Yinqi had only taken a few steps when he noticed Yinzhen hadn’t followed. Thinking his brother was feeling shy, he kindly turned back to take his hand. “Fourth Brother, come in quickly.”
At these words, everyone’s gaze turned toward the visibly uncomfortable Yinzhen.
Being sensitive and perceptive, Yinzhen’s mind had already raced through several thoughts in that brief moment. One moment he considered whether he should just return directly, the next he reflected on how Kangxi and Yintang’s back-and-forth conversation resembled an ordinary father caring for his child. Yet throughout his entire upbringing, Han Ama had never spoken to him with such paternal affection.
At this thought, his small head involuntarily drooped.
Yintang observed Yinzhen standing against the light, head bowed low. Though his clothes fit properly, they somehow appeared loose on him, making his figure seem particularly lonely. He resembled a withered tree in spring, starkly out of place amidst the warm atmosphere inside the room.
After careful consideration, Yintang understood the reason for Yinzhen’s despondency.
Thanks to his fifth brother’s convenience, he had met this future successor of the Qing dynasty many times since childhood.
Contrary to the imperial aura one might imagine, when Yintang first saw Yinzhen, the thin and small boy stood beside the sturdy Yinqi like an underdeveloped sapling. His expressionless face seemed to carry countless worries.
Motivated by both building good relations with the future emperor and securing his own retreat, Yintang had decisively extended his small hand back then, babbling and demanding to be held by Yinzhen.
Yinzhen had looked surprised but, with the help of palace attendants, gently held the infant Yintang. Yintang still remembered how Yinzhen’s body had noticeably stiffened, his face slightly flushed. After Yintang smiled at him, Yinzhen had hastily handed him back to the attendants.
This was clearly a manifestation of childhood under lax-yet-strict supervision.
It made sense – though Yinzhen was raised by a noble consort, giving him relatively high status among imperial princes, Tong Jia’s ultimately lacked genuine maternal experience. While she cared for Yinzhen, what she provided might not have been what he truly needed during his growth.
Yintang couldn’t help but recall those historical accounts and unofficial records of dubious authenticity, suddenly realizing that throughout his many years of life, this future emperor had experienced precious little familial affection. And what little remained would diminish even further after Tong Jia’s passing a few years later.
Yintang wasn’t particularly soft-hearted, but whether in his previous life or current one, he genuinely hoped every child could have a happy childhood, regardless of wealth or poverty.
This was precisely why he had chosen child development psychology as his doctoral research focus.
As these thoughts flashed through his mind, Liang Jiugong had already ushered Yinqi and Yinzhen inside.
The two paid their respects to Kangxi and Consort Yi, during which Yinzhen kept his head lowered throughout. After rising, Yinqi explained the situation to Kangxi and Consort Yi.
Kangxi didn’t speak immediately, only tapping his fingers leisurely against the table edge.
Yinzhen’s hands clenched his robe even tighter. Yintang almost suspected his thumbs might puncture holes through the fabric.
This must be what they mean by feeling like sitting on pins and needles, Yinzhen thought.
If it were the Crown Prince, Han Ama would undoubtedly greet him with a beaming smile and invite him to sit. If it were the Eldest Prince, he might simply plop down without ceremony. But Yinzhen couldn’t do that. He was naturally more sensitive than other children, and his impatient temperament made it impossible for him to endure the silence for long. After just a moment, he hesitantly began, “Perhaps I should…”
Perhaps I should just go back.
But before he could finish the latter half of his sentence, Yinzhen felt a soft little hand grasp his own. A childish voice piped up, “Great! Fourth Brother, you’re here! Fifth Brother said you used to be amazing at catching ants, but ever since you went to the A’ge Institute, you’ve been buried in books and haven’t come to see me in ages! After the meal, will you take me to catch ants?”
Yinzhen looked down and saw a delicate, porcelain-like face beaming up at him with a wide grin. The child’s dark, sparkling eyes were full of admiration.
Yinzhen felt his cheeks grow warm under that gaze.
Though he did enjoy catching ants and had even kept some in his courtyard for observation, he wasn’t nearly as skilled as Fifth Brother made him out to be…
He stole a glance at Kangxi and, seeing the Emperor’s expression remain unchanged, breathed a silent sigh of relief. Thankfully, Ninth Brother had mentioned his recent dedication to studies—if Han Ama heard about the ant-catching, he’d surely scold him for frivolous pursuits.
But with Yintang’s interruption, Yinzhen’s earlier tension and unease began to fade.
Kangxi glanced at Yintang and said to Yinzhen, “Sit. I’m hungry too.”
Consort Yi promptly instructed servants to set an additional place and serve the meal.
The culinary skills of Yikun Palace’s small kitchen lived up to their reputation—both the young and old ate until their bellies were round.
After the meal, everyone had some fruit as usual. Kangxi found today’s watermelon perfectly ripe with a grainy, sweet flesh—neither underripe nor overripe—and couldn’t resist having a few extra slices, though he later regretted it.
Influenced by the Grand Empress Dowager and Sumalagu, he had always valued health preservation. Watermelon, being cooling in nature, should not be consumed in excess. Though the grainy variety was milder, he had still overindulged today.
Noticing Kangxi staring at the small pile of watermelon rinds on his plate, Consort Yi guessed what was on his mind. Covering her mouth with a handkerchief, she chuckled, “Your Majesty, perhaps you’d like to try this instead.”
His plate was cleared and replaced with a pale celadon porcelain bowl containing a pale yellow, tofu-like delicacy. It emitted a rich, sweet milky aroma with a hint of ginger’s sharpness.
Knowing Kangxi’s attention to diet, Consort Yi had served his portion at room temperature, while the others’ bowls were lightly frosted with condensation.
Kangxi scooped a small portion with a silver spoon and held it up for inspection. It resembled douhua, prompting him to inwardly mutter, “Can this really taste good?”
Liang Jiugong was nearby sampling the dish, so Kangxi watched his expression, thinking that if it tasted bad, he would simply avoid eating it.
Liang Jiugong took a small spoonful from his tasting bowl and slipped it into his mouth. His eyebrows rose, his eyes lit up, and as he set the spoon aside after tasting, he swallowed reflexively, as if yearning for more.
Could it be that delicious? Half-skeptical, Kangxi brought the spoon to his lips, but out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the three princes devouring theirs with gusto. By the time he finished one spoonful, their bowls were already empty, and each had been promptly refilled with another serving.
The texture was smooth and slippery, remarkably similar to tofu pudding. Yet the fresh sweetness of the milk made one crave another bite after the first, while the just right hint of ginger balanced the milk’s sweetness, preventing any cloying aftertaste even with prolonged enjoyment.
This was Yinzhen’s first time trying it. On his way from Cining Palace, he had listened to Yinqi chatter incessantly about the Ginger Milk Curd specially developed for him by Yintang—this must be it.
He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy toward Yinqi for having such a clever younger brother. Since their sixth brother passed away last year, their mother had been grieving deeply. Even when Yinzhen visited Yonghe Palace monthly, he seldom saw genuine comfort in her eyes upon his arrival. Fortunately, with the arrival of their twelfth sister, their mother’s face had finally brightened with joy.
As these thoughts crossed his mind, Yinzhen glanced at Yintang. The boy was happily devouring his portion with a small silver spoon, unaware of the crumbs dotting the corners of his mouth, much like a greedy little squirrel. The gloom in Yinzhen’s heart suddenly lifted, and he couldn’t suppress a faint smile. After all, he and Yinqi were close—whatever brother belonged to Yinqi was his brother too.
Having finished his portion, Kangxi belatedly realized he’d overeaten again.
Ah, but snacks shouldn’t count as proper meals—no harm done.
Satisfied, he casually inquired, “This is quite novel—what is it called?”
Consort Yi smiled gracefully and replied, “Your Majesty, this is called Ginger Milk Curd. It was the Ninth Prince who came up with the recipe.”
Raising an eyebrow, Kangxi looked at Yintang and asked, “Did you truly invent this?”
The little rascal was undoubtedly sharp-witted. But his neglect of proper studies was equally undeniable.
Yintang nodded emphatically, his childish voice brimming with unconcealed pride: “Yes, Father, I thought of it.”
He’d originally created the Ginger Milk Curd simply because Fifth Brother enjoyed it. But since it was his “invention,” he saw no reason not to claim credit. Innocently, Yintang anticipated that Kangxi, as a proud father, would shower him with praises for his remarkable creativity and reward him with some trinket.
Reality proved otherwise.
Kangxi’s face hardened as he declared, “Cleverness ought to be applied to studies. These extravagant skills and ingenious crafts should be left to the kitchen staff to ponder.”
Kangxi detested nothing more than princes squandering their potential on frivolities, wishing everyone would emulate his own childhood dedication to studying tirelessly. Though Yintang was still young, he had reached the age for enlightenment. Given his playful nature, stricter discipline was essential—lest his sharp mind go to waste.
Consort Yi and Liang Jiugong, well-acquainted with Kangxi’s temperament, were unsurprised by his remarks.
Yinzhen shot a sympathetic glance at Yintang. He felt his ninth brother was rather unfairly treated, yet the Emperor wasn’t wrong. As princes, they bore inherent heavy responsibilities. With Yintang’s intelligence, the Emperor’s strictness reflected high expectations.
Yinqi dared not voice dissent openly, but inwardly he disagreed. How could something as delicious as Ginger Milk Curd be dismissed as “extravagant skills and ingenious crafts” by Han Ama? Hadn’t His Majesty cleaned his own bowl? Cining Palace was better—there, Han Ama couldn’t interfere or dared not. Hmph, he’d find an opportunity to complain to Royal Grandma later.
Yintang’s expression, however, was indescribably complex.
To his ears, Kangxi’s words sounded hauntingly familiar.
“Cleverness should be used for studying—excelling at anything else is useless” had practically been the mantra of his teachers and parents during his school days.
He never expected to hear such words even after time-traveling.
No wonder Yinzhen had been so tense when he saw Kangxi earlier. It seemed these young Princes had frequently been subjected to their father’s negative reinforcement in daily life. Combined with Kangxi’s identity as Emperor, the Princes’ psychological pressure doubled under the dual constraints of ruler-subject and father-son relationships.
As a mentally mature adult, Yintang remained unaffected by such remarks. However… he glanced at his two elder brothers.
Yinqi had been staring at the small cage in Liang Jiugong’s hands ever since Kangxi began questioning them, clearly showing this level of criticism had no impact on him. Yinzhen, meanwhile, kept lowering his head further like a frost-bitten persimmon.
Very well. Even if just for Yinzhen, who hadn’t dared to look Kangxi in the eye since entering the room, he would make sure Kangxi reflected on his behavior.