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"Petals and Peril: The Tyranny of Crown Prince Xie Lian (Age 10)"
The Palace of Xianle glimmered in the late morning sun, golden rooftops gleaming, birds singing sweetly in the magnolia trees, and not a cloud in the sky.
A perfect day, really—until someone had the audacity to serve Crown Prince Xie Lian cold sweet lotus porridge.
“This is treason” the boy declared, slamming his silver spoon onto the table with a metallic clink. “Execution. Immediate execution.”
“Your Highness, it’s not cold, it’s just—”
“Cold!” Xie Lian repeated, eyes wide and mournful. “I specifically said I would be finishing my meditation by the eastern pavilion, and that I would be returning at precisely the ninth quarter of the hour. That was twenty-eight minutes ago. You had time.”
The poor attendant blanched.
A nearby eunuch silently removed the bowl, and within seconds a flurry of servants was sprinting toward the kitchens, shouting over one another about stoking the fires, checking the temperature, stir faster, stir faster!
Xie Lian, still seated at the table carved from single plumwood tree, pouted.
He was wearing white today, with an embroidered gold sash he had insisted was “more kingly” than the court-advised blue.
His hair was brushed to absolute silk, tied with a cluster of cloud brocade ribbons. He tapped one slippered foot against the polished floor and then sighed—loudly.
From the side, a high-ranking minister attempted to intervene. “Your Highness, perhaps it would be wise to show—”
“Do you wish to be executed as well?” Xie Lian asked sweetly.
There was a pause.
“I didn’t think so” the prince said with a gracious nod, as though he’d just performed a great act of mercy.
Outside the main hall, Empress Xianle was listening behind a screen, giggling softly into her hand.
“He’s just like his father” she whispered to one of her ladies-in-waiting. “So spirited.”
The Emperor, too, had heard the outburst, and was simply smiling into his teacup.
“Let him have his tantrum” he said. “It’s part of his charm.”
No one dared point out that last week’s “charm” involved Prince Xie Lian locking three scholars in the imperial garden maze because they wouldn’t let him play the role of Heavenly Emperor in their official rehearsal.
Or that the gardener still walked with a limp after Xie Lian’s failed attempt at royal chariot design (featuring two deer, six tasselled bells, and a single, wildly unbalanced wheel).
None of it mattered. Because when Xie Lian finally took his piping-hot porridge in both hands, smiled beatifically, and said, “Oh, finally, this is perfect,” the entire court breathed out in relief like a storm had passed.
And then he added, “Now bring me the musician with the cherry wood flute. I need background music while I digest.”
----
The guards at the eastern corridor had one job.
“Don’t let anyone near the armoury” said General Yin sternly that morning, as he marched by on his patrol.
The two guards saluted, nodded, swore it on their ancestors.
Five hours later, they were both asleep at their posts, lulled by sun and cicadas and a suspiciously strong pot of peach wine someone had “gifted” them.
Inside the armoury, Crown Prince Xie Lian crouched behind a rack of halberds, practically vibrating with joy.
His white-and-gold sleeves were smudged with dust, and one of his hair ribbons had come undone, trailing along the floor like the banner of a conquering warlord.
He was holding—no, cradling—a longsword.
A real, actual, sharp sword.
“Hello” he whispered to it reverently, stroking the lacquered scabbard. “You’re beautiful. I shall name you... Heavenly Devastation.”
The sword, being a sword, said nothing.
But Xie Lian felt the connection. It called to him.
He unsheathed it with a flourish, like he’d seen the palace actors do. The blade caught the light and sang.
“Ha!” he shouted, leaping dramatically into a fighting stance. “I, Crown Prince Xie Lian, shall vanquish all evil—!”
He swung.
He was not strong enough to control the weight.
He spun three full times, shrieked, stumbled backwards, and sent the sword flying out the open window with a clatter and a scream that was unfortunately not his.
Moments later, the head gardener was found unconscious in the lotus pond with a shaved patch of hair and a perfectly cleaved stalk of bamboo stuck through his sleeve.
The sword, somehow embedded upright in the stone path beside him, shimmered innocently in the sun.
Xie Lian peered out the window.
“Oops” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “That wasn’t technically my fault.”
When the head gardener recovered (and refused to speak ever again in the prince’s presence), the ministers gathered urgently.
“He’s going to kill someone” one whispered.
“Or get himself killed” said another. “Do you remember the incident with the fire arrows and the lacquered ceiling?”
The Emperor, of course, was amused. “He’s a boy. Curious. Energetic.”
“Your Majesty” General Yin said slowly, “the crown prince may benefit from... instruction.”
“Martial instruction?”
“Spiritual” the general said, through clenched teeth. “Discipline. Temperance. Perhaps a Guoshi.”
There was a pause.
The Emperor sipped his tea.
“Mm” he said at last. “Perhaps. As long as they’re gentle. No harshness. Our son is a flower of heaven.”
(He didn’t say “a whirlwind menace of divine chaos” but it was heavily implied.)
Xie Lian was lounging in the southern garden when the news came, half-hanging off a cushioned chaise with one leg in the koi pond and a bowl of candied lotus seeds balanced precariously on his chest.
“Your Highness” said one of his attendants, in his usual reedy voice, “His Majesty has appointed a Guoshi to begin your personal tutelage tomorrow at dawn.”
Xie Lian sat bolt upright, seeds scattering.
“A what?”
“A Guoshi, Your Highness. A personal spiritual instructor.”
“No!” he wailed, with all the melodrama of a war widow in a stage play.
“I don’t need one! I’m perfectly spiritually instructed already! I know all the ceremonial bows! I can recite the Five Sacred Vows with feeling!”
“Yes, Your Highness, but—”
“I don’t want some crusty old scroll-monger watching me breathe and telling me I’m unworthy of the heavens! I’m the crown prince! I am the heavens!”
The attendant had dealt with tantrums before, but rarely ones that involved the prince standing on one foot on a rock and declaiming his divine nature to a confused turtle.
“Perhaps Your Highness will change your mind when you meet him” he said weakly.
“I won’t! He’ll be ugly and mean and smell like camphor and discipline! Ughhh!”
----
He was wrong about the camphor, at least.
The next morning, the palace bells rang the hour, and Xie Lian, swaddled in silks and yawning theatrically, was dragged (half-fed and half-awake) to the Quiet Wind Hall.
Waiting for him there was a man in plain robes.
His hair was neatly tied, his posture unnervingly perfect.
He held a bamboo switch in one hand and a brush in the other. His expression was unreadable.
His presence: severe.
“This is Mei Nianqing” announced the minister of rites. “He will be guiding Your Highness in your scholarly and martial refinement.”
Xie Lian blinked at him. The man didn’t bow.
“I hate him” Xie Lian whispered immediately.
Mei Nianqing gave a single, shallow nod. “You are late.”
Xie Lian gasped. “Excuse me?!”
“You are late” he repeated, calm as stone. “And improperly dressed.”
“I’m the crown prince!” Xie Lian cried. “I can’t be late, everyone else is early! And this robe is embroidered! It has cranes! Look at them!”
“I see a child playing king” said the Guoshi. “Sit.”
Xie Lian sat.
He sat with all the rage and indignation of a boy who had never been forced to do anything in his life.
He sulked. He pouted. He tried his most powerful weapon: looking adorably offended.
Mei Nianqing handed him a brush and pointed to a blank scroll.
“You will copy this Sutra one hundred times.”
“What?!” Xie Lian shrieked. “One hundred?! That’s child cruelty! I have delicate wrists!”
“You will begin now” said the Guoshi. “When you finish, we move to sword practice.”
“Don’t I get a snack break?!”
“No.”
“Tea?!”
“No.”
“I need to stretch! I could get cramp! My mother said I’m very sensitive to qi imbalance!”
“If you die, I will inform the Emperor.”
----
By midday, the courtyard was littered with crumpled scrolls and the sounds of Xie Lian wailing “my fingers are dying!!” could be heard echoing through the eastern palace wing.
Mei Nianqing didn’t blink.
When the prince attempted to run, he struck the flagstones with his bamboo switch—once—and Xie Lian sat back down with such force he nearly knocked over the ink pot.
The court, watching from afar, whispered approvingly.
“Finally” said one minister, fanning himself. “Order.”
The Emperor was less convinced.
“He’s so harsh” he murmured. “Is this necessary?”
“He is... thorough” said General Yin.
----
Xie Lian burst into the imperial audience chamber like a windstorm in embroidered slippers.
The grand doors slammed against the walls with a mighty bang, startling the court musicians into a flurry of wrong notes.
Half the ministers instinctively ducked. The guards at the door blinked at one another, unsure whether to intervene or run.
The little crown prince was in distress.
His face was blotchy. His silks were stained with ink. His usually pristine hair had come loose from its ribbon, and a dried ink stroke streaked his jaw like an old battle wound.
He was crying. Loudly.
“MOTHER” he sobbed. “FATHER. I can’t do this anymore! I’m being abused!”
The Empress, who had been sipping plum blossom tea with perfect poise, immediately sprang to her feet.
“Oh no, my precious dove! Come here, come—who hurt you?! Was it the kitchen staff again? I told them not to give you bitter melon—”
“It’s the Guoshi!” Xie Lian cried, running into her arms and collapsing like a flower in drought.
“He made me write calligraphy until my soul left my body! And then—then—he said I hold a sword like a frightened goose!”
“Unacceptable” the Empress whispered, stroking his hair as he clung to her robes.
The Emperor sighed, not looking up from his documents. “Is this about the ink on the ceiling of the Quiet Wind Hall?”
“He wouldn’t even let me nap! He kept hitting the floor with a stick! Who does that?! I’m the crown prince, not a common monk!”
“Mm” said the Emperor, thoughtfully circling a line of military expenses with red ink.
“He called me unrefined!” Xie Lian wailed, squeezing tears from the corners of his eyes. “He said the heavens do not smile on arrogance! But I wasn’t arrogant, I was brave! That’s different!”
The Empress kissed the top of his head and cradled his cheeks between her hands.
“My poor darling” she said with infinite tenderness. “Your little fingers are sore, aren’t they? You’ve never been forced to do such ugly, awful tasks! Your brush hand is so delicate... I should’ve protected you better—”
“Perhaps we should dismiss this Guoshi” she said, glancing at her husband with faint steel in her gaze. “If he’s upsetting our child like this, how can he be trusted with his spiritual health?”
Just then, with exquisite timing and not the slightest rustle of his robes, Mei Nianqing appeared.
He bowed once, crisp and shallow. “Your Majesties.”
The Emperor glanced up. The Empress stiffened slightly, though she didn’t let go of her child.
Xie Lian let out a tiny triumphant noise, like a cat who had cornered a particularly slow mouse.
“He’s here! Good! You can fire him in person!”
The Guoshi stood silently. The air around him felt... cooler. The way still water feels just before a stone is dropped in.
He met the Empress’s eyes and said only this:
“Your Majesties, in his current state, the prince cannot write his own name without blotting it. He cannot hold a sword without endangering both himself and others. He cannot meditate for ten breaths without falling asleep. And yet, you would place the burden of a nation on his shoulders.”
The Empress’s brows twitched. She opened her mouth to argue—
And then closed it again.
Xie Lian stared. What was this? She was listening to him?!
Mei Nianqing continued, voice even and almost gentle.
“Your son is brilliant. His talent shines brighter than any I’ve seen. But brilliance without discipline is lightning without direction. A firework. Loud, beautiful... and fleeting.”
There was a long silence.
Even the Emperor set down his brush.
Xie Lian, caught between indignation and confusion, let out a sputtering whimper. “He’s mean! He’s just—just—mean!”
The Empress gave him a smile, soft but—complicated. She squeezed his cheeks between her palms again.
“There, there, my little moon” she murmured. “No one’s saying he stays forever. Let’s just try it. One month. If, at the end of that, you’re still miserable, we’ll reconsider. Alright?”
Xie Lian blinked at her.
“One... month?” he echoed. “Wait. That’s not a yes. That’s not a no. That’s—what is that?!”
“It’s a compromise, darling.”
“A what?!”
“A compromise. It means you both agree to something in between.”
Xie Lian stared like she’d just started speaking Yong’an dialect. “But... but I’ve never had one of those before!”
“Yes, well” said the Emperor, finally rising, “that’s part of your education now, too.”
Xie Lian opened his mouth in betrayal. “You planned this! You’re both conspiring against me!”
The Empress kissed him on the forehead. “No, no, sweetheart. This is love.”
“It feels like war” he muttered darkly, folding his arms.
Xie Lian hated this.
He hated waking up before sunrise.
He hated stretching in the cold.
He hated the calligraphy that made his wrists cramp and the sword forms that made his thighs ache and the sutras that went on and on and on like they were trying to bore him to death.
He hated Mei Nianqing most of all.
The Guoshi didn’t do anything dramatic.
He didn’t shout, didn’t strike, didn’t curse.
No, he was calm. Silent. Unyielding. He didn’t even react when Xie Lian tried fake crying again, just handed him another scroll like he hadn’t noticed.
And worst of all, his mother—his sweet, warm, kiss-your-forehead-for-a-paper-cut mother—hadn’t immediately fired him like she was supposed to.
What was this compromise thing, anyway?! A lie! A trap! Some horrible new grown-up invention designed to make Xie Lian suffer! And now he had to spend every day like this, like a commoner, like some... disciplined person.
It was unbearable.
He stormed through the palace halls in a fury, fresh from an exhausting round of brushstrokes he’d "accidentally" blotted over just to spite Mei Nianqing.
His robes swished too fast around corners, and he ignored the attendants’ murmurs behind him.
“Your Highness—”
He kept walking.
“Your Highness, please slow down—!”
And then—
Crash!
Xie Lian barrelled straight into a young servant carrying a heavy wooden tray, knocking it out of his hands. Tea cups, plates, and neatly stacked peach buns clattered and smashed to the floor in a burst of porcelain and sticky filling.
The servant gasped. “I—I’m so sorry, Your Highness! I didn’t see—!”
“Ughhh!” Xie Lian shouted, throwing his hands in the air. “Do you know how fast I was walking?! You should’ve moved! Are you blind?! I am the crown prince!”
The poor servant bowed low, already scrabbling at the broken shards and broken buns with trembling fingers. “Yes, Your Highness, of course, I—”
“Just go away!” Xie Lian snapped, furious and embarrassed, hair flying wildly as he spun on his heel.
“Pick it up.”
The voice was quiet.
Too quiet.
Xie Lian froze.
“No” he groaned without turning. “No no no no no no no—”
He turned.
There he was.
Standing exactly six paces behind him, robes unruffled, arms folded, gaze level.
Mei Nianqing.
“How do you do that?!” Xie Lian cried, flinging his arms out. “Do you hide in the walls?! Do you teleport?! Are you a ghost?!”
The Guoshi ignored all of that. He stepped past the stammering servant and pointed to the mess.
“Clean it.”
Xie Lian’s jaw dropped.
“Excuse me?!”
“Clean it.”
“But—I—I am the crown prince!”
“Yes. You are. And the crown prince should take responsibility when he causes harm.”
“I—I didn’t even mean to bump into him! He shouldn’t have been there! Why wasn’t he paying attention?!”
“You weren’t” Mei Nianqing said, voice as flat as the floor. “Now kneel.”
“I will not kneel in porridge!” Xie Lian shouted.
Mei Nianqing raised one eyebrow. “Then squat.”
Xie Lian looked around, like someone might appear to rescue him from this nightmare. Where were the guards? The eunuchs? His mother?
Nowhere.
No cavalry.
He looked at the servant, still trying to clean up on his own, and felt something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
He squatted.
Grumbling, mumbling, muttering darkly about rebellion and injustice, he picked up a ruined bun and dropped it into the tray with a squelch.
“I can’t believe this” he hissed. “I’m being humiliated. He turned my parents against me! They used to love me! Now I’m kneeling in soup!”
“You’re not kneeling” Mei Nianqing said. “You’re sulking.”
“Same thing!”
They didn’t speak for the rest of it. Not until the servant bowed low again and thanked the prince in a voice so small it might’ve been a ghost’s.
Not until Xie Lian’s hands were sticky and the floor was clean and the shame refused to fade from his cheeks.
“Return to practice” Mei Nianqing said, already turning.
Xie Lian stood up slowly, fists clenched.
“Why are you like this?” he demanded. “Don’t you care that I’m miserable?! Don’t you feel anything?!”
The Guoshi paused.
Then: “More than you think.”
And he walked away.
Xie Lian stared after him, heart pounding.
He hated him.
He hated him.
He did.
…He was going to complain again. Yes. He just needed a new plan. One that worked this time.
Right?
…Right?
----
The sun filtered gently through the white gauze curtains of the pavilion, the air warm and still. Birds chirped in the peach trees.
A spring breeze stirred faintly at the edges of the silk matting beneath their feet.
Xie Lian sat cross-legged at the low table, hair tied back in a neat loop, clothes modest—at least by his standards.
No gold thread. No embroidered dragons that he wasn’t really spposed to wear anyway. Just soft pale cotton, sleeves rolled to the elbows, ink smudged on one cheek like war paint.
He was sniffling.
It was a delicate, princely sniffle. But a sniffle nonetheless.
Across from him, Mei Nianqing sat composed, posture as straight as the brush he held between two fingers.
He poured water into a shallow dish, measured out powdered ink with silent precision, and ground it slowly, deliberately.
Xie Lian sniffed again and sulked harder.
"I do like calligraphy" he muttered under his breath, “but not with you.”
“Then you should be excellent at this” Mei Nianqing replied blandly, not looking up.
“Hmph!”
Xie Lian picked up his brush with a dramatic flick. He adjusted his scroll, exhaled loudly through his nose for emphasis, and began to write.
The first two characters were decent—shaky, but legible. The third one slanted. The fourth had a blotch.
The fifth—
Whap!
“OW!!” Xie Lian yelped, yanking his non writing hand back. “You hit me!!”
Mei Nianqing calmly laid the thin wooden pointer back down. “You smudged the stroke. You knew it was incorrect and continued anyway.”
“You didn’t even warn me!”
“You’ve been warned daily for ten days.”
“That doesn’t count if it’s not right before I do it!!” Xie Lian clutched his hand. “That hurt! Are you trying to break my fingers?!”
“No. If I were trying to break them, I would’ve used a staff.”
“YOU—!” Xie Lian was too stunned to finish the sentence.
“Write again” the Guoshi said simply.
“I’m telling my mother—”
“She agreed to it.”
Xie Lian froze.
His voice came out in a whisper. “She what?”
“She and your father both approved the disciplinary measure.”
“No. No they didn’t. You’re lying. My mother would never—!”
“Your father did” Mei Nianqing said. “Your mother... resisted. But he convinced her.”
Xie Lian stared at the inkstone. His brush trembled.
“She... she promised me” he mumbled. “She compromised. That’s cheating!”
Mei Nianqing didn’t answer. He handed Xie Lian a fresh sheet of paper and pointed to the top of the page.
Xie Lian wiped his nose on his sleeve and slammed his brush down. It left an angry blot of ink.
“Happy?! Look what you made me do!”
“That’s the fifth brush you’ve ruined this week. You’ll grind the next batch of ink yourself.”
“I hope you step on a porcupine” Xie Lian muttered as he scrubbed the page clean.
Mei Nianqing didn’t smile, but something in his silence tilted, just slightly. Like he was secretly amused.
Xie Lian saw it.
“Are you laughing at me?!”
“No.”
“You are!”
“I’m not.”
“Don’t smirk! I see you smirking!”
“I’m not.”
“You’re so smug. You tricked me into writing properly, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“You are! You made me write seriously so you could hit me with a stick and get away with it!”
“Your posture has improved. Your grip, too. If you continue at this pace, I might not need to correct you again.”
Xie Lian flushed. His whole face went hot with confusion.
“Y-you’re praising me now?! After violence?!”
“Reinforcement and correction go hand in hand” Mei Nianqing said calmly. “You’re bright. If you could learn without being punished, I would never raise a hand.”
Xie Lian blinked furiously.
He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t. He was just—his face was hot and his nose was itchy and his hand still hurt, and he hadn’t eaten anything except spiritual pears since breakfast, and—
“Sob sob sob sob sob” he whispered, brushing at his eyes angrily. “I’m going to die and you’ll go to prison.”
Mei Nianqing said nothing. He simply refilled the inkstone again.
After a long pause, Xie Lian muttered, “...You could at least bring me sweets next time.”
“I’ll consider it.”
That was the closest thing he’d had to a win all day.
----
The palace was quiet that afternoon, the sun beginning its slow descent over the golden eaves. Court matters had ended early, and the scent of camellia incense drifted lazily through the corridor as Xie Lian padded silently toward his father’s study, clutching his poor injured hand dramatically to his chest.
It still stung. A little. Not enough to cry over. But just enough to show.
He paused outside the door, puffed out his cheeks, and blinked rapidly at the ceiling to conjure a few honest tears. His sleeves were slightly wrinkled, his robe half untied just so it looked like he’d had a very hard day, and his nose was even a little pink.
Perfect.
He knocked delicately.
“Enter.”
His father’s voice was like bronze and stone—low and steady, with a deep echo of command.
But Xie Lian knew how to melt that voice. He had techniques. A little wobble in the step, a little tremble of the lip, a little—
“Faaather...”
The Emperor looked up from a scroll. His brow furrowed faintly. “Lian’er? What’s the matter?”
Xie Lian gave him his best wide-eyed look. “Father” he said, and even sniffled for good measure, “I was struck today.”
The Emperor sat up straighter. “Struck? By whom?”
“The Guoshi!!” Xie Lian exclaimed, raising his hand like it was a war wound. “Look! He hit me on my poor hand with a stick!! I was trying so hard, and he hurt me!”
He let his voice break just a little. Just enough.
His father stood. Xie Lian leaned in for the expected embrace, already picturing the righteous fury on the man’s face.
Instead—
The Emperor leaned forward, inspected the faint red mark, and then straightened again with a nod.
“Good.”
Xie Lian’s mouth dropped open.
“GOOD?!”
The Emperor crossed his arms. “You bruise easily. That means you’ll remember it. Character is built through discomfort.”
Xie Lian stared. “But—Father—I’m your son!”
“And I expect you to become a man worthy of this throne” the Emperor said, without a flicker of softness. “If the Guoshi thinks a correction is necessary, I trust his judgement.”
“But—but—but—!”
“Lian’er.” His father gave him a look that silenced the last protest in his throat. “You want to become strong don’t you?. This is part of it.”
“…But I didn’t ask to be whacked!”
“You asked to be good at swordsmanship. At calligraphy. At war. All of it comes with pain. You’ll thank him one day.”
Xie Lian felt the betrayal sink into his chest like ice.
His lip quivered. “I—I’m telling Mother.”
“She agreed.”
“NOOOOOO!!”
His cry echoed down the marble corridor, but no one came running.
He didn’t run to his mother after that.
He just turned, quiet and slow, and walked the long halls back to his chambers. No dramatic stomping, no tears-for-show. Just silence.
The servants he passed didn’t dare speak to him. One of them offered a peach slice on a silver plate, and he waved it away like a ghost.
His chambers were empty. The window curtains billowed slightly in the wind.
He climbed onto the couch beside the carved reading table, pulled a blanket over his head, and curled into a tight ball.
He was still the crown prince.
Everyone still adored him.
But for the first time in his life, no one had agreed with him. No one had sided with him. Not even his parents.
He squeezed his eyes shut and let his breath hitch quietly.
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t.
He buried his face deeper into the cushions.
“…sob… sob…”
There was no one to hear.
For the first time in forever—
It didn’t work.
Xie Lian was a smart child. Maybe too smart, sometimes. He knew when a battle was lost.
So the next morning, he didn’t throw a tantrum.
Didn’t burst into his mother’s arms, wailing and pouting until she caved. Didn’t linger in his father’s study to beg for a reassessment of their clearly flawed and unjust disciplinary methods.
No.
He was dressed in silence, the attendants combed his hair without a word. Didn’t comment on the breakfast spread or ask for his favourite osmanthus cakes.
He sat still. Ate slowly. Not because he was brooding—definitely not—but because he had matured. Overnight. Yes.
He wasn’t sulking. He was simply...
…mourning.
The death of a golden age.
The servants were baffled. Usually they had to brace for shrieking laughter or sugar-fuelled chaos this early in the day.
Today, the little crown prince glided like a shadow down the halls. No humming. No gleeful skipping. Just a solemn, tiny emperor-in-the-making.
At one point, a kitchen boy carrying two baskets of eggs tripped right in front of him, nearly face-planting into the carpet. The eggs clattered, one cracked.
The boy flinched, clearly expecting a high-pitched scolding.
Xie Lian barely glanced at him.
He kept walking.
When he arrived at the pavilion, Mei Nianqing was already waiting—of course he was—with brushes, scrolls, and ink laid out with exacting precision.
The light breeze fluttered the corners of the paper. Birds chirped somewhere in the peach trees.
Xie Lian bowed stiffly.
Mei Nianqing said nothing.
Xie Lian sat, picked up the brush, and began.
No whining. No excuses. No attempts to stall.
He just worked.
The characters were neat. Precise. Not perfect—his brush wobbled a little on the longer strokes—but the rhythm was there.
The discipline. His hand ached, but he didn’t stop. He wiped the ink from his sleeve when he splattered it, fixed his posture when he caught himself slouching. Not a single complaint left his lips.
And through it all, Mei Nianqing said not a word.
When the final character dried, Xie Lian laid his brush down with a quiet sigh and looked up.
Still no reaction.
Then, at last—
Mei Nianqing reached into a sleeve and placed something small and wrapped in paper beside the scroll.
A honey drop.
Xie Lian blinked.
A sweet?
It was golden and round and smelled like spring flowers. He stared at it as though it might vanish if he moved too quickly.
Then—
Whap!
“OWWW!!” Xie Lian clutched his hand again, eyes wide. “I DIDN’T EVEN DO ANYTHING WRONG THIS TIME!!”
“You did not thank me” Mei Nianqing said simply.
“But you hit me! Why should I thank you for that?!”
“For the sweet.”
“I—I was processing!”
Mei Nianqing stared.
“…Thank you” Xie Lian grumbled. “Please may I have it” he added, sullen and red-faced.
The Guoshi nodded, as if this were only natural.
“You may.”
Xie Lian snatched the sweet and popped it into his mouth before the world could take it back.
It melted on his tongue—golden, floral, perfect. He nearly groaned from the sugar rush alone.
But still.
He scowled.
“Unfair” he muttered.
“You’re learning” Mei Nianqing replied, already laying out the next scroll.
And, somehow, that made it worse.
----
The training yard behind the east wing wasn’t often used—too out of the way, too bare, too old. But that made it perfect. No audience. No royal guard clapping politely. No ministers watching to report back.
Just stone underfoot, the faint rustle of trees beyond the walls, and the clack of wood on wood.
Xie Lian panted hard, his fringe sticking to his forehead.
His sleeves were rolled high, his hands already splintered from gripping the polished wooden training sword too tight.
He swung again, and again, copying the motion Mei Nianqing had shown him.
"Lower your centre."
"I'm trying!"
"Don’t yell."
"I’M—" He stopped. Huffed. Tried again with a growl in his throat. "…trying."
The wooden sword smacked the air, awkward but improving. He spun too fast. Lost his footing. Fell, but rolled up again quickly.
Mei Nianqing watched in silence.
They had been doing this for days. And for all Xie Lian complained, pouted, moaned—he showed up. He listened. And more importantly, he remembered.
He grumbled. He dragged his feet. But he didn’t forget the forms.
Today, Mei Nianqing nodded faintly.
“You’ve improved.”
Xie Lian brightened instantly. "Really?!"
The Guoshi turned away and walked toward the rack at the far end of the courtyard.
Xie Lian blinked.
"...Wait."
There was the distinct sound of metal.
Xie Lian dropped his wooden sword. "WAIT!!"
Mei Nianqing returned with a slim, narrow-bladed practice sword—real steel, dulled but not harmless. Its hilt was wrapped neatly in crimson cord. When the sun hit it, it gleamed.
Xie Lian gasped.
"A real one? For me?"
"To use" Mei Nianqing corrected.
Xie Lian barely heard him. His hands closed around the hilt with reverence.
It felt different immediately. The balance. The weight.
The way the grip sat against his skin—it sang. His eyes went wide with awe, lips parted like someone had handed him the heavens.
"Mine" he whispered.
"Not yours" Mei Nianqing said.
Xie Lian was already swinging.
"Oh, I love her" he said dreamily. "She’s so perfect. Her name is Star-Dancer. Or—no—Rain-Blade. Oh! Ohh! Crimson Moonlight Executioner!!"
"You will name nothing until you can hold your stance for longer than a minute."
Xie Lian ignored him and spun with the blade again, slicing the air.
"Look at me, I’m a storm! I’m lightning! I’m—"
Shlick.
He gasped. Dropped the sword with a clatter.
His palm was bleeding.
A thin, clean slice across the base of his thumb. Not deep—but enough.
He stared at it in horror.
"...I’VE BEEN STABBED."
"You cut yourself" Mei Nianqing said, completely unmoved. “Because you were playing.”
“Bleeding!!”
"Good" the Guoshi said, crouching beside him and pulling out a cloth. "You’ll learn faster."
“But—but—you gave me a weapon!”
"You asked for one."
Xie Lian opened his mouth. Closed it. Huffed. “You tricked me again!”
“I didn’t say you wouldn’t get hurt. Only that you’d earn it.”
Xie Lian winced as his hand was bandaged. Then, with immense sulking and dignity, he wiped his nose on his uninjured arm.
“...She still needs a name” he mumbled.
“Try ‘Bruise-Bringer’” Mei Nianqing said dryly.
Xie Lian gave him a dark look. “You’re not funny.”
But he didn’t say no.
----
Xie Lian sat alone in the small dining room off the eastern wing, his little hands folded neatly in his lap.
The table was set with the usual royal fare—jade plates of fragrant rice, steaming bowls of broth, and small dishes of preserved vegetables—but he barely touched any of it.
His nose wrinkled slightly at the texture of the steamed fish, the hint of bitter herbs in the soup.
Beside him stood a young attendant, eyes attentive and ready, but silent as ever.
After a few moments of quiet chewing, Xie Lian cleared his throat delicately.
“Could I... perhaps have something different today?” His voice was soft but careful, the politeness practiced like one of his calligraphy strokes.
The attendant’s eyes flickered with surprise, but the nod was immediate. “Of course, Your Highness. I will see to it at once.”
Xie Lian offered a tiny nod of thanks, barely perceptible but sincere in its own way. He watched the servant leave, the quiet footsteps fading down the corridor.
He couldn’t help but think this whole “being polite” thing was a ridiculous game. Why should he have to behave just to get better food or favours? It was absurd.
But...
It worked.
A few minutes later, the attendant returned with a small, steaming bowl of rice porridge with sweetened jujube slices and a delicate piece of tender chicken—things not usually served to a bratty little prince who’d been known to push bowls off the table when bored.
Xie Lian poked at the food with his chopsticks, a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Not because he suddenly enjoyed being polite, no.
But because he liked getting what he wanted.
And if that meant pretending to be the model prince for a while—well, he could put up with it.
Not because he wanted to be nice.
No, definitely not.
Because it was better this way.
Mei Nianqing stood quietly just outside the doorway, his sharp eyes catching every subtle gesture—the polite request, the tiny nod, the barely-there smile that flitted across Xie Lian’s face as the attendant departed. He folded his arms, a faint hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his usually impassive mouth.
“Using politeness as a tool” he murmured to himself. “Smart. But not yet sincere.”
The next day, Xie Lian decided to test his ‘polite’ strategy in the palace gardens.
He approached a group of servants who were trimming the flowering bushes.
“Excuse me” he said carefully, bowing slightly. “Would you please show me how to prune this branch properly?”
The servants blinked in surprise at the unusually respectful tone, but one stepped forward with a small pair of shears.
“Certainly, Your Highness. Please, follow me.”
Xie Lian smiled inwardly. This was working.
But as he reached out to trim the branch, his fingers slipped, and he accidentally clipped a bud too close. A small gasp came from the servants.
“Oh no! I’m sorry!” Xie Lian exclaimed, flustered. Then, thinking quickly, he added, “Thank you for your patience.”
One of the older gardeners chuckled softly. “Mistakes happen, Your Highness. You’re learning.”
Xie Lian puffed out his cheeks. This ‘being polite’ thing might be tedious, but it was definitely more effective than tantrums.
Later, Mei Nianqing caught him practicing his calligraphy alone in the pavilion.
“You’re adapting faster than I expected.”
Xie Lian shrugged, cheeks pink. “Well, it’s not like I have much choice.”
Mei Nianqing nodded. “Good. The difference between a brat and a prince is often just knowing when to bend.”
Xie Lian scowled. “I’m not bending—I’m winning.”
Mei Nianqing’s lips twitched. “As long as you don’t forget that.”
Xie Lian picked up his brush and resumed writing, a small spark of determination flickering in his eyes.
A few days passed, and the change in Xie Lian was impossible to miss.
At breakfast, instead of his usual foot-stomping or loud complaints, he quietly asked for a second helping of jasmine tea, smiling politely when the attendant obliged.
His mother, watching from across the table, leaned forward with a soft laugh and reached out to squeeze his cheeks.
“Oh, my dear boy, such a polite little gentleman now” she cooed, her eyes sparkling. “If you keep this up, all the girls at court will be fawning over you in no time.” She planted a gentle kiss on each of his rosy cheeks.
Xie Lian squirmed, trying not to look as flustered as he felt.
“I hate Mei Nianqing” he muttered under his breath, arms crossed stubbornly.
His mother laughed again, ruffling his hair.
“Well, the month is nearly up anyway. Let’s see if you can keep it up once the Guoshi’s gone.”
Xie Lian glared at the table, but a tiny smile threatened to break through.
----
Xie Lian sat cross-legged, his brush poised carefully between nimble fingers.
Unlike the early days when every stroke was met with sharp reprimands or the sting of Mei Nianqing’s stick, today his hand moved with a fluid grace that surprised even himself.
His calligraphy had improved vastly. The once wobbly characters now stood tall and proud, balanced perfectly on the page like little soldiers at attention.
The furious scribbling and stubborn resistance had softened into a quiet determination. Mei Nianqing had not swatted his hand in weeks — a testament to the prince’s progress — and more importantly, Xie Lian was beginning to understand the discipline behind the art.
One afternoon, flushed with pride, he had quietly tucked a freshly finished scroll under his arm and presented it to his father.
The Emperor, who had been buried under a mountain of paperwork in his study, looked up with mild curiosity as Xie Lian cleared his throat.
“Father, I… I finished this” Xie Lian said, voice low but earnest. “I thought you might like to see.”
The Emperor took the scroll gently, unrolled it, and examined the elegant brushwork. His brows lifted slightly in approval.
“Well done” he said simply.
To Xie Lian’s surprise, the Emperor carefully rolled up the scroll again and affixed it with a silk ribbon. “I will hang this in my study.”
Xie Lian beamed, chest swelling with a rare pride. This was huge.
----
His martial arts training was no less transformative. The once awkward and wild swings with wooden swords had evolved into precise, measured strikes.
His footwork improved daily, though he still had a streak of bratty impatience that sometimes led to stomping or sharp words when a move didn’t land just right.
Yet, even with the growing seriousness in training, Xie Lian couldn’t help but daydream of what lay ahead.
Maybe one day, he thought, eyes gleaming, I’ll become a cultivator. A real cultivator.
That idea alone made the long hours of sword drills and calligraphy bearable.
----
The palace servants, too, had noticed the change in their young prince. Where once he was prone to tantrums and sharp demands, now he was more measured — though never completely without his bratty streak.
They found themselves willing to bend a little more for him, bringing extra treats when no one was looking, or slipping a small flower into his hair as he passed by.
They even began sharing stories about the prince’s occasional sharp wit and cheeky remarks, amused by the balance between his royal duties and his youthful rebellion.
Though Xie Lian still grumbled about the strictness of his guoshi and the confines of palace life, there was a new layer of respect in how others regarded him.
He was growing into the prince he was meant to be—bratty, bold, but undeniably talented.
----
One evening, as the sky turned to lavender and the lamps in the palace flickered to life, Mei Nianqing approached quietly.
“You have done well” he said, voice low but firm. “Not perfect, but well.”
Xie Lian puffed out his chest and smirked. “Of course. I’m amazing and the best after all.”
Mei Nianqing’s eyes twinkled faintly. “No, you are not. But that stubbornness will serve you well—if you learn to control it.”
Xie Lian laughed, brushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear.
“Control is overrated.”
Mei Nianqing only shook his head, a rare softness in his expression.
----
The final day of the month arrived with a crispness in the air that made the palace halls seem quieter than usual.
Xie Lian was dressed in his simple yet neatly kept robes, stood before Mei Nianqing in the training pavilion.
His chin was raised just a touch higher than necessary, eyes gleaming with that familiar mixture of bratty pride and barely concealed satisfaction.
“I have graciously decided to let you stay on as my guoshi” Xie Lian declared, voice dripping with mock magnanimity.
Mei Nianqing’s brow twitched ever so slightly before he stepped forward and delivered a quick, sharp nip on Xie Lian’s arm.
“Ungh! Hey! What was that for?!” Xie Lian yelped, hopping back with a pout.
“For your arrogance. You forget your place, Prince.”
Xie Lian narrowed his eyes but couldn’t hold back a small grin. “Fine, fine.”
Before Mei Nianqing could respond, Xie Lian spun on his heel and darted down the corridor, his footsteps light and fast.
His destination was the Empress’s chambers.
Bursting through the door without ceremony, he found his mother seated at her embroidery frame, calm and poised as always.
“Mama!” Xie Lian panted, cheeks flushed. “Please don’t fire the stupid guoshi.”
The Empress looked up, eyebrows arched in mild surprise. “Oh?”
Xie Lian shuffled his feet, avoiding her gaze. “He’s a bit scary I guess but I- he should stay I don’t mind him anymore.”
His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, eyes darting around the room as if Mei Nianqing might be lurking in the shadows.
“Don’t tell him I said that though…”
The Empress smiled softly, reaching out to ruffle his hair affectionately.
“Of course dear, if that’s what you’d like.”