After leaving Songhe Hall, Wang Shaowei quickly went to Xiao Mo’s study.
As commander of the Imperial Guards’ Upper Twelve Divisions, Xiao Mo not only held his official post but was sometimes tasked with secret investigations for the emperor. Thus, his discreet presence in Jiangnan was not surprising.
The Duke’s mansion had long guarded the northern frontier. Xiao Mo’s father, the current Duke, was stationed there, as were his brothers. Xiao Mo himself had been recalled to the capital because he was the heir, already of age yet still unmarried. Upon his return, he was immediately appointed commander of the Imperial Guards.
People saw only the Xiao family’s glory, but such prestige was not won overnight. Each generation had produced warriors and strategists. Xiao Mo had already proven his military skill on the battlefield. Now, though his troops were not at war, he bore the responsibility of defending the capital and was trusted by the emperor as a vital right hand.
Wang Shaowei came to discuss the recent events in Huzhou. After business, he naturally mentioned Xu Shuyao and her brother: “I never expected they would come to seek refuge at the Duke’s mansion. Did you truly not know?”
“I did not,” Xiao Mo replied, frowning as he recalled his cousin’s words.
Wang Shaowei’s mind flashed with the image of that delicate face—both sorrowful and smiling, her features refined beyond measure. When she thanked him, her eyes shimmered like autumn water, and her words were soft yet playful. He asked, almost against his better judgment: “What happened in Cousin Xu’s family?”
He regretted the question immediately. His cousin rarely concerned himself with women—how could he know?
Indeed, Xiao Mo looked at him in surprise, then said coolly: “She is sharper than you. Put away your useless pity.”
Between them, Wang Shaowei was always the lesser. Though only two years apart, Xiao Mo was the eldest grandson of the Duke’s mansion, born heir apparent. Even at birth, the emperor had issued the decree naming him heir.
From childhood, Xiao Mo had been precocious. Wang Shaowei’s mother used to say he looked solemn but secretly brimmed with mischief. He rarely spoke, aloof in manner, yet the other children sought his advice. His suggestions often led to trouble, but he always escaped blame, leaving his cousins to be punished. Wang Shaowei himself had suffered many beatings from his father because of this.
Such was Xiao Mo’s nature. As he grew older, he matured quickly and stopped playing with them. At twelve or thirteen, when his father went to the frontier, he insisted on following. Forbidden, he clung beneath the carriage all the way, nearly starving.
The family panicked when he disappeared, until urgent news arrived from the border: the heir was safe, marching with the Duke’s army. The Old Madam and Madam Wang nearly fainted from fright.
But the Duke was always a man of iron will—once he spoke, no one dared oppose him. Madam Wang could only weep daily, secretly stabbing little effigies of her husband in her heart, fearing most of all the arrival of urgent reports from the frontier.
Yet by year’s end, the young heir returned safe and sound. He had grown taller, darker, leaner. His grandmother and mother clung to him, crying endlessly. Scolding him was out of the question—for he declared he might leave again at any time.
So they treated him with utmost care. After the New Year, he did not return to the frontier. No one dared ask, lest the mere mention send him running off once more.
At sixteen, Xiao Mo finally went back to the border for training. There, he displayed astonishing military talent. He knew the maps of every region by heart, excelled at formations, and even experimented with traps and mechanisms alongside his soldiers, greatly reducing casualties for the Dayan army.
Over the next two years, he won several victories. His current return to the capital was said to be for the purpose of settling his marriage.
Wang Shaowei’s thoughts stirred: “I heard Fifth Brother mention Sister Jingzhu recently—she’s still as agreeable as ever. You know…”
Before he could finish, the young heir had already risen to leave. Wang Shaowei smiled helplessly, following a few steps: “Hey! What are you thinking? You two were betrothed as children, after all.”
But Xiao Mo turned back, saying curtly: “If you have nothing else, go home.”
Wang Shaowei shook his head, stopping in place. He watched his cousin walk away before slowly returning to his own residence.
Later, Xiao Mo sat in a pavilion among the hills. His indigo robe hung loosely, the white inner garment outlining the lean waist of a martial man.
Behind him stood the maid Zhichun. She saw her master gazing distantly, his face half‑lit by the setting sun, carrying a loneliness she could not name. After a pause, she stepped forward: “Master, the Old Madam has sent word—she asks you to come.”
Zhichun was graceful and lovely, enough to draw glances even from the hidden guards. But the heir did not turn his head, only replied faintly: “I know.”
In Songhe Hall, the Old Madam listened to her maid’s report, eyes closed as another servant massaged her shoulders. Soon, word came that the heir had arrived.
“Grandson greets Grandmother. I heard you called for me?” His voice was clear, with a hint of a smile.
“Mm. If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t have come?” she snorted.
Xiao Mo smiled sheepishly: “How could that be?”
He motioned the maid aside and began to massage her shoulders himself.
“Gentler! Gentler! These old bones can’t take your strength,” she scolded.
He stopped, sitting opposite her. Silence fell before she spoke: “You avoid me, but we must discuss it. The Shen family marriage—what are your intentions? Tell this old woman plainly.”
Xiao Mo answered respectfully: “I will follow Grandmother’s arrangements.”
But when she looked at his face, it was calm, neither joyful nor angry. A sudden sadness touched her heart.
This child was too cold. She wished her eldest grandson would marry soon, but more than that, she hoped he might find someone to truly warm his heart.