With Niohuru’s third-party testimony, Yintang was finally cleared of the charge of being incompetent in disciplining his cat.
Liuhua, unscathed and cat-like as ever, remained curled at Yintang’s feet, occasionally wagging its tail contentedly.
Kangxi picked up a chestnut, intending to eat something more, but Liuhua immediately raised its tail, arched its back, and emitted a low growl from its throat.
Kangxi glanced at Liuhua but continued peeling the chestnut.
Liuhua swatted the head of a nearby snowman, smashing it to pieces.
Kangxi: …
Under Liuhua’s threatening gaze, Kangxi sheepishly put down the chestnut.
His wandering eyes fell upon a clay pot on the shelf.
The pot contained a milky-brown liquid, floating with longan, osmanthus flowers, red dates, and goji berries, creating a delightful mix of red, yellow, and white hues.
The liquid bubbled gently, releasing a rich, milky aroma.
“What is this?” Kangxi pointed at the pot.
Consort Yi had already prepared an empty bowl nearby. Wrapping a thick cotton cloth around the pot’s handle, she poured a bowl and handed it to Kangxi: “Your Majesty, this is roasted milk tea.”
The pot was ingeniously designed, with a funnel-shaped spout that allowed the tea to pour out smoothly and silkily.
“Roasted milk tea?” Milk tea was nothing unusual, but what was roasted milk tea? And it was the first time he had seen so many ingredients cooked in it. Moreover, the aroma was distinctly different from ordinary milk tea.
Kangxi glanced at Liuhua, but the cat didn’t even look up, focused solely on eating its roasted sausage, clearly uninterested.
Reassured, he took the bowl and took a sip.
The milk aroma was rich, yet the drink itself was refreshing—less heavy than the milk tea the Manchu people were accustomed to. And surprisingly, it was sweet?
His expression mirrored Yintang’s when the latter first tasted the palace’s milk tea.
However, Yintang had been shocked, while Kangxi was pleasantly surprised.
When Yintang was just two and a half years old, he once craved a drink and heard that milk tea had been prepared for the Fifth Prince. He pestered Yinqi to let him have a few sips.
Expecting the familiar taste from his previous life, he was taken aback when the drink turned out to be salty. It wasn’t unpleasant, just something he couldn’t get used to.
Forget it, forget it—if you want something done right, do it yourself.
With all the ingredients readily available, he experimented a few times with the recipe and succeeded. Considering his young age, he deliberately removed the tea base and replaced regular cane sugar with caramel, reducing the sweetness while adding a unique flavor.
The new roasted milk tea became highly popular in the Western Six Palaces. Yintang, not one to hoard secrets, noticed how much Yin E enjoyed it and simply gave the recipe to Niohuru. Mindful of Yin E’s round physique, he even reduced the sugar content repeatedly.
After drinking a bowl, Kangxi found it less rich and robust than traditional milk tea but appreciated its refreshing taste and fragrant aroma. Without realizing it, he finished another bowl.
He glanced at Yintang.
The little bun, cheeks stuffed with food, resembled a small hamster.
Noticing his Han Ama looking at him, the little bun, unable to speak with his mouth full, blinked his eyes in inquiry.
Kangxi asked, “Was this roasted milk tea also your idea?”
Yintang had been waiting for this very question.
Last time, using Ginger Milk Curd, he had made Kangxi realize the error of his critical and oppressive parenting style, but it wasn’t enough.
Months had passed since that incident, and he needed to remind Kangxi at the right moment, lest the impact fade with time.
In psychology, there was a term called “memory anchor”—using images, music, or events to anchor a memory, making it easier to recall and reinforce.
Unaware of his son’s scheming, Kangxi watched as the little bun struggled to swallow his food, his face turning red from the effort.
Kangxi quickly patted Yintang’s back and fed him a sip of milk tea.
The little bun turned his face, looking pitifully at him with large, deer-like eyes glistening with moisture, the tip of his nose tinged with a hint of redness: “It was my idea. Does Han Ama like it?”
The memory anchor he had set for Kangxi was precisely this phrase: “Does Han Ama like it?”
Sure enough, Kangxi, seeing the visibly nervous little bun, recalled the earlier incident with the Ginger Milk Curd and felt a slight ache in his heart.
It seemed he had truly hurt the child last time. Yintang must have been dwelling on it, hence his anxiety over whether Kangxi liked the drink. Look how tense the poor child was.
Yintang noticed Kangxi’s brief silence.
Bingo! Anchor successfully set!
A bittersweet feeling spread through Kangxi’s heart. He reached out and ruffled Yintang’s little head, nodding: “Han Ama likes it very much.”
This time, the little one should be happy, right?
Indeed, the little bun’s eyes immediately sparkled like a sparrow discovering a granary.
Ah, children were so easy to please—just a word or two could make them this happy.
Unconsciously, Kangxi’s mood lifted as well.
The atmosphere at the table relaxed and grew lively with the Emperor’s approval. Kangxi chatted with Niohuru and Consort Yi for a while, during which he drank another bowl of milk tea, peeled a roasted tangerine, and, taking advantage of Liuhua’s nap after finishing its sausage, stealthily ate two or three chestnuts.
Patting his full belly, Kangxi finally remembered the real reason for his visit to Yikun Palace.
The eastern side room was small, but the floor heating system kept it as warm as spring.
The side door led into a room with a long table on the left, neatly arranged with various items.
Upon entering, Kangxi first noticed a calligraphy scroll hanging on the wall, titled “Preface.”
The characters were plump yet vigorous, dignified yet lively—unmistakably the handwriting of Yinreng, which he knew all too well.
This child was being frivolous. At thirteen, he was already at an age to shoulder responsibilities. How could he still be fooling around with a three- or four-year-old?
Kangxi raised an eyebrow, suppressing his displeasure as he continued reading.
“Ants are the humblest of creatures.
Their lifespan spans but a few months; their strength cannot shake trees; their nests can be overturned by children; adults often scorn them.
Busy and bustling, they toil merely for sustenance. Anxious and fearful, they scavenge for survival.”
Was this written by Yinreng?
He had only seen the prince’s political essays before—incisive and penetrating, they were excellent. Yet, he never expected Yinreng’s prose to carry such charm.
Kangxi couldn’t help but read on.
“Yet, observe their hierarchical order: roles clearly defined, never in disarray. Note their diligence: storing food tirelessly, ensuring surplus for lean times.
Grains of soil form hills, revealing perseverance. Tunnels intertwine, unveiling nature’s wonders.”
Well written. Kangxi’s earlier displeasure had completely vanished.
“With collective strength, they can breach embankments, devour giants, move mountains, and cross rivers.
Thus, the lowliest defeat the mightiest. May none despise them.”
Excellent! Such grandeur—truly worthy of his Baocheng!
If not for the need to maintain imperial dignity before his subjects, Kangxi would have applauded on the spot.
“Now, in this modest corner, we create a miniature world. We hope our guests will not disdain its simplicity but, like our predecessors, seek profound insights from small things—observing the universe in a burrow, comprehending great truths through tiny insects.”
As Kangxi read this preface, he suddenly confronted a question he had never considered before.
He had always regarded Baocheng as a child.
No matter how precise his political analyses or how elegant his essays, he remained the toddler who once sat on the dragon bed, babbling alongside him.
But today, in this humble little room, faced with what seemed like a child’s playful creation, he suddenly realized that his Baocheng had grown up.
He was no longer merely echoing his father’s thoughts but had become a Crown Prince capable of independently penning phrases like “the lowliest defeat the mightiest” and “observing the universe in a burrow, comprehending great truths through tiny insects.”
Had the child—the one who needed repeated coaching, who wobbled like a duckling while learning to walk, who would wail inconsolably when separated from him—truly grown up so soon?
This realization left him dazed.
Should he no longer treat him as a child?
But if not as a child, then how should he regard him? As a relative? A subject? Neither seemed quite right.
Having lost his father at a young age, Kangxi grew up under the Grand Empress Dowager’s protection. Yet, separated by a generation, his grandmother’s love, though comforting, could never fully replace the parental affection he had missed.
Thus, he doted on the Crown Prince excessively, even to the point of spoiling him—a fact he himself acknowledged.
Having never received such love, he longed to give the very best to his most beloved child.
But he failed to notice that his own childhood had ended abruptly at the age of eight.
Overnight, he transformed from a child into an adult.
He had experienced being a cherished son but had no idea how a father and son should interact during the transition to adulthood.
So, when he first realized that his Baocheng was in the process of becoming—and would inevitably become—an adult, he felt an unprecedented fear.
Fear of not knowing how to position himself.
Fear that Baocheng’s world would no longer revolve solely around him.
Fear that one day, when Baocheng fully matured into an adult—stronger, taller, perhaps even more renowned than himself—where would Kangxi stand?
Would he still be worthy of being his father?
Would they, too, become another bloody chapter in the annals of history?
Standing before the calligraphy scroll, Kangxi felt a terror that seemed to tear at his very soul.
This fear surpassed even the moment during the Revolt of the Three Feudatories when he learned that Wu Sangui had mobilized tens of thousands of troops to besiege Yongxing City, and forty-one generals, including Yilibu and Hakšan, had fallen in a single day.
Author’s Note:
[1] Source: Draft History of Qing.
[2] The claim that 41 generals fell in one day is a popular online narrative, though no primary source has been found.
Kangxi: Will my son and I become one of those bloody chapters recorded in history?
Yintang: Yes, and it will be a vividly detailed one too (;-_-)ノ