A dull ache throbbed behind Jian Li’s eyes as he slowly surfaced from a haze. His limbs felt heavy, anchored to the silken mattress beneath him. He was in his own bed, the familiar scent of sandalwood and old parchment comforting yet distant. Even in his stupor, his hand must have found the heavy wooden bar, drawing it across the chamber door. A faint click, the sound a distant echo. “Impressive, even in such disarray.” The thought was a rasp against his raw mind. He lay still, waiting for awareness to settle. His face, a landscape of unfamiliar tenderness, pulsed with a numbing pain. One hand, the less stiff, rose laboriously. His shoulder groaned, rusty hinges protesting movement. A spear of pain lanced between his ribs. “Ah…” The sound was a ghost of a whisper. His fingers, clumsy and hesitant, explored the topography of his bruised skin. Lumps hardened beneath the surface, alien to his own flesh. After a long moment of prone stillness, he pressed his palms to the mattress, pushing himself upright. He sat on the edge, head bowed, eyes fixed on the patterned floor tiles. A tremor began deep within him, blossoming into a choked sob. It clawed its way up his throat, escaping as a series of ragged, painful gasps. His voice felt scraped, raw, as though fine grit had scoured his vocal cords. Unleashed fury surged. He sprang to his feet, seizing a stack of commentaries from his desk. Parchment scattered, pages fluttering like startled birds. He swept his calligraphy brushes onto the floor, scattering a myriad of fine hairs. A miniature landscape painting, meticulously crafted, flew from its stand to shatter against the wall. He cried, he raged, until exhaustion claimed him, sinking him back to the cold floor. His mouth clamped shut, teeth grinding. Even with eyes squeezed tight, tears welled, tracing hot paths down his cheeks, his breath hitching. “Damn this, damn all of it!” A bitter yearning for oblivion settled over him. Not for the pain that seared his flesh, but for the torment of the night before. The lattice window had been secured, the heavy shutters drawn tight. Yet, a sliver of doubt pierced his despair. Had anyone heard? Could a sound have escaped these walls? Damn Ren Shen. Damn Lord Xian. Why had they come? Why had they sullied his quiet life, tarnishing it beyond repair? “...Damn them.” What Ren Shen had trampled before Lord Xian was not merely his body. It was his essence, his fragile pride. The humiliation outweighed any slight, any dismissive glance Ren Shen had ever cast his way. It was a searing brand, searing deeper than any fist, stripping him bare. Yet, even as he dissolved into a pathetic heap, his mind, perverse and ingrained, fretted over appearances. Who might see? What impression would this present? Silence echoed. He became aware of its profound emptiness. His gaze drifted to the water clock. The first hour of morning court was drawing near. A cold clarity sliced through the fog of his anguish: if Old Nanny Mei discovered him thus, it would be an unmitigated disaster. An icy dread spread through his scalp, clearing his muddled thoughts. No one, absolutely no one, could witness this disgraceful state. He scrambled to his feet. The scattered scrolls were hastily gathered, the broken porcelain swept beneath the lacquered bedframe. He smoothed his rumpled sleeping robes. Then, he sat, stiff and tense, awaiting the inevitable tap on his door. It came, precisely on cue, a few moments later. His voice, strained but even, emerged. “Enter not. I believe a chill has taken hold. My humors are unsettled. I shall forgo the morning’s lessons.” “Oh, indeed? Should the physician be summoned?” Old Nanny Mei’s voice, though aged, held a gentle concern. He swallowed a bitter surge. “Should my condition worsen, I shall send for him later.” “Very well. Might I prepare a light rice gruel for you?” “Leave it outside the door, if you please. My thanks.” “As you wish, Young Master Jian. Only endure for a while.” He had bought himself time. Attending the Imperial Academy in this state was unthinkable, his resolve utterly shattered. Fortune had left a small clay pot of healing balm on his low table. He fumbled for it, smearing the cool, fragrant unguent over his aching skin, a desperate plea for the pain to recede. Then, he crawled back into the false comfort of his bed. The pot of balm slipped from his grasp, clattering to the floor. He paid it no mind. His entire body shivered, an uncontrollable tremor. But the physical discomfort was dwarfed by the burning shame. It felt as though a thousand tiny, cruel needles pricked his spirit. The absurdity of it all. He dragged a thick silk blanket over himself, blocking out the sliver of light from the window, burrowing deep. Only the heavy fabric felt capable of shielding him from the crushing despair that threatened to consume him. Sleep. He must sleep. He squeezed his eyes shut. It would be fine. His father and mother were away, journeying to the southern provinces. Ren Shen was not one to boast of such sordid affairs. It would be fine. Clinging to this fragile hope, he pulled the blankets tighter, drawing the silk up to his chin. *** It was not fine. Not at all. Hidden beneath the oppressive layers, he silently uttered words that tasted of gall. To the Heavens, to his ancestors, to any merciful spirit, he wanted to scream. A torrent of accusation, a waterfall of truth. Please. It was Ren Shen. Ren Shen struck me. He defiled me. That brute. Ren Shen is mad. Possessed by a demon. Out of his mind. All for Lord Xian... After the years of shared lessons, the fragile camaraderie… he crushed it. Crushed it right before Lord Xian’s dispassionate gaze. I am a fool. I showed such a pathetic display to Lord Xian. And the harrowing thought that someone, anyone, might have borne witness… His frantic thoughts halted abruptly. A wave of self-loathing threatened to drown him. He wanted to cease existing. The most wretched act, performed after his tears had dried beneath the blankets, was his first true act of waking desperation. He swiftly deleted every message, every summoned messenger record, from Lord Xian’s presence the previous night. Then, with trembling hands, he accessed the household’s minor spirit-wards, clearing the records of all visitors and disturbances from the early morning hours. That night, that ignominious stain, became a secret. A shameful blot on his existence that no living soul could ever see. *** He feigned illness for three days. Despite his unsightly appearance, his body, remarkably, began to mend. Perhaps his innate caution had led him to instinctively guard the more visible areas during the assault, or perhaps his well-nourished form simply possessed a resilience he hadn’t known. The visible injuries were minimal—a few blossoming bruises hidden beneath his robes, nothing life-threatening. For those three days, he remained entombed within his chamber, weeping, then raging, then weeping again. Every message, every summons from his tutors or fellow scholars, was ignored. He believed he could hold out until every trace of the ordeal vanished. But fate, it seemed, harbored a cruel jest. His parents, whose return was not expected for another fortnight, announced their imminent arrival. Panic, cold and sharp, seized him. “...Son, what has befallen your face?” His mother’s voice, softer than his father’s, held a note of alarm. “Oh, well…” He stammered, searching for a plausible fabrication. “A brawl? You sent word of a fever, a common chill.” His father’s deep voice was edged with suspicion, his questions like a volley of arrows. “Ah, no, Father. I felt unwell, so a friend fetched a scroll from the Imperial Archives for me…” “And?” “And… I encountered some rough fellows on my way to retrieve it.” “What?” His father’s brow furrowed. “What kind of brawl leaves a scholar’s face thus? Who were these ruffians?” As his father’s voice sharpened, Jian Li frantically waved his hands, desperate to quell the rising storm. “No, truly, there is no need for such concern. It was a trifling matter. We have already settled our differences.” “Come, speak the truth. What provoked this altercation?” “...Well…” After a strained moment of thought, a pathetic excuse, tailor-made for his perceived weakness, emerged. “I… I mocked his clumsy attempts to court the Daughter of Lord Zhao.” “What?” To his astonishment, the sheer absurdity of his answer seemed to disarm his father. A disbelieving sigh escaped his lips, followed by an unexpected, rumbling laugh. “Are you young masters enacting a street play?” “No, Father…” “Such foolishness. See that it does not happen again.” “...Yes, Father.” The relatively minor appearance of his injuries also played its part. The incident, miraculously, seemed to dissipate like mist. Yet, a disquieting undercurrent remained. During the evening meal in the family hall, his mother’s voice, light and seemingly innocuous, drifted across the low table. “By the by, Young Master Ren Shen. Do you still keep close company with him these days?” “What?” The question struck him like a physical blow. “He seldom visits the manor anymore, it seems.” For one who was away for more than half the year, her sudden curiosity seemed misplaced. The mere mention of Ren Shen’s name conjured his image, souring Jian Li’s appetite instantly. His tone, sharper than intended, betrayed his irritation. “Our acquaintance remains as it always has.” ‘As it always has,’ a bitter lie. Damn him. Damn him. Damn him. Shame, hot and scalding, washed over him, making him wish for the floor to swallow him whole. “But did not another friend call upon you recently? Old Nanny Mei mentioned a visitor. Do you find his company agreeable?” Jian Li’s body went rigid. Slowly, his head turned toward the kitchen, where Old Nanny Mei was diligently wiping down the last of the serving dishes. A cold dread seeped into his bones. Had she heard? Could her ears, dimmed by age, have caught anything from that wretched night? Was it possible she, of all people, had borne witness? “Young Master Jian? Is something amiss?” His mother’s concern cut through his terror. He blurted out a response, unthinking. “Yes. His company is most agreeable.” His mother continued speaking, but her words were lost, dissolving into the roaring in his ears. The sheer terror, rooting him to his seat, obliterated all else. What he did recall, vividly, was the look in her eyes when she spoke of Ren Shen. It was the same look she wore when recounting ill omens. Why? The question was a poisoned dart, pushing him deeper into a spiral of fear. His fingers grew cold, numb. No. She could not have heard. Old Nanny Mei’s hearing was poor, and her quarters were far removed from his own. She could not have heard a thing. But why, then, did the unease persist, coiling like a serpent in his gut? All he could do was offer a silent prayer to ancestors he had, until this moment, doubted. Three more days passed. His parents began to gently, then more insistently, urge his return to his studies. He abhorred the thought. But to prolong his absence would surely alert his mother to a deeper malaise than a mere tiff with a friend. That, he decided, was the one outcome he could not tolerate. So, he forced a semblance of cheer onto his battered face. Nothing was amiss. The days leading to his forced return were a torment of internal debates. What if he encountered Ren Shen, or Lord Xian? Would Ren Shen assail him again? Would he humiliate him before the entire academy—or worse, before Lord Xian? Would he continue to grind Jian Li’s spirit into dust? The thought alone churned his stomach with nausea. When he finally arrived at the Imperial Academy, he hung his satchel on the hook beside his desk, scattering a few loose scrolls across its surface. He settled into his seat, staring blankly at the polished wood while the babble of the hallway slowly swelled. The instant he heard approaching footsteps, he buried his head in his arms, feigning sleep. If he appeared to be slumbering, perhaps no one would notice his disfigured countenance. At least, not immediately. But he had overlooked one crucial detail: the desk behind his belonged to Master Lu. Master Lu was known for his sharp intellect, his keen observation, and his infuriating tendency to ignore social niceties when curiosity struck. As soon as Master Lu entered, he paused beside Jian Li’s desk. A hand, surprisingly strong, slipped between Jian Li’s shoulder and neck, and fingers, calloused from countless hours with a brush, tilted his face upward. Jian Li had no time to resist. He was exposed. Master Lu’s eyebrow arched as he scrutinized Jian Li’s face, his voice blunt. “What in the name of the Heavenly Emperor befell your face?” “...It is nothing.” The lie felt brittle. “Did you stumble upon a loose paving stone again?” Master Lu’s tone was skeptical. “Aye. Something akin to that.” “Truly?” Master Lu clicked his tongue, shaking his head. He abruptly released Jian Li’s face, causing his head to nearly strike the desk. “Confound it!” Jian Li glared, startled, but Master Lu merely offered a crooked grin, lost in some private calculation. Whatever thoughts stirred behind those perceptive eyes, Jian Li could not fathom. Neither Ren Shen nor Lord Xian attended the Academy that day. But during Jian Li’s absence, a whisper had begun to spread through the hallowed halls. “Did you hear? Young Master Ren Shen… that scoundrel actually…” No one dared to directly question Jian Li about his injuries, but the curious glances, the hushed tones that ceased abruptly upon his approach, confirmed it: the rumor had already taken root. It seemed, against all odds, he was luckier than he’d thought. *** The whispers wove a tangled tale around Jian Li and Ren Shen. Neither of them had set foot in the Academy since the rumors began, and even Lord Xian had vanished shortly thereafter, leaving no one to stem the tide of speculation. Jian Li’s bruised face, a silent testament, fueled the gossip’s rapid spread. The story circulating through the courtyards and study halls was this: Young Master Jian and Ren Shen had a violent falling out. And, furthermore, Young Master Ren Shen harbored an… unnatural affection for Jian Li. “That brute, I tell you, he was utterly smitten with that discarded scroll-end.” “A discarded scroll-end? Ah, by the Ancestors! Wait. Truly? I cannot cease my laughter.” “He truly resembles one, doesn’t he? So easily discarded, so slight.” The study hall buzzed with such cruel pronouncements. “All those who once flocked to Ren Shen’s shadow, they found themselves utterly betrayed…”

Beneath the Painted Smile