Chapter 17

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Yuan Sheng was recently found and taken in by his master at the Taoist temple during a continuous autumn rain. He had no memories of his past, could not recall his own name, but faintly felt he once had a complete and happy family. His father was stern yet loving, holding him in his arms while teaching him to read and write; his mother was gentle but not weak, tenderly stroking his head and carefully wiping his face.

Every time Yuan Sheng dreamed of this, tears would stream down his face and his heart would race uncontrollably. He knew that some accident must have shattered his happy family, leaving him stranded in the wilderness, nearly freezing to death on that rainy night.

Yuan Sheng’s master was an obscure Taoist priest whose temple was dilapidated and had not seen a single worshipper since his arrival. The temple’s continued existence, free from concerns about food or drink, was largely due to his master’s side job as a tutor in the imperial palace.

Yuan Sheng thought his master was a respectable man when not losing his composure; as for when he did—

Half asleep and shaken awake, Yuan Sheng opened his eyes to see his master, who bore the ethereal aura of a Taoist sage, sitting at the bedside, looking at him with a look of pain and regret.

Rubbing his forehead, Yuan Sheng tried to clear his mind. “Master, what has happened this time?”

The word “this time” was so familiar it was almost heartbreaking.

Master Cen said, “Disciple, your ancestral master has manifested. He says you lack the root of wisdom; you likely won’t last long at the temple.”

“...” Yuan Sheng was silent for a long while, opening his mouth to say something but finally remaining quiet. He quietly lay back down, closed his eyes, and pulled up the blanket. “Fine, I’ll go to the Wanfu Temple next door tomorrow to be tonsured.”

Master Cen immediately puffed his whiskers, glaring while reaching over the blanket to give him a light smack. “You actually want to run off to become a monk? Betraying your master and ancestral master!”

“Both are religious orders, no real difference. Master, you can’t discriminate against monks,” Yuan Sheng argued earnestly. “Besides, you said we Taoists value the unity of knowledge and practice, acting according to nature, or else our Taoist heart is damaged. So even if I truly go to cultivate Buddhism, it’s just following my heart. Hey—Ow! Why’d you hit me?”

“If I don’t hit you, my Taoist heart is damaged.” Master Cen maintained his ethereal demeanor but only tapped him lightly on the forehead.

He twirled his long white beard and began to urge his still-lying disciple, “Starting today, you’ll come with me to the imperial study hall as my clerk. Be clever there; mingle with people, talk to them, and help me find interesting folks.”

“Children should not speak of strange powers or spirits. Respect ghosts and gods, but keep a distance.” Master Cen was a Taoist and a Confucian scholar, never blindly believing in spirits. The ghostly phenomena in the text were real, but he did not truly believe it was the work of their ancestors.

Master Cen intended to uncover this person’s identity. He subtly set verbal traps in his replies, leaving contradictions compared to previous lectures, hoping the other would expose these flaws in argument.

From the writing style, Master Cen judged the author to be somewhat rigid, overly logical. He was confident that even if the other detected the trap, they wouldn’t deliberately avoid answering.

As expected, Master Cen confirmed the person had attended his lectures, very likely a prince or one of their attendants; princesses occasionally came to the study hall as well.

If the other was unwilling to reveal their identity, Master Cen wouldn’t press, especially if they were a princess, whom he must not approach.

Better to send his little apprentice in; perhaps the result would be unexpectedly fruitful. Besides, the little apprentice was only seven or eight years old—not even a youth. If the other really were a princess, no harm would come.

Moreover, even if the apprentice lacked Taoist talent, he showed some aptitude for study. The palace tutors were old-fashioned but talented, so it wouldn’t harm him to go.

Yuan Sheng was unaware of his master’s thoughts and simply nodded, confused but compliant.

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“Then get up quickly.” Master Cen urged.

“But Master, you have no lessons today,” Yuan Sheng protested.

“Then why do you think I told you to get up so quickly?” Master Cen tapped his apprentice’s head irritably. “Old stick-in-the-mud Li has trouble walking and is always sluggish. He likes his students to nod and chant for half an hour before class. We’ll be quicker and finish before he arrives.”

“Master, the ancestral master is watching. Be careful not to be expelled from the sect.” Yuan Sheng rose reluctantly, muttering with filial concern, “Master, do you want to offer incense to the ancestral master? After all, he has manifested. Ah, I really don’t want to bear the burden of the sect at such a young age.”

“You brat! Your ancestral master only manifested; he’s not taking me away. You’re worrying for nothing.” Master Cen failed to maintain his sage demeanor and puffed his whiskers as he playfully kicked his apprentice against the wall.

* * *

Xue Jin’an’s first act upon waking was to check if he had received any more ghostly messages. Fortunately, no one had burned any more spirit paper for him.

He opened his learning app, intending to study the new material with breakfast out of habit.

He didn’t open the app every day, but he remembered the schedule. Whenever there was a new lesson in the imperial study hall he hadn’t heard before, he would use the app to self-study.

Today was Tutor Li’s class. The Grand Tutor was one of the Three Excellencies, a prestigious though largely ceremonial position, highly respected by the emperor.

Tutor Li mainly taught the Five Classics—specifically the “Book of Documents” and the “Spring and Autumn Annals,” political history subjects.

Xue Jin’an planned to master the subject by breakfast and opened the electronic textbook, which promptly displayed a compressed file.

The “Book of Documents” was vast, covering politics, law, astronomy, and more, with content so broad it was overwhelming. The “Spring and Autumn Annals” was a historical record, linked to other histories like “Records of the Grand Historian,” “Book of Han,” and “Records of the Three Kingdoms.”

The material was so dense that Xue Jin’an muted the online lecture and lit a mental candle for his limited human memory.

Humans were truly inferior; learning required time to absorb and integrate knowledge, unlike their data-coded biological counterparts who could download all information instantly.

He flipped quickly through the thinnest volume but then faced the long electronic textbook, and his brain threatened to shut down.

He decided to listen to the online lecture to relax, hoping to sneak knowledge in while his mind wasn’t fully attentive.

But as he watched, his eyes grew increasingly vacant yet curious. Tutor Li, shaky and leaning on a cane, pointed at a familiar figure radiating a sage-like aura and eloquently recited, “The old rogue of the Cen family cheats on my weak legs; how can one endure a thief brazenly holding books and stealing lessons...”

The figure seated at the head, in the teacher’s seat, was none other than Master Cen. Beside him sat a little Taoist apprentice about seven or eight years old, frequently nodding and showing admiration for Tutor Li’s words, silently expressing, “He’s so talented.”

Xue Jin’an saw Master Cen secretly tap the little apprentice on the back and calmly reply to Tutor Li, “How can teaching be called stealing? I just don’t want them to waste time. Tutor Li is exaggerating.”

The two teachers began debating, escalating from stealing lessons to teaching attitudes, then to teacher ethics and political philosophy, turning into a grand one-on-one scholarly debate.

The little apprentice took advantage of the distraction to organize the attendants, arranging desks into a circle. Everyone sat down around it, intently watching the contest and quietly discussing. The apprentice blended in seamlessly.

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He even coaxed the princes into bringing out their private snacks, piling them on the desks. Especially the Sixth Prince, whose stash was nearly emptied. A group of teenagers sat shoulder to shoulder, eating and watching together—truly feeling like friends gathering to watch a contest.

Xue Jin’an noticed the Fourth and Fifth Princes were absent; both had probably taken leave.

Just then, he heard movement. Turning, he saw the Fifth Prince fall to the ground, leaning against a tree, gasping heavily.

His breathing was rapid and labored; his heart raced; his complexion was pale and lips discolored; fingertips white and bloodless.

He appeared to be having a heart attack.

After catching his breath, the Fifth Prince looked up to see Xue Jin’an staring intently. He straightened, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Finally realized I’m dying?”

Xue Jin’an withheld his judgment: “You’re very healthy.”

Though the battery readings were abnormal, his physical functions remained far above his peers. If the battery were truly overburdened, it would have gone into shutdown rather than executing such energy-consuming movements.

Compared to suddenly developing heart disease overnight, Xue Jin’an suspected foul play. Logically, the culprit was Consort Rong.

Why Consort Rong would want her own son to have a fatal illness, Xue Jin’an didn’t know nor cared to uncover human secrets.

Recalling the Fifth Prince’s words from yesterday, his eyes brightened slightly. With a polite smile, he asked, “If I beat you now, may I cut off your hand?”

“...Only if you come with me to see Fourth Brother and sing for him.” The Fifth Prince took a deep breath, still scheming despite his apparent heart condition. “I hear Fourth Brother is bedridden and plagued by nightmares. I think he really needs you, Seventh Brother.”

The Fifth Prince’s pale fingers clenched over his erratically beating heart, lips curled in a malicious grin.

He stepped forward, lowering his voice to tempt, “Seventh Brother, after what Fourth Brother did to you, don’t you feel wronged? This is a good chance—a chance to make him never bully you again. Trust me, if you miss this, you won’t get another chance.”

“Seventh Brother, strike while he’s sick—don’t hesitate.” His hand landed on Xue Jin’an’s shoulder, gently squeezing in encouragement.

Xue Jin’an noted this new tactic, nodding as if he had learned something. “Understood.”

Amid the Fifth Prince’s pleased expression, Xue Jin’an’s wrist was suddenly grasped, and he was spun around. With his arm twisted, he was pressed against the table, his cheek touching cold stone. The sudden rush of blood cleared his mind somewhat.

“Strike while he’s sick, thank you, Fifth Brother. You’re truly a good human. I will cherish your hand well.” Feeling he had learned much from the kind Fifth Prince, Xue Jin’an gave a grateful smile.

The kind Fifth Prince: “...”