Qingli was only eight years old when her father discovered that she could read.
It was also the day she learned that knowledge could be a crime in the Wen household.
The western courtyard was quiet, and Nanny Zhao sat beneath the shade of an old tree while Qingli carefully copied characters onto a worn piece of paper.
Lan Yue sat next to her, watching as she always did.
Each lesson was a secret.
Everything was secret.
Nanny Zhao had started teaching Qingli how to read and write when she was five.
Despite not having the best tutors or instructors, Qingli was smart and picked up the lessons quickly.
Nanny Zhao taught her whenever they could—one character here, a poem there, and a few words at a time.
Qingli loved every lesson.
To her, books opened up worlds she could never visit.
Stories introduced her to people she would never meet, and poetry gave names to feelings she couldn’t articulate.
Most importantly, reading made her feel less alone.
“Very good!” Nanny Zhao smiled and praised Qingli when she finished copying the characters.
Qingli beamed as she looked down at her calligraphy.
The characters she had written weren’t perfect, but they were close—very close—and Nanny encouraged her to continue.
Qingli nodded enthusiastically and concentrated on the next set of characters.
She dipped her brush into the ink and carefully wrote another line: “The peach blossoms bloom with the spring wind.” She liked peach blossoms, and a smile spread across her face as she imagined rows of pink flowers beyond the walls that trapped her inside—places she would never see.
For a brief moment, she forgot that she was hidden, unwanted, and alone.
Footsteps echoed through the courtyard, and the three of them froze as the gate swung open, revealing a servant…followed by Wen Guozhen.
The courtyard immediately fell silent as Qingli’s eyes widened.
Father.
Qingli’s heart jumped, and instinctively, she stood up and bowed.
“Father.”
The book and scattered pieces of paper laid across the table caught Guozhen’s attention.
He noticed the papers, the books, the brush and ink, the characters, poems, and evidence that Qingli had been learning.
The entire courtyard seemed to hold its breath as Guozhen silently assessed the table.
Nanny Zhao immediately knelt, her voice shaking.
“Master.”
Guozhen turned his cold gaze toward Nanny Zhao, completely ignoring Qingli.
“What is this?” His voice was cold—dangerously cold.
Qingli froze and for a brief moment she thought that perhaps he was impressed.
Perhaps he would praise her.
Perhaps –
Qingli watched as her father picked up the papers and looked through page after page.
Beautiful handwriting.
Careful practice.
Copied poems.
Short essays.
The work of a diligent child.
A child who desperately wants to learn.
Yet, instead of pride, his expression darkened, and his voice boomed, “Who taught you?”
Qingli’s hope died instantly, and she immediately lowered her head and stayed silent.
“Answer!” her father’s voice boomed again, and Qingli flinched as if he had physically slapped her.
“Nanny Zhao…” came her soft whisper, and the older woman closed her eyes as Guozhen’s expression hardened when he turned to her.
“You taught her how to read?” he demanded.
Nanny Zhao bowed deeply, “Yes, Master.”
Guozhen slammed the papers and book onto the table, the loud noise making Qingli flinch.
“Why?” he asked, his voice laced with suppressed anger.
Nanny Zhao didn’t respond, knowing that the true answer was simple: because she was a child and all children deserved to learn.
Knowledge should not belong only to the favored.
But she understood that those answers would mean nothing to Guozhen.
Guozhen shifted his cold gaze to settle on Qingli, disapproval etched across his stern face.
“Do you think learning makes you equal to Youru?”
The words struck her like a slap.
Qingli’s eyes widened, and she shook her head.
“No, Father,” she replied quickly.
After a moment of hesitation, she added, “I just wanted to read books.”
Her answer was innocent and honest, yet it seemed to infuriate Guozhen even more.
He trembled with rage, lowering his voice as he said, “You have forgotten your place.”
Qingli shook her head again, tears welling in her eyes.
“No, Father, I haven’t.”
Guozhen took a breath and continued to glare at her coldly.
“You are hidden for a reason. Remember, you are not Youru. You do not need an education.”
His words pierced her heart because she loved learning more than anything else.
Qingli watched in horror as Guozhen threw the papers into the nearby brazier.
She gasped as the flames caught fire immediately, curling the papers.
All her poems, practice sheets, lessons, stories, and years of hard work were being reduced to ashes. The source of this chapter is g.com.
She stood there, staring at the papers as they burned away, every single character, every lesson, and every dream she had cherished was slowly turning into nothing.
Qingli remained frozen, unable to move or breathe.
Tears filled her eyes as she turned to look at the man who was supposedly her father.
“Father…” her young voice broke.
“Please.” For the first time, she begged, “Please don’t,” as Guozhen threw the remaining papers and books into the fire.
Now, all that was left of them was ash… forever.
Throughout the ordeal, Guozhen’s expression remained unchanged; instead, his aura grew colder as he turned to the servant standing nearby.
“Punishment,” he ordered, and the word echoed throughout the courtyard.
Qingli froze.
After having been punished several times before, his words struck fear into her young heart, and she could hear her heart pounding loudly in her ears.
Was it going to be another whipping?
Or would she be locked up in the cold storage room again?
“You will kneel outside until sunrise.”
Nanny Zhao immediately looked up.
“Master… she’s only a child—”
“Silence!” Guozhen’s voice echoed again, causing the nanny to swiftly lower her head.
The order had already been given, and there would be no mercy.
That night, as Qingli knelt beneath the cold sky, the stone cut into her knees, the wind bit at her skin, and the darkness stretched endlessly around her.
Yet, nothing hurt as much as the memory of the burning notebook.
For the first time, she understood something profound: the Wen residence did not merely wish to hide her; they wanted to keep her small, silent, and invisible.
As the last embers of the papers and books faded into the night, eight-year-old Wen Qingli silently vowed that no matter how many books they burned, she would never stop learning.
This was the first act of rebellion she ever committed, even if no one ever knew.
Over the years, punishment became as familiar to Qingli as breathing.
It was never for crimes.
Never for rebellion.
Only for existing where she was not wanted.
One winter, Lan Yue fell terribly ill.
The young maid who grew up with Qingli could barely lift her head from the pillow, her forehead burning with fever while icy winds rattled the broken windows of their forgotten courtyard.
She had spent the entire night dipping cloth into cold water and placing it on Lan Yue’s forehead, listening to the young girl’s labored breathing.
By dawn, Lan Yue had not eaten for two days.
Desperate, Qingli wrapped herself in her thin cotton coat and sneaked out of the western courtyard and ran through the snow toward the main kitchen.
The scent of fresh porridge drifted through the air as she stood nervously by the doorway, clutching an empty bowl in both hands.
“Please,” she whispered to one of the cooks.
“Yue’er is sick. She hasn’t eaten. May I have just a little?”
The cook hesitated before secretly filling the bowl, and Qingli thanked him repeatedly and hurried back through the snow, carefully shielding the precious porridge from the wind.
She never made it home.
Halfway across the courtyard, Madam Zhao Meilin’s attendants stopped her.
The bowl was knocked from her hands, and the porridge spilled across the white snow.
Qingli stared helplessly as the only food she had managed to obtain disappeared into the frozen ground.
“What gave you the right to enter the main kitchen?” Meilin asked coldly when Qingli was dragged before her.
Qingli immediately knelt.
“Lan Yue is sick, Mother. She hasn’t eaten—”
“Who allowed you to call me Mother?”
The words struck harder than a slap.
Qingli lowered her head until her forehead touched the ground.
“I was wrong.”
“Since you do not understand the rules of this household, you may kneel there until you learn them.”
And so Qingli knelt.
In the snow.
Hour after hour.
The cold seeped through her thin clothes and into her bones.
By midday, she could no longer feel her legs.
By evening, her lips had turned blue.
Yet nobody told her to stand.
Servants passed by pretending not to see.
Some looked at her with pity.
Others looked away entirely.
Meanwhile, inside the warm residence, the family shared dinner together, while Qingli remained alone in the snow.
The only thought keeping her awake was wondering whether Lan Yue was still waiting for the bowl of porridge that never arrived.
When the punishment ended and Nanny Zhao helped her back to the western courtyard, Qingli’s first questions were about Lan Yue, whether her fever had broken yet, and whether she had eaten.
And for the first time, Nanny Zhao cried in front of her.
Because no matter how much House Wen tried to harden her heart—
Qingli remained kind.
As years goes by, Qingli discovered something that made her heart feel alive for the first time.
Medical books.
An elderly physician occasionally visited the estate to treat the family.
Sometimes he left damaged or outdated texts behind.
At night, by candlelight, she taught herself to read the diagrams.
The bones of the human body.
The names of herbs.
How fevers developed.
How wounds healed.
How medicines could save lives.
She treasured every page and prayed that if she learned enough, perhaps she could help people who suffered.
Perhaps she could become someone useful.
Someone worth keeping.
For months, she hid her books carefully and only take them out to study when she knew no one would be watching.
Then one afternoon, Wen Youru found them.
“What are these?” Youru asked, flipping through the pages.
Qingli immediately reached for them.
“Please don’t touch them.”
Youru frowned.
“You know how to read this?”
Qingli nodded quietly.
For a moment, Youru said nothing.
Then she walked away carrying one of the books, and Qingli’s stomach dropped.
That evening she was summoned.
The moment she entered the hall, she knew as she sees her medical text lay stacked beside Zhao Meilin while Wen Guozhen sat silently nearby.
Neither looked pleased.
“Who gave you permission to study these?” Meilin asked.
“No one.”
“So, you stole them.”
“I found them.”
“Answering back now as well?”
Qingli immediately lowered her head.
The punishment was decided without discussion, and she was dragged into the courtyard.
The cane struck her thigh.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Qingli bit her lip until blood filled her mouth as she refused to cry.
The fourth strike nearly broke her resolve.
The fifth left her trembling.
The sixth sent tears streaming down her face despite her efforts.
“What were you trying to become?” Meilin demanded, “A physician?”.
Qingli remained silent as the cane struck again.
“You should focus on learning your place.”
Another strike.
“You are not Wen Youru.”
Another strike.
“You do not need education.”
Another strike.
“You do not need dreams.”
By the time it ended, Qingli could barely stand as she watched her books thrown into a brazier.
She watched the pages curl and blackened beneath the flames.
The diagrams she had painstakingly studied disappeared.
The notes she had written vanished into ash.
Months of learning.
Gone.
That night, Lan Yue found Qingli sitting outside long after everyone had gone to sleep.
Qingli stared at the dying embers without speaking.
Lan Yue’s heart broke at the sight.
“What are you looking at, Miss?”
Qingli was quiet for a long time.
Then she asked softly,
“Yue’er…”
“Yes?”
“If I become very good…”
Her voice trembled, “If I never make mistakes… if I study hard… if I help people…”
Lan Yue already knew what question was coming and felt tears fill her eyes.
“Will Father and Mother love me then?”
The courtyard fell silent.
Because both already knew the answer.
And that was the cruelest punishment of all.