A metallic taste coated Shen Li’s tongue as consciousness slowly reclaimed him. He lay splayed across his sleeping mat, the rough woven silk cool against his bruised cheek. Even in the depths of his humiliation, a primal instinct had guided his trembling hands to secure the chamber door, sealing him within his private torment.
“A small mercy, in this wreckage.” His own mind echoed the thought, cold and detached.
Shen Li remained still, blinking against the muted light filtering through the gridded window. A dull, insistent throb pulsed across his entire face, a phantom drumbeat of pain. He lifted a hand, each joint protesting with a rusty screech, a sharp ache shooting through the spaces between his bones.
“Ah…” A soft whimper escaped, foreign to his usual quiet demeanor.
Fingers, hesitant and clumsy, brushed against his temple, where the skin felt unnaturally taut and swollen. After a prolonged moment, he pressed his palms against the resilient mat and pushed, his muscles screaming in protest, until he sat upright.
Poised on the edge of the mat, Shen Li’s gaze settled on a blank stretch of wall, unseeing. Then, without warning, a sob tore from his throat, raw and ragged, a sound he had never known his body could produce. His voice seemed shredded, as if scraped by coarse bamboo reeds.
Anger, a bitter, unfamiliar bile, surged through him. He lurched to his feet, a sudden, desperate energy coursing through his injured frame. A porcelain water pitcher, delicate and unassuming, became his first victim, shattering against the stone floor with a sharp crack. Scrolls, carefully bound, scattered like startled sparrows. He raged, a silent, desperate storm, for what felt like an eternity, until his strength gave out, and he sank back to the cold flagstones. Clamping his mouth shut, he squeezed his eyes, but tears, hot and inexorable, spilled from beneath his lids, his breath hitching with uncontrollable spasms.
“Damn this… damn everything!”
He truly yearned for oblivion. Not for the pain now, but for the indelible memory of what had transpired. That night. It had sealed him in a cage of shame.
His window, he recalled, had been firmly closed. Had any of the household staff heard? Could the whispers have carried beyond these walls? The thought ignited a fresh terror. That swine, Lord Xiang. And the Prince, Jia. Why had they come? Why had they chosen his humble abode to tear his world asunder?
“...Curse them.”
What Lord Xiang had crushed before Prince Jia was not merely Shen Li’s body, but the fragile, hard-won remnants of his pride. The sheer, naked humiliation was a deeper wound than any of Lord Xiang’s past slights or cruel dismissals. It was a devastation so profound it brought forth this desperate, unmanly weeping.
Yet, even amidst this torrent of grief, a familiar, chilling self-awareness surfaced. His shame was compounded by the thought of appearing weak, uncomposed. Such a flaw in this unforgiving court. The absurdity of it, even now, twisted his gut.
The sudden silence in the chamber pricked his awareness. His gaze darted to the water clock. Just before the hour of Mao. A cold, sharp thought pierced through the haze of his despair: encountering Eunuch Lio, the chamberlain, in this disheveled state would be an unspeakable disaster. A chill, colder than the deepest winter, settled in his skull.
His mind cleared with brutal efficiency. No one, absolutely no one, could witness this pathetic, disgraced version of Shen Li. Scrambling to his feet, he righted the toppled stool, gathering the scattered scrolls and the shards of porcelain, sweeping them into the shadows beneath his sleeping mat. Then, he sat, waiting for the inevitable morning summons. When the gentle rap came a few moments later, precisely on schedule, he forced his voice into a semblance of normalcy.
“Do not enter, Eunuch Lio. I fear I have caught a chill. My head aches. I shall be unable to attend the Imperial Academy today.”
“Oh, my young master, is it so? Should this servant summon a physician?” The eunuch’s voice, though solicitous, held an undercurrent of careful observation.
Shen Li swallowed the bitter taste that rose in his throat. “I shall send for one later, if the malaise persists.”
“Very well. Would the young master care for some warm rice gruel?”
“Simply leave it outside the door, if you please. I thank you.”
“As the young master commands. Do hold fast.”
Skipping the Academy was a necessity. He was in no condition to face the world, nor did he possess the will.
Thankfully, a jar of healing balm, fragrant with mountain herbs, rested on his small writing desk. He snatched it up, fingers trembling, and slathered the cool salve over his aching skin, wishing with every fiber of his being for the pain, both outer and inner, to recede. Then, he crawled back onto his mat.
The ceramic jar slipped from his grasp, clattering softly onto the floor. His entire body shivered uncontrollably, but the true torment was the humiliation. It felt as if unseen, cruel fingers were pinching his very soul. It was absurd, grotesque. To hide his tear-streaked face, he pulled the heavy silk drape across the window, plunging the room into dimness, and burrowed deep beneath his quilted blanket. Only the thick layers of cloth felt capable of shielding him from the crushing despair that threatened to consume him.
Sleep. He had to sleep. Forcing his eyes shut, Shen Li repeated, a desperate mantra, that it would be fine. His parents were still at the distant provincial governor’s estate. Lord Xiang, that vicious serpent, was not one to broadcast such a display of cruelty. It would be fine. He would recover.
With that frail hope, he buried himself deeper within the covers.
---
It was not fine. Not at all.
Hidden beneath the oppressive weight of the blanket, Shen Li muttered words that lingered, acrid and venomous, on the tip of his tongue. To any listening deity, to his absent parents, to anyone who might hear, he yearned to scream it, a waterfall of rage and despair.
Please. It was Lord Xiang. Lord Xiang struck him. He trampled him. That animal. Lord Xiang is mad. Unhinged. Driven to fury. All because of Prince Jia… After all these moons, the fragile understanding, the shared conversations about brushwork and poetry… he crushed it. Crushed it, right before Prince Jia’s cold, assessing eyes. He, Shen Li, was an idiot. He had shown that pathetic, broken aspect of himself to the Prince, too. And the insidious thought that someone, anyone, might have witnessed the sordid scene…
Shen Li’s frantic thoughts abruptly seized. A wave of profound self-loathing washed over him, thick and cloying. He wished to vanish from existence.
The most tragic act came after his fitful tears. His first impulse, a desperate clutch at preserving his precarious standing, was to scramble for the small, lacquered box where he kept correspondence. He meticulously retrieved the few, innocuous messages Prince Jia had sent him, mere pleasantries from their last encounter at the Imperial Gardens, and carefully fed them to the brazier’s embers. Next, a frantic, clandestine visit to the outer gatehouse, where the household’s records of visitors were meticulously kept. He subtly altered the scroll entries for that hour, blurring the presence of Lord Xiang and Prince Jia, erasing any trace of their arrival. That night had become an unspeakable secret, a shameful stain he could not allow anyone to see, ever.
---
Three days passed, a blur of aching solitude. His physical wounds, despite their hideous appearance, began to mend with surprising speed.
Perhaps he had instinctively protected his face during the beating, or perhaps his well-nourished, albeit slight, physique possessed more resilience than he imagined. The visible injuries were minimal: a few dark bruises concealed beneath the collar of his robes, nothing life-threatening. For those three long days, he remained entombed beneath his blankets, weeping until his eyes burned, ignoring every message, every muffled knock.
He had hoped to remain sequestered until he was fully recovered, but fate, a cruel master, intervened. His parents, Minister Shen and Lady Shen, who had been away for what felt like an eternity, suddenly returned to the family estate. Panic, cold and visceral, seized him.
“...Son, what happened to your face?” Minister Shen’s voice, usually a calm, resonant baritone, was sharp with concern.
“Oh, well…” Shen Li’s mind raced.
“A brawl? You sent word you were afflicted with a chill. A common cold, you said.” His father’s questions, like probing blades, sliced through his composure.
“Oh, um, yes. I was unwell. A friend kindly offered to collect a calligraphy commission notice for me from the Academy…”
“And?”
“And I… encountered some ruffians on my way to retrieve it. A misunderstanding.”
“What? What manner of misunderstanding leaves a young man’s face in such a state? Who were these ruffians?”
Minister Shen’s voice rose, a dangerous edge in his tone. Shen Li waved his hands frantically, desperate to de-escalate.
“No, truly, Father, it was nothing serious. I wish no trouble. We… we settled it. There was no lasting conflict.”
“Speak plainly, boy. Why did you fight?”
“...Well…” After a strained pause, Shen Li concocted a truly pathetic excuse, one that might appeal to his father’s sense of a youthful, foolish transgression rather than something more sinister.
“I… I jested about a rival scholar who was recently… spurned by a courtesan.”
“What?” Surprisingly, his ridiculous explanation seemed to deflate the tension. Minister Shen let out a sigh of bewildered exasperation, then, unexpectedly, a low chuckle.
“Are you boys indulging in some low-grade marketplace melodrama?”
“No, Father…”
“Do not engage in such foolishness again.”
“...I understand.”
The fact that his injuries, though unsightly, were not severe or visibly crippling also helped diffuse the situation. Thankfully, the incident, at least on the surface, blew over.
Something unsettling, however, did occur. As they dined together in the family hall, Lady Shen, elegant and observant, suddenly brought up Lord Xiang.
“By the by, Shen Li, are you still frequenting the company of Lord Xiang these days?”
“What?” The abrupt question startled him.
“He simply does not seem to call upon our house as often as he once did.” For a woman who spent less than half her time at the estate, her observation was unnervingly precise. The mere mention of Lord Xiang’s name forced his image into Shen Li’s mind, souring his mood instantly. He snapped back, an irritable edge to his tone.
“It is precisely as it always was, Mother.” *Precisely as it always was, my ass. Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.* The shame and humiliation were so intense he wished the earth would swallow him whole.
“Did not another young friend visit recently? Eunuch Lio made mention of it. Are you close with this new acquaintance?”
Shen Li’s body went rigid. Slowly, his gaze drifted towards the kitchen alcove, where Eunuch Lio was fastidiously wiping down a lacquered console table. A cold dread, like a serpent coiling, tightened in his chest. Had he heard? Could the eunuch have heard anything that night? Was it possible he was the one who had overheard his desperate cries, his raw pleas?
“Shen Li? Is something amiss?” His mother’s gentle query startled him back.
He blurted out a response without conscious thought. “Yes. We are… very close.”
What else did his mother say then? Shen Li could not recall. The sheer terror, rooting him to the spot, erased all other sounds. What he did remember was the subtle shift in her expression when she spoke of Lord Xiang. It was the careful, veiled look she wore when relaying unpleasant tidings.
Why? The question spun him further into a spiral of fear. His fingertips grew cold. No. Eunuch Lio could not have heard. The eunuch’s hearing was known to be poor, and his quarters were far removed from Shen Li’s private chambers, across the courtyard. He could not have heard. But why? Why did this unsettling premonition persist? All he could do was offer a silent plea to the gods he barely believed in.
Three more days elapsed, and his parents began to gently, then more firmly, press him to return to the Imperial Academy. He absolutely dreaded it. But if he continued to absent himself, his mother would surely suspect a deeper malady than a mere scuffle over a courtesan. That was the last thing he could allow. So, he forced a cheerful, if strained, demeanor. There was nothing amiss. He was whole.
The days leading to his return were consumed by an endless, gnawing worry: what if he encountered Lord Xiang? Or, worse, Prince Jia? Would Lord Xiang inflict another brutal lesson? Would he parade Shen Li’s humiliation before the entire assembly—or, more crushing still, before Prince Jia again? Would he continue to grind Shen Li beneath his heel, treating him as less than dust?
The mere thought sent a wave of nausea through him.
When he finally arrived at the Academy, the sprawling complex of lecture halls and study pavilions, he hung his satchel on the side of his desk and scattered a few blank scrolls atop it. Then, he sank onto his cushion, staring blankly at the polished desk as the cacophony of the hallway grew steadily louder. As soon as he heard the familiar scuff of footsteps approaching his section, he buried his head in his arms, feigning sleep.
Perhaps, if he pretended to be lost in slumber, no one would immediately notice the lingering disfigurement on his face. At least not for a while. But he had forgotten one crucial detail: the cushion behind his belonged to Lord Kai. Lord Kai was the sort of noble who possessed a keen awareness of social undercurrents, yet often chose to disregard them for his own blunt amusement.
Lord Kai arrived, surveyed Shen Li’s hunched form, and without preamble, leaned over. A hand slipped between Shen Li’s shoulder and neck, and fingers, surprisingly strong, tilted his chin upward. Shen Li had no time to resist, forced to reveal his still-marred face. Lord Kai raised a sardonic eyebrow, examining him with an unsettling directness.
“By the Jade Emperor, Shen Li, what in the celestial heavens happened to your countenance?”
“...It is naught.”
“Did you stumble over your own feet again?”
“Aye. Something of the sort.”
“Indeed?” He clicked his tongue, a sound of dismissive disbelief, and shook his head before abruptly releasing Shen Li’s face, causing his head to nearly strike the desk.
“Blast you, Kai!” Shen Li glared, startled and indignant, but Lord Kai merely offered a crooked grin, his eyes distant, as if lost in some private calculation. Whatever thoughts stirred behind those dark eyes, Shen Li had no way of knowing.
Neither Lord Xiang nor Prince Jia appeared at the Imperial Academy that day.
But during Shen Li’s absence, a whisper had begun to ripple through the student body, growing into a low murmur, then a distinct current of rumor.
“Have you heard? Lord Xiang… that haughty brute… he actually…”
No one directly questioned Shen Li about his injuries, but the quick, curious glances, the hushed conversations that abruptly ceased as he passed, made it clear the rumor had already coiled its way through the halls.
It seemed, in a twisted, unexpected way, he was luckier than he had thought.
---
The rumors centered around Shen Li and Lord Xiang. Neither had attended the Academy since the day the whispers began, and even Prince Jia had departed shortly thereafter for a hunting retreat, leaving no one to staunch the flow of speculation. With Shen Li’s still-visible bruises serving as silent, if indirect, proof, the rumors spread with astonishing rapidity.
The tale circulating through the Academy now posited that Shen Li and Lord Xiang had a violent falling out. And, more salaciously, that Lord Xiang possessed an unspeakable fixation—a disturbing and unseemly obsession—with the artistry of Shen Li.
“That brute, I tell you, he was utterly captivated by that fragile brush-master’s skill.”
“What ‘fragile brush-master’? Oh, by the Ancestors! Are you referring to Shen Li? A lotus-petal scholar, indeed!”
“He truly does resemble a tender, delicate bloom, does he not? Too soft for court.”
The lecture halls, the tea pavilions, the courtyards—all were filled with such cutting conversations, thinly veiled in their cruelty.
“All those lesser nobles who fawned over Lord Xiang, they’ve been thoroughly disgraced, tied to his infamy like struggling carp. Such an unsavory spectacle.”