Sheng Xiangqiao, kneeling before the throne, spoke boldly: “Your Majesty, I heard you enjoy southern opera. So I sought a teacher and learned a little, hoping to perform at your birthday banquet to show my filial devotion, but before I could master it, I fell ill.” Her face carried the frustration of ambition thwarted.
Sheng Xuanhe could bear no more. He rushed forward, kneeling, his voice shaking: “Your servant has failed to teach his daughter properly. Please punish me, Your Majesty!”
Nanny Zhao and Ning Yan were aghast—had their training been so useless? Why would this village girl bring up opera, of all things, in the imperial hall?
In the line of imperial heirs, Jin Lianyuan’s eyes lit up. His grandfather was wise! Let him see clearly the Sheng girl’s insolence and cancel the marriage, so he could find a virtuous bride instead.
Cheng Tianfu, however, turned his gaze toward the Emperor. Perhaps intrigued by the girl’s earnest expression, Emperor Shunhe raised his brows: “Oh? If that is so, I must see what you have learned that left you so exhausted.”
At birthday banquets, noble daughters often displayed talents—music, poetry, calligraphy. But never opera, a craft of common troupes.
Tian Peirong smirked, glancing at Cheng Peinian among the officials. Even in middle age, he was striking, though his face was tense. He had returned to the capital only last night to offer birthday wishes. She knew of his estranged wife, Sheng Guiniang, who still lived with the Shengs. Seeing the daughter’s disgrace, surely he would finally sever ties with Sheng Guiniang. Her long‑held wish might at last be fulfilled.
Thus, the little Sheng girl became the center of countless schemes. Yet in the storm’s eye, she remained calm. She bowed again: “If Your Majesty wishes, I will perform for you.”
The Emperor, curious at her confidence, said: “Then let it be so. Perform here in the hall, so my ministers and consorts may see.”
Sheng Xiangqiao smiled: “Then I shall offer my humble art… but please allow me to change costume.”
Granted imperial permission, she left the hall. Nanny Zhao saw Cheng Tianfu’s servant hand her a bundle. Inside were a pair of golden hammers and a costume-like armor.
Nanny Zhao hissed: “Wretched girl, what are you doing!”
But Sheng Xiangqiao swiftly donned the costume, slipped her hands into the rope loops of the hammers, and smiled: “Of course, I am performing for His Majesty’s birthday. If you wish to whip me, Nanny, wait until we return.”
At that moment, inside the palace, Nanny Zhao dared not interfere. She could only watch as Sheng Xiangqiao strode back into the hall dressed as a female general.
The troupe assigned to accompany her had already been searched and cleared, then took their places. Southern opera usually featured tender romances rather than martial plays. Though battlefield dramas had become fashionable after the empire’s northern victories, few troupes could train true martial performers.
To everyone’s surprise, Sheng Xiangqiao did not sing a maiden’s role but chose the demanding martial routine “Rolling Hammers at Yan Pass.” This play commemorated the great victory a decade earlier, when a general wielded golden hammers to repel invading nomads. Traditionally performed by men, it now unfolded through the dance of a slender girl, her hammers whirling to the drumbeat.
Though purists saw her shortcuts—simplified moves, altered sequences—her stances and hammer spins were convincing, showing real practice. Her fierce gaze lent her the aura of a warrior.
By the end, she was drenched in sweat, her frail body trembling—no wonder she had claimed exhaustion.
Emperor Shunhe had watched silently from the first drumbeat, ignoring even the Empress’s attempts at conversation. When the final gong faded, the hall fell utterly still.
The Empress glanced at him, then signaled Consort An, who added slyly:
“Lively indeed. But such martial plays must be learned from male actors. Miss Sheng must have spent much time with them.”
Sheng Xiangqiao, instead of shrinking, beamed with innocent pride: “Your Highness is perceptive. It did take much effort. Even my hands are worn raw.”
She lifted her palms, showing calluses and rough skin. The golden hammers required rope loops, explaining the marks. Such scars could not be faked in days.
The sight shocked the court. A young noblewoman with hands so hardened—if she were merely feigning, she would never endure such toil. Clearly, she had practiced earnestly.
The Emperor’s heart softened. Earlier hints from the Empress had been sharp enough to drive another girl to despair. But this child seemed oblivious, her innocence stirring his pity. He thought: perhaps she was simply childish, too fond of play, unaware of propriety. Rumors of elopement had even claimed she fled overseas—yet here she was. Gossip could destroy a girl’s name without a blade.
As Consort An prepared to press further, the Emperor finally spoke: “Tell me, child—why forsake the graceful arts, and instead learn this exhausting, thankless martial play?”
Sheng Xiangqiao tilted her head and said: “Your Majesty, I recall that at last year’s birthday banquet you remarked that our Great Xi dynasty leans too much toward the civil arts and neglects the martial. Because mothers in noble households prize literary accomplishments, they discourage their sons from serving at the frontiers. So I deliberately studied a martial play to remember your teaching. In the future, when I raise children and grandchildren, I will instill loyalty to the nation—whether in civil or martial paths.”
These words struck directly at Emperor Shunhe’s heart. The dynasty’s bias toward civil over martial had become a hidden danger. If all noblewomen thought as she did, the empire’s borders would be secure forever.
Delighted, the Emperor stroked his beard and laughed: “Well said—loyalty to the nation, whether civil or martial! Reward her!”
The hall stirred in astonishment. Who would have thought that after stumbling clumsily before the throne, Sheng Xiangqiao could win favor by swinging hammers?
Rumors of her secret meetings with actors had spread wildly in the capital. Yet now she had openly admitted her ties to the theater before the Emperor, and it seemed honest rather than shameful. As the Emperor rewarded her, the gossip appeared baseless. To repeat it would be to insult the royal family itself.
Sheng Xuanhe breathed deeply, feeling life return to him. As the banquet began, he drank heavily with fellow officials to calm his nerves.
Around Sheng Xiangqiao, noble girls suddenly crowded to greet her, a stark contrast to their earlier coldness. But she kept to the real Miss Sheng’s temperament: those who ignored her before were now too late. She held herself with haughty pride, answering curtly, until her circle grew quiet again.
With other nobles displaying talents, she could finally enjoy the feast. After years of plain food in the countryside and medicinal meals at the Sheng estate, the palace delicacies felt like heaven. She ignored Nanny Zhao’s glares, hid her lips behind a handkerchief, and ate eagerly.
Beside her, Miss Cao Yushan, plump and cheerful, whispered knowingly:
“Eat less now. Later, there will be tribute dishes—fresh fish sashimi. My father oversaw the banquet’s provisions. The best food hasn’t even been served yet.”
Sheng Xiangqiao dabbed her lips and replied calmly: “I ate little this morning, since I had to dance with hammers. Forgive me, Miss Cao.”
Cao Yushan nodded in understanding. Most nobles had come fasting, afraid of embarrassing themselves before the Emperor. She herself had only had porridge. Seeing Sheng Xiangqiao eat so naturally, she felt kinship.
Leaning closer, she whispered: “Actually, when we left the hall earlier, I was right beside you. I saw clearly—someone tripped you on purpose. That’s why you fell.”