In a daze, Kangxi heard a childish, milky voice.
“Han Ama, I pestered Crown Prince Gege for a long time before he agreed to write this calligraphy for me.”
Yintang hadn’t expected Kangxi to come uninvited. The room was essentially a grand gathering of imperial children neglecting their proper duties. If Kangxi were to become angry, it would implicate a whole string of Princes and Geges.
Therefore, from the moment Kangxi entered, he had been intensely watching his every move.
Seeing him silently staring at the preface without a word, Yintang thought Kangxi must have recognized the Crown Prince’s handwriting and was probably furious.
He decided to strike first and shield Yinreng from blame: “Crown Prince Gege finished writing it quickly and didn’t delay his studies.”
Consort Yi glanced at her son.
Previously, when the Crown Prince’s beloved cat was injured and ran into Yikun Palace, Yintang had taken it in and nursed it back to health. To express his gratitude, the Crown Prince had accepted the child’s invitation to inscribe characters for this so-called ant exhibition.
To be honest, she was quite surprised when she saw the Crown Prince’s calligraphy.
Not because of the content of the inscription.
Her literary knowledge wasn’t extensive enough to discern the nuances of its quality. It was just that the Crown Prince had always been aloof and rarely interacted with other Princes. Although this was an expression of gratitude, he could have simply bestowed some treasures to maintain appearances—after all, Yuqing Palace lacked no treasures. There was no reason for him to agree to a three-year-old’s whimsical request and personally write the inscription.
She wondered when her son and the Crown Prince had become so familiar.
Seeing Kangxi remain silent, Yintang was about to deploy his golden question—”Han Ama, do you think Crown Prince Gege’s writing is good?”—when Kangxi remarked calmly, “It’s very well written.”
Huh? Had he asked Kangxi yet?
Why was he answering ahead of the question?
“Let’s go.”
Yintang blinked his eyes, confused, and responded with an “Oh.”
Ahead stood a giant ant model.
Yintang dutifully took on the role of guide, pointing with his small hand and saying, “Han Ama, this is a soldier ant model. Apart from its size, it’s identical to a real soldier ant in every way.”
The model was as long as an adult’s arm, with the ant’s antennae, mandibles, and even the bristles on its legs rendered in exquisite detail, successfully capturing everyone’s attention.
So this is what an ant looks like?
Although these creatures were everywhere, no one had ever examined them so closely.
Garu thought to himself that he must visit the Imperial Workshop someday—now that was true craftsmanship!
Liang Jiugong also found it fascinating. Listening to the Ninth Prince’s explanation, he learned that ants were divided into soldier ants, worker ants, and even those specialized in caring for ant babies—just like humans! How truly marvelous.
He wondered where the Ninth Prince had heard all these novel things; it was comparable to what those foreign gentlemen knew.
Since visitors were usually children, the ant model was placed quite low.
Kangxi didn’t mind, bending over and craning his neck to examine it from all angles. Finding it remarkably lifelike, he couldn’t resist reaching out to touch the bristles on the ant’s legs, testing whether they were sharp.
Yintang’s explanation of the ant’s various parts came to an abrupt halt.
Was the large “Do Not Touch” sign at the entrance really invisible?
If you break it, you’ll have to pay for it.
However, he didn’t dare embarrass Kangxi in front of so many people.
A bold, straightforward voice suddenly spoke up: “Han Ama, you can’t touch this model.”
Niohuru hurriedly covered Yin E’s mouth.
This child, why did he have to blurt out such blunt truths?
Yintang silently gave Yin E a thumbs-up in his heart.
Then, he received an inquiring glance from Kangxi.
The straightforward little chubby Yin E had no idea about such intricacies. These troublesome rules must have been set by someone behind the scenes, though they likely hadn’t specifically noted that “the Emperor is exempt.”
Yintang, who understood the meaning behind Kangxi’s look, hesitated.
“Ahem,” Yintang swallowed, reached out his small hand to tug at Kangxi’s sleeve, blinked, and put on an innocent expression: “Han Ama, this model has just been coated with tung oil and might not be dry yet.”
“Eh, it’s not…” Niohuru, who had just released Yin E’s mouth, immediately covered it again.
Kangxi raised an eyebrow. “Oh.”
See? The little one is full of tricks. What tung oil? There wasn’t even a hint of tung oil smell in the room. Besides, who applies tung oil in the middle of winter?
But he had no intention of exposing the lie. Instead, he looked up at the painting hanging above the ant model. It depicted a large ant, with annotations labeling each part of its body.
Kangxi recognized the handwriting—it was Yinzhen’s.
Though it was a brush painting, it also incorporated some Western artistic techniques, capturing the proportions of the ant with remarkable accuracy.
With the Crown Prince’s earlier neglect of his duties fresh in mind, Kangxi couldn’t very well criticize Yinzhen now.
He could only lament that one proper son after another was being led astray by the mischievous little ninth prince.
As for the ant model, Yintang was only three years old—there was no way he could have made it himself.
He wondered which of his other sons possessed such fine craftsmanship.
Kangxi couldn’t be bothered to dwell on such trivial matters. “Who made this model?”
“Me, me!” A small figure squeezed forward from the back, his voice so loud it startled Kangxi. “Han Ama, your son made it!”
Before Kangxi could respond, Yinqi puffed out his little chest excitedly, his face slightly flushed with joy. “Han Ama, did I do a good job?”
A good job? You should worry more about your Chinese studies.
But Kangxi kept that thought to himself.
Perhaps because the last remark felt all too familiar.
Feeling that the fifth prince was gradually becoming more like the ninth, Kangxi twitched the corner of his mouth slightly. “Not bad.”
Yinqi, thrilled by Han Ama’s praise, rubbed his little hands together gleefully.
Aside from nagging him about his poor Chinese, Han Ama was quite good at giving compliments. He’d have to tell Royal Grandma about this later—she’d surely be delighted too.
Completely unaware of Kangxi’s inner turmoil, Yinqi happily mused.
Moving forward, they came to Yintang’s ant observation box.
Kangxi examined the lidless glass container, which offered a clear view of the cross-section of the ant nest inside.
So this was what the interior of an ant nest looked like?
He had, of course, read the saying “a thousand-mile dike can collapse because of an ant nest” and heard tales of the intricate, maze-like tunnels within. But he had always regarded them as mere curiosities. Never had he imagined that the interior of an earthen nest could be so complex, delicate, and yet so orderly.
Above the ant observation box hung a large diagram depicting a cross-section of the ant nest, with each chamber labeled along with its function.
Garu studied it carefully and couldn’t help but nod repeatedly. “So that’s how it is.”
As the head of the Imperial Household Department, which oversaw palace construction and maintenance, he paid particular attention to such engineering marvels.
After seeing the schematic diagram today, I marveled at the wonders of creation while finally understanding that these ants’ peculiar trails were driven by their survival instincts, having nothing to do with the rise and fall of dynasties.
Moreover, contrary to rumors suggesting nine passages with five chambers each, the ant tunnels meandered intricately—far from being so simple.
Later, he must properly discipline those palace servants who gossip idly.
Kangxi overheard Garu’s exclamation and glanced over, snorting, “What ‘so that’s how it is’?”
Garu hurried forward respectfully, “This servant was foolish. I will immediately discipline those loose-tongued palace attendants upon returning.”
A subtle satisfaction flickered in Kangxi’s heart.
How dare they doubt my son? Now they know their ignorance, like frogs at the bottom of a well.
Yintang overheard this exchange but failed to grasp its meaning.
As he looked on in confusion, a large hand gently patted his small head, the tone brimming with relief: “Let’s go.”
The formal exhibition essentially concluded here. However, a row of tables stood opposite, each spaced with small items bearing labeled placards.
Kangxi strolled over.
The first was an ant-shaped cloth doll labeled “Gift from Fifth Princess.”
The second was a pair of iron replicas of ant mandibles—blunt-edged—labeled “Gift from Ashumuergen.”
Kangxi recalled Ashumuergen’s eager demeanor when presenting the gift and couldn’t help a disdainful snort.
This old chap is quite enthusiastic about supporting his disciple. No wonder he vanished after classes recently—busy with this. Yet on my past birthdays, he never bothered crafting anything meaningful for me.
An inexplicable sourness prickled his heart.
The third was a silk handkerchief embroidered with ants carrying leaves, lively and adorable, reflecting the embroiderer’s skill. Its placard read: “Gift from Second Gege.”
The fourth was a leisure seal carved with a three-dimensional ant carrying a grain of rice—exquisite and endearing—from Yinsi.
…
The names of these children gathered more completely in this small room than during grand palace banquets.
Hah, I’ve never seen them so dedicated to their studies.
Had there been a notebook nearby, Kangxi would have listed every name present: school-aged Princes copying The Great Learning thrice, and younger Princes and Geges reciting The Three Character Classic.
But since no notebook existed, he let it pass.
Mentally tallying, Kangxi noted nearly every palace child over two years old was represented here.
…Except Yinti.
Yet even if Yinti had come, he’d still neglect his studies.
Kangxi couldn’t resist shooting a glance at Garu.
How did my perfectly good son return from years at your residence so averse to learning?
He entirely forgot that Yinti had loathed studying since childhood—even resisting storytime.
Garu was admiring the young Princes’ and Geges’ gifts, thinking he should persuade the stubborn Eldest Prince—who clearly wanted to attend—to quit being obstinate, when a chill crept up his neck.
He turned to find Kangxi staring at him with displeasure.
What now?
Fortunately, Kangxi merely glowered briefly before looking away.
Garu rubbed his cool nape, unaware that he had inexplicently been made to bear the blame.
At the very end of the display stood a small half-person-high shelf, upon which rested numerous little trinkets.
Kangxi casually picked up one item to examine.
It was a thin wooden board framed within an outer border, containing a colorful painting of fish playing among lotus leaves.
The picture board was divided into nearly identical square pieces. Depending on their positions, each piece had two to four edges featuring either concave or convex joints, allowing the wooden blocks to fit together seamlessly—somewhat resembling the mortise and tenon structure used in architecture.
Kangxi tapped it in his hand. “What is this?”
Yintang, who had been following Kangxi closely, replied, “Han Ama, this is called a puzzle.”
“A puzzle?”
Yintang stood on tiptoe to retrieve another puzzle, this one depicting the legend of Houyi shooting down the suns.
With deft little hands, he swiftly disassembled the squares and then reassembled them. “These are some toys I designed, to be given to my younger siblings to play with in the future.”
Kangxi’s expression grew even more affectionate.
Leaving aside the thoughtful design, this child truly valued family bonds.
In the palace nowadays, most Princes and Gege had little interaction with one another. It was rare to find someone like Yintang, who not only cared for his close brothers but also remembered younger siblings he hadn’t even met.
If Yintang could hear his thoughts, he would surely retort that the very person responsible for the lack of closeness among brothers was none other than Kangxi himself.
“And this?” Kangxi pointed to a small box. It had holes carved in various shapes—square, circular, oval, star-shaped, and more—each edge polished smooth to prevent any roughness.
Yintang turned the small box around and opened a little door on the back.
Inside the box were small wooden blocks in shapes like squares, stars, and circles. Yintang randomly picked up an oval-shaped block and aligned it with the oval hole on the box’s surface; it fit perfectly and dropped right in.
“This is called a matching box, also for my younger siblings.”
Matching blocks could help infants and toddlers develop hand-eye coordination, refine their fine motor skills, and promote brain development—far more beneficial than being held by palace attendants all day, staring blankly inside rooms.
There were also toy kitchens for playing house, lifelike miniature animal models, and cartoon hand puppets of mythical figures…
Although Kangxi didn’t fully understand the exact functions of these peculiar-looking toys, his intuition told him that while they appeared to be mere child’s play, they actually contributed to a child’s growth.
Kangxi felt a sudden impulse and turned to look at Yintang.
The little bun was puffing out his small chest, surveying the toys on the shelf with evident pride, his beautiful large eyes sparkling like a young lion patrolling the territory he had worked hard to claim.
Utterly adorable.
He couldn’t resist reaching out to pinch the little bun’s plump, round cheek.
Author’s Note: