Chen Jiao was personally escorted out of the Crown Prince’s residence by Eunuch Zhang, a great honor for any subordinate. As the saying went, even a seventh-rank official should show respect at the gate of a prime minister; all the more so for those serving closely beside the heir apparent. These attendants were not merely privy to whispers; their words in crucial moments could heavily influence decisions.
Once the Crown Prince ascended the throne, the status of his close attendants would rise even higher, potentially earning historical recognition, much like figures such as Chou Shiliang, Wei Zhongxian, and Su Peisheng.
Thus, Chen Jiao did not dare to take this longtime attendant lightly and kept a cheerful and grateful demeanor along the way, joking and chatting.
However, the moment she stepped outside the residence, her smile vanished.
Damn it, she had assumed that once she started working, she could leave studying behind. Now, it seemed the new superior was dissatisfied with her literacy.
Chen Jiao felt helpless. She could hardly take the imperial exam just to appease her boss.
Based on the Crown Prince’s words, she seemed destined to be evaluated on her reflections of the book, so she had no choice but to take it seriously.
Back home, Chen Jiao went straight to the study, pulling out the Treatise on Water Management and flipping through it. The more she looked, the bigger her headache became.
She recognized every single character, yet the meanings together were completely unfamiliar. Dikes and waterworks were matters for the Ministry of Works, and Chen Jiao had always been a humanities student. Even in this life, her expertise lay only in writing essays—she had no knack for science.
She rested her head on the desk, scratching it in frustration.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to achieve something remarkable or leave her name in history, but in this alternate world, with potatoes, sweet potatoes, papermaking, and printing already established, even attempting some world-shaking invention was futile.
Staring at the book, she sighed dramatically.
Had she known she would transmigrate, she would have memorized more formulas and recipes. What exactly was cement made of? In other novels, the protagonists invent glass or gunpowder with ease, but Chen Jiao was a humanities student. She had transmigrated, not swapped brains.
Just as she was questioning her life, the study door suddenly burst open. The Yong’an Marquis strode in and snatched the book from her hands, turning with confidence: “See? I knew this little rascal was doubting herself again!”
“Eh? The Treatise on Water Management?” Flipping a couple of pages, the excited Marquis fell silent. “You didn’t sneak in any novels?”
Chen Jiao disliked studying and often read fiction secretly in the study; her father was used to catching her, but this time, she had actually opened her mind.
“Sigh,” Chen Jiao exhaled, “Father, be careful, this is the book the Crown Prince gave me. He asked me to write an article on water management.”
The Yong’an Marquis, experienced and shrewd, stroked his beard: “That’s not a bad thing.”
Today, the Prefect of Lujiang had reported a breached canal at Bian River, and the matter fell under Minister Zhou’s responsibility. Zhou was part of the Crown Prince’s faction, and others would no doubt discuss and propose strategies for water management. If Chen Jiao contributed a key suggestion, her standing within the faction would rise considerably.
Chen Jiao, unaware of court affairs, said honestly, “I don’t even understand it.”
Princess Yihe, graceful and poised, followed her husband, waving a gold-threaded fan. She approached slowly, glanced at the book, and remarked lightly, “What’s so difficult about it?”
Chen Jiao looked up in awe. “Mother, you can manage waterworks?!”
Before her marriage, Princess Yihe had been a famed talented lady in Chang’an. Chen Jiao had always thought her mother only knew poetry and essays, yet here she was, adept at practical affairs.
Princess Yihe remained composed under her daughter’s admiring gaze: “I cannot.”
Everyone: …
She placed the book in her husband’s lap and said gently, “But your father can. Let him teach you.”
The Yong’an Marquis, holding the book, froze. …??
Recalling the many times he had tutored Chen Jiao on essays, he hastily replied, “I still have affairs in the court to attend…”
It was well known that tutoring a struggling child was a torment, constantly testing a parent’s blood pressure. Now fifty-six, he wanted to live a few more years in peace.
Princess Yihe ignored him, raising her delicate brows and decisively sending him to the study to teach their daughter.
Half an hour later, inside the study.
Chen Jiao stared at the thick stack of books before her, wondering which part of her plan had gone wrong.
Originally, she had only needed to read the book assigned by the Crown Prince, but her father’s lessons involved additional knowledge and experiences related to water management. He brought in even more reference books, requiring her to study them as well.
Chen Jiao: …
Seeing her distress, her father sighed beside her. “Son, don’t struggle so much. Just memorize this volume, and we’ll both be free!”
The Marquis spoke sincerely; he had never seen a student so difficult as his own daughter. Writing a water management essay, she had been stuck for an entire hour!
He could neither scold nor hit her; should he speak harshly, Princess Yihe would gently press her fan to her chest and lean back, feigning fainting.
The Marquis, frustrated and exhausted, could only mutter quietly, blowing on his beard while glaring, never raising his voice before his wife.
He would rather teach a hundred strangers than tutor his own daughter. Yet he had no choice; otherwise, the others at home would mock him relentlessly.
Sigh!
Chen Jiao focused on her book, occasionally glancing at her father’s conflicted sighs, then suddenly asked, “Father, do you regret serving the Crown Prince?”
Her poor grades had long been routine, yet recently her father had been sighing frequently, sometimes even angry, prompting her mother to quietly wonder if he were experiencing midlife changes.
Given his unusual behavior, Chen Jiao naturally associated it with the Crown Prince.
The Yong’an Marquis, hands in his pockets supervising her, froze. He put down the book and sheepishly admitted, “I do have some regrets.”
It was not that he regretted Chen Jiao serving the Crown Prince, but that he had allowed her to disguise herself as a male heir.
Originally a marquis’ legitimate daughter, she could have spent her days leisurely tending flowers and enjoying tea, yet now she was embroiled in the struggles of ambition. Historically, royal power struggles were fraught with bloodshed; Chen Jiao did not need to face such danger.
Seeing her father’s troubled expression, she said nothing.
Chen Jiao knew precisely what troubled him, and understood his anxiety over her cross-dressing as the heir, fearful that any misstep might endanger her.
Most parents felt similarly, constantly worried about their child’s health, academics, and future, and most of all, afraid their own decisions might hinder the child’s life.
The Yong’an Marquis, a conservative scholar, valued women marrying and bearing children as the natural path. The family’s choice had deprived his daughter of a normal life, filling him with guilt and worry.
Chen Jiao thought for a moment and said simply, “Father, I’m actually quite happy now.”
She had always known that to get what she wanted, one must strive for it, and she never regretted her choices.
Looking into her daughter’s clear eyes, the Marquis felt a pang of emotion. Avoiding her gaze, he whispered, “As long as you are well, I am well,” then found an excuse and left in a hurry.
Even after leaving the study, he peeked back to remind her, “Hurry up and write! If you don’t finish today, your mother will definitely trouble me.”
“All right, Father, I’ll study properly,” Chen Jiao promised confidently.
Once the Marquis had gone, Chen Jiao stared at the study door with a complicated expression.
As a child, she had disliked her father most of all. If he approached, she would fake cry, leaving the household flustered, and the Marquis would lose sleep.
No one knew that shortly after her birth, the Marquis had personally cared for her, first entertaining her with a rattle, then lamenting, “If only you were a boy, the Chen family would have an heir.”
Alone, his words went unheard, remaining a secret he never revealed.
Chen Jiao, born with her memories intact, remembered this clearly.
She had been saddened, blamed, and even silently resisted her father’s authority until realizing that his affection for her rivaled that for any child, at which point her attitude changed.
Humans are complicated creatures.
The Yong’an Marquis, raised under traditional Confucian values, perhaps favored sons slightly, yet he loved Princess Yihe greatly and never took a concubine, showering Chen Jiao with care.
Perfection was impossible; there was no reason for her to dwell on minor imperfections in those she loved most.