Cui Weijin remained silent for a moment, studying Princess Ming Zhao. “A gentleman restrains himself even when alone, keeping joy and anger from showing on his face.”
His voice was calm and measured. “It’s because of one’s position. Some hold power in their hands; a single word can decide life or death.”
“Some are under constant scrutiny. In such situations, one must govern oneself, carefully consider whether one’s actions are right, and whether they might ruin the larger plan.”
“One must not act wrongly out of temporary satisfaction or frustration, causing harm to the greater purpose.”
Princess Ming Zhao leaned forward eagerly, elbows pressing on the desk, pushing the Book of Rites aside.
“But what if someone bullies you?” she asked. “Clearly bullying you, cursing you, trampling your face…”
“Do you still have to endure it for the sake of the greater plan? Take a beating without retaliation, endure insults, wipe the spit from your face with a smile?”
“Is this what the sages teach? Is this called self-cultivation?”
“This is cowardice!”
Cui Weijin was momentarily caught off guard.
Her words were blunt and sharp, like a heavy, blunt sword cleaving through the familiar, well-worn principles he had long practiced.
The phrases “restrain oneself and return to ritual,” “repay evil with virtue,” “a small impatience can ruin a great plan” suddenly seemed hollow, unable to reach the core.
He realized that every sentence she spoke was unconventional, even rebellious.
If those rigid, orthodox scholars heard her, the title of “mad Princess” might cling to her for life.
Yet, hadn’t he pondered such questions himself?
As a youth, he had memorized every teaching of the sages, but did he truly accept each one, without ever finding a flaw?
No.
He had also found these teachings outdated and contradictory. As a talented young man, arrogant in his own abilities, he had to challenge every differing opinion.
That youthful confrontation over conflicting ideas had cost him dearly—he had lost someone closest to him.
Since then, he had buried his own sharpness, binding himself layer by layer with self-restraint and ritual.
He followed rules without question, without asking—simply doing as expected.
He had long learned to navigate within boundaries, not, like her, brazenly striking against them, questioning their validity.
And now, in Princess Ming Zhao, he saw the young Cui Weijin he had once stifled himself.
“Grand Tutor Cui,” Princess Ming Zhao pressed on, leaning almost across the desk, eyes locked on him. “You have studied the sages for so many years, taught the Crown Prince, and now you teach me.”
“Do you really believe all these things? That a person must suppress themselves constantly, never laugh when happy, never cry when sad, endure even being humiliated without complaint? Is this the way of the sages?”
The study fell silent.
Cui Weijin studied her for a long moment.
“I do not agree,” he said calmly.
He added three words, as if confirming with himself: “At least, not entirely.”
Princess Ming Zhao’s eyes brightened, her smile radiant.
Seeing her unguarded delight, Cui Weijin—aware from the start—knew she was deliberate.
She deliberately tested him, to see if he was like the old-fashioned scholars, to see if he would… stand with her.
He knew it all… and yet, he fell for it.
Speaking across the desk was cumbersome, and Princess Ming Zhao suddenly stood, circled around it, and quickly reached his seat at the master’s desk.
She sat down right beside him.
The distance between them vanished, her bright yellow skirt brushing his sky-blue robe.
Before Cui Weijin entered, she had already sent everyone else away; the spacious study was now just the two of them.
Sunlight streamed quietly through the window, mingling with the faint scent of incense in the air.
Not content with just sitting, she leaned closer, pressing her body against his arm.
Through the layers of clothing, he could feel her warmth and the soft curves of her form.
Her figure was exquisite; he knew this well, having glimpsed—and even held—her in the carriage.
Raising her face, it was so close to his chin that he could see the fine fuzz on her forehead and her long, thick eyelashes.
Her unique scent drifted around him.
“Grand Tutor,” she whispered, her breath brushing his jaw, “I have a harder question.”
“Which is more important: loyalty or filial piety?”
Before he could answer, she continued. “An official, earning from the emperor, serves him faithfully—this is loyalty.”
“A child obeys their parents, brings honor to the family—this is filial piety.”
She looked into Cui Weijin’s deepening eyes, her tone carrying something else now.
“But what if one day, these two collide?”
She pressed closer, her warm breath falling on his skin. “For example, your family, your father, asks you to side with them, while seeing the people on the throne, and those beside them, like me, in danger.”
“Do you defy your family to protect those on the throne, or do you stand with your clan and let them fend for themselves?”
“Grand Tutor,” she finally asked the question she had been circling, “when that time comes, which would you choose? Loyalty or filial piety?”
“Your Cui family, or the one called His Majesty?”
His narrow, deep-set eyes locked on hers, brow slowly furrowing, gaze dark and dangerous.
She was not asking about moral principles in books, but about the clash between imperial power and noble families. She meant it clearly—herself and her Imperial Father.
Noble family… imperial power…
He was born into a great family and had served in the court for many years. Throughout the reigns of the previous emperors, how often had such conflicts not occurred?
The person on the throne changed, yet the great families grew deeper roots and denser branches.
But that was only an appearance. Many nobles, like Wang Heng—useless but for indulgence—or Zheng Yingying—inept and incompetent—were countless.
Fighting over wealth, competing for power within—already rotten to the core.
This tree that seemed to shade everything, already hollow inside—how long could it last?
The throne wobbled, yet could these noble families really endure a thousand generations?
Lost in thought, his brow creased, lips pressed into a line, as if sinking into some deep contemplation.
Seeing him silent for a long while, Princess Ming Zhao reached out, cupping his face in both hands.
Her cool fingers unexpectedly pressed against his warm skin. Cui Weijin shivered, all thoughts vanishing, pulled sharply back to reality.
Lowering his gaze, he met her coquettish eyes, her red lips slightly pouting.
“I’m asking you a question, Grand Tutor—why are you dazing off?”
Her fingers lingered on his cheek, every touch vivid.
Cui Weijin’s Adam’s apple rolled. “Princess, this action is inappropriate.”
He said it was improper, yet made no move to stop her.
He did not push her away as before, nor restrain her wrists.
He simply sat, allowing her cool hands to hold his face—this posture far beyond what a tutor and student should have.
Princess Ming Zhao seemed not to hear his “improper,” gently brushing her fingers along his cheek as she pressed on: “Then tell me first—which would you choose?”
Cui Weijin stared at her red lips, closed and reopened his eyes, the restless desire in his gaze forcibly suppressed, regaining some composure.
He did not answer immediately. Instead, he asked softly, “Princess, do you wish to hear the answer I want to give?”
Princess Ming Zhao laughed.
Her eyes curved like a small fox who had finally stolen a treat, proud and satisfied.
Her hands remained on his face, subtly pressing to tilt his face closer to her.
She raised her own face, her seductive eyes glimmering, voice playful:
“Naturally, I want to hear what I love to hear.”