Chen Jiao had easily turned the page on past events, further proving her magnanimity and composure, and for a while, everyone’s impression of her improved.
Most members of the Crown Prince’s faction were conservative officials who believed the heir apparent represented the proper path. These older officials, having children around Chen Jiao’s age, returned home after the Fifth Prince incident and had their sons invite Chen Jiao to small gatherings to smooth over relations.
A few days later, Chen Jiao received an invitation to a spring poetry banquet, attended primarily by children of the elite.
As the name suggests, the spring poetry banquet was a refined gathering for reciting poetry and playing cultured games, a pastime of literati.
As the saying goes, where there are people, there is intrigue. Among Chang’an’s elite youth, several circles existed. Legitimate sons rarely associated with illegitimate ones; civil officials looked down on military families; those with titles naturally considered themselves a step above; and the ambitious despised the mediocre.
Chen Jiao, known as a notorious playboy, rarely attended such elegant gatherings. One reason was that no one invited her, and another was that she had little interest in composing poetry or essays. Mainly, she lacked literary skill and would never stoop to having her servants write drafts in advance.
But this situation was special: her colleagues had actively shown goodwill, and for the sake of future harmonious cooperation, she had no choice but to attend.
Chen Jiao not only went herself but brought along her close friend Wang Shijing, claiming it was to help him acclimate to the venues a top scholar would frequent, experiencing the refinement of culture firsthand.
Since Chen Jiao had recently offended the cunning Fifth Prince, she now never went out without her personal guard, and Wang Shijing accompanied her wherever she went.
Wang Shijing, trained in martial arts from childhood and dreaming of roaming the martial world, was naturally skilled. Moreover, as the grandson of the Right Chancellor, at this critical moment, unless the Fifth Prince wanted to provoke a major conflict, he would never target Wang’s family.
The banquet host, surnamed Zhou, was the eldest son of the Prefect of Jingzhao, in his twenties and already holding the title of juren—a young man of remarkable promise. A month prior, he had returned from studying in Jiangsu and Zhejiang and planned to take the imperial exams that year.
The banquet took place at a hot-spring villa on the outskirts of the city, where peach blossoms swayed and streams gurgled.
Outside the villa, several carriages had stopped at the gate, and a young gentleman wearing a small crown alighted leisurely.
Master Zhou looked at the delicate willow branches outside the wall and smiled lightly: “A fine day and beautiful spring scenery, to be enjoyed together with everyone.”
Another young gentleman, holding a folding fan, strolled beside him, smiling in agreement: “I can smell it, the scent of spring.”
Just then, a carriage suddenly barreled up behind them, stopping perilously close. A figure leapt down, wearing a scholar’s cap and hands on hips: “Wow! I smell roast duck!”
Another youth tumbled from the carriage, clutching a willow branch, and immediately began retching.
Everyone else: …
The assembled literati, witnessing these two suddenly appearing, found all traces of their cultivated mood gone, their spirits instantly dampened.
Host Master Zhou twitched the corner of his mouth, his gaze sweeping over Chen Jiao before resting on Wang Shijing, who was holding onto the tree.
Wang Shijing was the Crown Prince’s cousin, grandson of the current Right Chancellor, and youngest son of the Minister of Revenue. His family’s power elevated his status among Chang’an’s elite, placing him in the upper tier of the second echelon.
The first echelon, of course, belonged to princes and princesses, whose imperial blood made them virtually incomparable to ordinary humans.
Chen Jiao, as the sole heir of the Yong’an Marquis, was insignificant compared to Wang Shijing. The others glanced at her and immediately decided to first converse with Wang Shijing.
One frowned and stepped forward, asking with concern, “Master Wang, are you—” He had barely moved closer when Wang Shijing vomited again, silencing everyone.
To avoid spreading rumors that the grandson of the Right Chancellor had been made to vomit, everyone tacitly refrained from moving, leaving the scene extremely awkward.
Chen Jiao had no such worries. She slowly approached Wang Shijing, patted his shoulder, and said with a sigh, “Brother Shijing, the roads to the outskirts are rough. I told you not to read on the carriage, and anyway, you wouldn’t understand. And now, look, you’ve gotten carsick, haven’t you?”
Unlike modern roads, ancient routes were uneven. Within Chang’an, roads were tolerable, but outside, some were paved with various stones, while others were nothing but mud, making carriage travel bumpy.
Yet for some unknown reason, Wang Shijing insisted on reading in the carriage, unsurprisingly falling ill.
With his head down, he murmured, “I must study… to become a top scholar…”
Chen Jiao twitched her mouth, guessing he had been provoked by the Right Chancellor’s household once again.
Ah, youth!
Host Master Zhou, seeing the atmosphere ease, stepped forward: “Chen Jiao, we meet again.” Chang’an was small; as children of the elite, they were familiar with one another though not close.
Chen Jiao faced him, beaming, and clasped her hands: “Greetings, Master Zhou!”
She glanced at the sky, noting the sun high above. Fluffing the stray strands of hair from her shoulders, she clasped her hands: “Let me see… should we begin the meal?”
The villa was dozens of li from Chang’an, and with the ancient roads, it had taken a full hour by carriage to reach it—two modern hours. She had planned to enjoy the scenery and springtime along the way, but the bumpy ride left her sore, hungry, and dizzy, eager to eat and rest.
At her question, Master Zhou’s eyes twitched. Having dealt with commoners and nobility alike, he prided himself on discernment, but on seeing Chen Jiao and Wang Shijing together for the first time since his return, he nearly lost his composure.
Forcing a stiff smile, he made a perfunctory greeting and, with the other young gentlemen, hurried inside.
Chen Jiao, watching their backs disappear into the villa, took the water her attendant brought, patted Wang Shijing, and handed it to him: “Here, rinse your mouth.”
Wang Shijing, on the verge of vomiting again, drank deeply, then asked: “Brother Chen, can you tell me how to be so perceptive like you?”
Chen Jiao frowned slightly, puzzled: “What do you mean?”
Wang Shijing’s eyes shone with admiration: “Yesterday, you told me to eat lightly before going out. Did you foresee I’d get carsick?”
Fortunately, he hadn’t eaten much, so it was only dry heaving; otherwise, the scene could have been much worse.
Chen Jiao twitched her lips, giving Wang Shijing a strange look, patted his shoulder, and said nothing, walking off silently.
Her intention had merely been to joke that, since the banquet would host the nobility, the food would be ample, so he should leave some room in his stomach. Who could have predicted he’d defy reason and read on the bumpy carriage, making himself nauseous?
…
Inside the villa, a clear stream ran, with golden fish swimming beneath floating leaves. In this era, each person had a separate table. Along the stream, small wooden tables were set, and guests knelt behind them.
Once everyone was seated, the banquet officially began. Chen Jiao and Wang Shijing, as the primary guest and the Crown Prince’s cousin, were placed at the head.
Others, noticing the seating, could not hide slight dissatisfaction.
Although their elders had instructed them that the banquet aimed to repair relations with Chen Jiao, these privileged youths still felt discontent.
Many were of noble rank themselves. Wang Shijing being from the Crown Prince’s maternal family was one thing, but why should Chen Jiao, a Yong’an Marquis’s heir, sit at the head?
As with their fathers, they expressed displeasure through isolation: ignoring her, deliberately excluding her from games like “flying flower” and “pitch-pot.”
Such cold treatment was effective. Newcomers, feeling lonely and anxious, would often try to ingratiate themselves. This was why transfer students were so easily bullied.
But Chen Jiao was no ordinary person; previous adults had proven she wouldn’t fall for such tactics.
As delicate snacks were presented, the poetry banquet formally began. The host led a “flying flower” game, followed by assigning painting topics for later judging. The scenery was beautiful, the company congenial, and spring breezes stirred literary inspiration—a romantic affair for any literati.
Except for Chen Jiao and Wang Shijing. One had no one to interact with, the other couldn’t understand.
Young Wang, accustomed to sleeping in class and scoring lower than Chen Jiao at the Imperial Academy, struggled with composing poetry, painting, and performing music alongside everyone.
Yet the others continually singled him out, joking that the best poem or painting would be chosen and that each guest would perform a musical piece.
At fifteen, Wang Shijing felt immense pressure, comparable to children forced by parents to perform during festivals.
While Wang Shijing fretted, he glanced at Chen Jiao, who was calmly enjoying the food.
Exquisite pastries, steamed salmon, sweet yet ungreasy roast duck—she ate with great pleasure.
Young Wang blinked in surprise: “Brother Chen, aren’t you going to compose poetry?”
Chen Jiao picked up a slice of duck casually: “Nope.”
The roast duck was marinated to perfection, baked over wood for hours, each slice tender and juicy. Only someone mad would leave such food untouched to write poetry.
Wang Shijing hesitated, pen in hand: “Then won’t we look foolish?”
Chen Jiao was startled: “Foolish or not, who cares? We don’t know how anyway.”
Writing poorly would be more embarrassing, possibly mocked or memorized by others.
He thought for a moment and nodded: “You’re right.”
Then, looking at her with renewed admiration, he said: “Brother Chen, you’re brilliant. I wish I could be as shameless as you.”
Chen Jiao: …?
Seeing her expression, Wang Shijing scratched his head: “Did I say something wrong?”
Chen Jiao calmly popped a peanut, reminding him: “You should focus on studying instead of wandering into the martial world.”
Wang Shijing frowned: “Why?”
Chen Jiao said lightly: “With your social skills, roaming the martial world is too dangerous.” She couldn’t overpower him; otherwise, she would have delivered a punch.