Chapter Two: Princess Yiyang

“Struck dead by lightning?”

In the study of the Princess of Yiyang’s residence, Quan Ce sat upright and silent on a black ebony stool. He was supposed to be on rest today, but had been summoned to the study early in the morning.

The owner of the study was his father, Quan Yi, clan leader of the Tianshui Quan family from Longxi. The Tianshui Quan family was not renowned; its most famous member was Quan Wanji from the reign of Emperor Taizong, who was murdered for boldly admonishing Prince Qi, Li You.

Quan Yi’s face was lean and long, his three whiskers jet black and gleaming. He wore light robes and a relaxed sash. His yellowish eyes stared intently at Quan Ce. “Is it true that the Xue family’s brother-in-law was really struck dead by lightning?”

“Yes. Lightning struck the carriage, ignited a fire, and the imperial son-in-law died on the spot. Six of his guards were killed, and fourteen wounded.” Quan Ce recited smoothly; he had already reported these facts to Officer Shangguan. Her expression then was as subtle as his father’s now.

“You alone escaped unscathed?” Quan Yi voiced what Shangguan Wan’er had not asked, his brows tightly knit.

Quan Ce answered honestly, “Yes. It was my first time entrusted with such responsibility. I was timid, and with the East Inner Garden thickly wooded, I kept back on the main road, far behind the party for safety’s sake. Thus I escaped harm.”

Quan Yi watched him for a long moment, rubbing his brow with fatigue. “Enough. I’ve been too suspicious. You’re just a youth; how could you foresee lightning? This matter has nothing to do with you. You may go.”

Quan Ce felt relieved and withdrew respectfully. As he passed before the window, a long sigh echoed from the study.

He hesitated, then crossed the main hall’s flower gate, heading for the rear courtyard.

In the memories of the previous Quan Ce, he as the legitimate eldest son was mediocre and timid, not favored by his father. He had younger siblings, and his mother’s attention was mostly on household affairs and the younger children. He, a mere ornament, expected little affection. Yet, as a son, with his mother present, after such an incident, he still needed to pay his respects, fulfilling his duty.

Between the main hall and the rear courtyard lay a garden with rockery, flowing water, covered bridges and winding paths, blossoms in profusion—a miniature landscape.

The rear courtyard housed seven rooms in total: three main, two auxiliary, two side chambers, all with red lacquered beams and earth-toned glazed tiles. At the corners of the roof ridge, intricate brackets supported paired roof ornaments. The spacious mansion was orderly. The front of the house was quiet, with only two beds of bamboo and two large paulownia trees.

“Sister Sihua, is Mother inside?” Quan Ce greeted the maid at the door, one of the four main maids, Sihua, Sijin, Siqi, Sishu—the left and right hands of the Princess of Yiyang.

“Greetings, First Young Master. Please, don’t stand on ceremony. I can’t accept it. The Princess is inside; she was just speaking of you,” Sihua quickly sidestepped, curtsied, lifted the curtain, and guided him in.

Quan Ce entered the inner chambers, passing through layers of drapery, and saw the Princess of Yiyang seated cross-legged at her desk. He bowed, “Your son greets Mother.”

The Princess raised her head, stepped forward, took his hands, and looked him over. “My son has suffered outside.”

“Please don’t worry, Mother. I am unharmed.” Quan Ce felt uneasy. The Princess’s face was round and fair, her figure plump and pale, not tall, hair styled in three rings, dressed in bright red robes, a deep blue jacket with purple trim, a plain sash, light blue skirt, and a red cord with golden tassels. She did not look her age, over forty.

“As long as you’re safe. The chief guard of the estate is in the palace; countless eyes are watching, and there are many schemers. You’re too young to handle it. Better resign.” The Princess led him back to the desk, tears glistening in her eyes. “Ultimately, it’s my own incompetence—my son suffers for it.”

Warmth surged in Quan Ce’s heart. “Mother, you overstate. Your kindness exceeds the heavens. I have lived in luxury since birth, entered the palace at fifteen—all thanks to your blessings. I feel only gratitude, never grievance.”

The Princess’s gaze flickered. She turned and wiped her tears, then embraced Quan Ce, patting him gently. “Good, my son is grown and sensible. I’ll arrange for the estate steward to handle your resignation. Rest and recover these days.”

Quan Ce agreed repeatedly.

At that moment, another maid, Sijin, entered with a line of servants in green robes and hats, each carrying abacuses and account books—clearly from the accounting room. Quan Ce, still in the Princess’s embrace and uncomfortable, seized the chance to take his leave.

Just outside the inner court, he saw a rosy-cheeked boy, surrounded by a crowd of servants, toddling toward him. The boy’s large, dark eyes sparkled as he saw Quan Ce, and he laughed, struggling free from his nurse and running to him, likely to trip at any moment.

Quan Ce hurried to catch him in his arms.

“Brother!” The boy’s voice was soft and sweet, clutching Quan Ce’s collar. This was his younger brother, Quan Zhu, only four years old.

“Second Brother, you’ve grown heavier. Have you had breakfast?” Quan Ce, seeing his adorable brother, spoke gently.

Quan Zhu, small but sharp, replied, “I have. I paid respects to Mother.”

“Good boy. Go ahead, but don’t make trouble and disturb Mother.” Quan Ce advised, handing him back to the nurse, but Quan Zhu refused to be carried, struggling to walk on his own. Quan Ce watched him enter, then turned toward his own courtyard.

His courtyard lay in the center of the west wing of the Princess’s residence, with a main building and two side rooms, two rows of auxiliary rooms, all linked by corridors. The space was open, paved with bluestone, with two trapezoidal flower beds planted with chrysanthemums and pomegranate flowers. The pomegranates had finished blooming, their twisted gray-brown branches and dense green leaves remaining. The chrysanthemums were in full bloom, though battered by last night’s wind and rain.

Quan Ce stood at the archway, hands behind his back, surveying his small domain. Compared to the forty-square-meter apartment he had acquired after half a lifetime’s savings, this place was luxurious.

“First Young Master, you’re back! Why not come in? You’re just in time—Sister Daisy has brewed some calming soup, nearly ready.” The speaker was dressed in green and wore a cap, his beard stubbly, eyes crinkling as he smiled, full of good humor. He was Quan Zhong, a long-time servant of the Quan family.

His courtyard housed six servants in total, including another attendant, Quan Li, two maids, Daisy and Pomegranate, the page Shisu, and the guard Shazha Fu, a man from Baekje.

Quan Ce stepped inside, pointing to a clearing by the road. “Find a stone and carve two large characters on it.”

“Ah, brilliant, First Young Master! Our courtyard has needed a name for ages. You’re the legitimate eldest son of the Princess’s house—so distinguished! With a name, we’ll stand tall wherever we go. Shisu, Shisu, bring the writing materials—First Young Master is going to write!” Quan Zhong bent low, stomping and shouting for the page.

Shisu was a boy of about ten, dressed as a young Daoist, cheeks plump, hair in a bun, still childlike. At the call, he rushed out with a tray of brush, ink, paper, and stone.

Quan Ce took up the brush, and now everyone in the courtyard gathered to watch.

“Nameless? First Young Master, does our courtyard really not have a name?” Shisu blinked, confused.

“Don’t be silly, Shisu. Whatever First Young Master says, that’s the name. It’s elegant enough,” Daisy said softly, blowing gently on the ink.

The burly Shazha Fu scratched his head. “It’s good, just a bit awkward—not very smooth.”

“Of course! Nothing’s as straightforward as your broadsword. Always swinging weapons, still dreaming of being a general,” Pomegranate teased him. Shazha Fu grinned, clutching his sword.

“First Young Master, I’ll go buy marble for the inscription,” said Quan Li, who quietly snatched the writing paper and bolted away, stealing Quan Zhong’s task. The latter only muttered, “He’s just relying on his father in the accounting room for easy funds. Otherwise, I wouldn’t let him take it.”

Quan Ce raised a brow, stepped into the study, and Daisy brought the calming soup for him to drink.

Quan Zhong kept muttering.

“First Young Master, we mustn’t be careless with our courtyard’s name. In two days, the master will name Second Brother’s courtyard. As the eldest, we can’t be overshadowed.”

“The master returned from visiting guests on Double Ninth Festival, feeling out of sorts. They say he visited Duke Li of Dongguan, but the gatekeeper, not knowing his status, shut him out.”

“There was a wealthy merchant from the Eastern Capital who came seeking a post, offering ten thousand strings of cash. The mistress sent people to arrange it for ages, but nothing came of it.”

Quan Ce closed his eyes, listening quietly as Quan Zhong’s voice faded. He glanced at him. “Is that all?”

“That’s all, First Young Master. I know my mistake.” Quan Zhong knelt like a timid wife.

Quan Ce chuckled. “What mistake?”

“First Young Master dislikes hearing trivial matters. I never learn.” Quan Zhong hung his head, dejected.

“Get up. I like to listen—keep an ear out for news outside when you have the chance,” Quan Ce waved him off.

“Yes, yes, I’ll do my best.” Quan Zhong’s wrinkled face bloomed with a chrysanthemum smile as he ran out in high spirits.

Quan Ce took a deep breath, leaning back in his chair.

Duke Li of Dongguan refused entry; his father had not joined the Li imperial resistance faction—there was still hope to salvage matters.

Ten thousand strings of cash—his mother’s insistence on his resignation as chief guard, was it out of kindness, or an eye for profit?

“First Young Master,” Shisu sneaked into the study, sweating, his Daoist robe bulging. He pulled out a thick stack of books. “These are the books you requested.” He hesitated, face upturned, gently urging, “If you have time, please read these.”

Quan Ce showed no reaction. Shisu, just doing his duty, said no more and went out, closing the door behind him.

The books: “The Ink Classic,” “Nine Chapters on Mathematical Arts,” “Baopuzi,” “Lunheng.”

Quan Ce shook his head with a wry smile. “Delicate, weak, a homebody, a tech enthusiast—you were born in the wrong era.”

He tossed these aside and looked at Shisu’s suggested readings: “The Great Learning,” “Dao De Jing,” “Mahaprajnaparamita Sutra”—the orthodox classics of Confucianism, Daoism, and Buddhism.

After a moment’s hesitation, he drew out the “Mahaprajnaparamita Sutra.”