how long he trained, but by the time it was needed, Xiao Luzi had mastered the skills.

Aside from the unexpected appearance of the Fifth Prince on the beam that morning, Xue Jin’an’s day passed as usual—browsing trending topics, watching live streams, and using other apps.

On a whim, he opened the “Yellow Kangaroo” app and randomly ordered takeout. This time the delivery was made by a young eunuch from the imperial kitchen. The eunuch’s face flickered with confusion before turning into barely contained joy.

“If I had known it was Your Highness, I would have served you with greater care. I am here to attend to Your Highness’s dining needs.” Without putting down the food box, he carefully took out each dish, arranged them, bowed, and stood aside, ready to serve.

Xiao Luzi came out of the room and saw this scene, his expression instantly breaking, as if something inside him shattered.

Xue Jin’an quietly ate his meal.

He later learned that this young eunuch was Xiao Luzi’s informant within the imperial kitchen, aiming to pledge loyalty to Xue Jin’an.

Though Xiao Luzi felt awkward about having a rival, given the circumstances, he still advised Xue Jin’an to keep the eunuch.

Xue Jin’an was indifferent about keeping him but agreed and asked, “What’s your name?”

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The young eunuch’s eyes darted cleverly as he probed, “I have no name. Would my master grant me one?”

Xue Jin’an, still a phone in many ways, resorted to the naming function within his graphic app to improvise. He thought about how humans valued neat, meaningful names.

For example, the princes’ names: First Prince Luo Wen, Second Prince Pei Lan, Third Prince Lang Huan, Fourth Prince Xuan Yue, Fifth Prince Jun Jue, Sixth Prince Chen Ping, Seventh Prince Jin’an, Eighth Prince Liu Guang, Ninth Prince Zhuo Jian… Even the two princes of Empress Dowager Xiao Jingyi who died young, Xue Jue and Xue Zhang, all shared the jade character in their names.

Originally, princes should have had single-character names. Though the preference for single characters had waned, traditionalists still regarded them as more prestigious. The first generation of princes before the Great Qi Dynasty had single-character names with the fire radical, such as the late emperor Xue Yan and the regent prince Xue Huan; the second generation had single-character names with the sun radical, like the current emperor Xue Sheng and princes Ping and An.

The third generation should have followed suit, but after two princes died young and the emperor reigned ten years with only Princess Bao Yi surviving, the Grand Empress Dowager, recalling folk beliefs that simple names were easier to nurture, decided to switch to three-character names. Coincidentally, the First Prince survived, and one prince was born each year after, with no further infant deaths except the Tenth Prince.

Similarly, the Fourth Prince’s names—Shun Xin, Shun Yi, Shun De—all shared the character “Shun,” meaning smooth or obedient.

Xue Jin’an then asked Xiao Luzi, “What’s your name?”

Xiao Luzi paused. “I… I’m called Xiao Luzi…”

No wonder, in the original story Xiao Luzi was always called that. The original owner’s memories also used this name—he had no true given name.

Xue Jin’an thought for a moment. “You were brought back by my mother, so you’ll take her surname. Zhou Lu... or better yet, Zhou Fulu. You’ll be called Zhou Shouquan—‘Blessings come from the East, official rank and longevity without disaster, the three blessings complete.’ What do you think?”

Though he patched the name together, Xue Jin’an lacked confidence in it. He felt it was a bit too casual, simply combining the common word “Fulu” from Xiao Luzi’s character Lu.

He had the naming function ready and could cycle through more until he found something better.

Yet, unintentionally, the two young eunuchs were overwhelmed with joy at the name, their eyes reddening.

Those who endured the harsh fate of being castrated and entering the palace were poverty-stricken, selling themselves to earn a meal and find a way out. Serving others was grueling, but better than starving.

Eunuchs were of lower status than palace maids and rarely rose to prominence. Even if they did, no one respected them. Upon entering the palace, they lost all self-respect and pride, willing to be trampled upon.

They never imagined someone would painstakingly think to give them a name, and one filled with such beautiful wishes.

“Thank you, Master, for the name!” They knelt deeply and kowtowed repeatedly.

If Zhou Shouquan had originally intended only to attach himself to a patron by pledging loyalty to Xue Jin’an, after receiving this name, his sincerity deepened. He freely shared his entire network with Fulu.

Fulu realized this young man was indeed talented, knowing many people—from the highest-ranking officials at the silkworm workshop to the lowest-ranked workers at the laundry bureau. Even if these were lowly palace maids and eunuchs, the breadth of his connections was impressive.

Fulu’s eyes changed as he looked at him. “A true master hides his talents well.” No wonder someone so young could have a position in the imperial kitchen—despite being at the bottom rung, it was difficult to enter. The kitchen was lucrative; just getting in meant you wouldn’t starve.

Shouquan explained that these were all his fellow townsfolk. During the great southern flood, they fled to the capital. When survival became impossible, they gritted their teeth and entered the palace hand in hand.

“There were originally over twenty of us, but now fewer than ten remain.”

He didn’t elaborate on the missing ones, but Fulu guessed—surely they hadn’t been released from the palace.