The next morning, Li Zhongqian was indeed drunk again.
However, he still remembered to buy the thousand-layer pastry from Granny Zhang’s shop for Li Yaoying.
Yaoying took the pastry and handed him a bowl of sugarcane juice to help with his hangover: “Brother, I sent someone to escort Monk Mondattiva into the palace. He has already arrived and is checking Mother’s pulse.”
Li Zhongqian grunted vaguely, tilted his head back to drink the sugarcane juice in one gulp, then fell backward onto the felt mat, snoring loudly.
Yaoying was both angry and amused. She knelt beside him and patted him a few times.
He wouldn’t wake up.
“Every time it’s the same. He promises to behave, but still drinks like a cow…”
Yaoying muttered softly as she wrung out a hot towel to wash the drunken Li Zhongqian’s face and hands.
Li Zhongqian rarely let go of his golden hammers, so his hands were covered in rough calluses, with a scar running across both palms.
After all these years, it was still shocking to see.
Yaoying held Li Zhongqian’s large, thick hands, her fingertips brushing over that fierce scar.
These hands that once held a brush to teach her writing used to be slender, with thin, elegant fingers.
Back then, Li Zhongqian was melancholic yet gentle, refined, and graceful. Every day he would study thick volumes with great scholars, write a vigorous yet elegant seal script, and even paint landscapes in dark ink.
Wei Prefecture had a mild climate. In spring, flowers bloomed everywhere, with pear blossoms like snow in the courtyard, and peach and apricot blossoms in their delicate beauty.
When the breeze blew, fallen petals carpeted the steps.
While Li Zhongqian wrote and read, Yaoying would crawl around on the felt mat beside him.
One moment she would watch the flying petals before the corridor, the next she would turn and sprawl on the writing desk, curiously watching Li Zhongqian wield his brush.
Li Zhongqian would pick up Yaoying and let her sit on his lap, holding her chubby little hand to teach her how to hold the brush.
He taught her to write her name and to paint elegant orchids.
When Yaoying was five years old, in late spring, Li Zhongqian pointed to the colorful fallen flowers before the corridor and taught her word by word: “The guest in the high tower has finally left, flowers scatter chaotically in the small garden.”
The day after teaching her this “Fallen Flowers” poem, Li Zhongqian returned to Jingnan to sweep the ancestral graves.
Yaoying went to stay with Li De.
When the siblings met again, it was autumn.
Li Zhongqian, carrying a pair of hundred-pound golden hammers, traveled a thousand li alone, crossing battlefields of corpses and blood, to find Yaoying barely alive.
He was covered in wounds and blood as he held his sister tightly.
“Little Seven, don’t be afraid, Brother has come to get you.”
The knife wound on Li Zhongqian’s palm was from that time.
From that day on, he never touched books or brushes again.
He practiced with his hammers every day, proving Xie Wuliang right as his killing intent grew stronger and his temperament became increasingly gloomy and volatile.
His body became more sturdy and strong day by day. Those hands that once held books and delicately handled flowers and brushes gradually lost their noble young master’s slender elegance, becoming what they were now.
Even Xie Qing’s hands were more attractive than Li Zhongqian’s.
Yaoying sat lost in thought for a while.
She knew how others viewed Li Zhongqian.
They said he killed without mercy, was brutal and cruel, and had emptied city after city.
Yaoying had tried to persuade Li Zhongqian.
While one couldn’t show weakness to enemies on the battlefield—it was killed or be killed—massacring entire cities was too cold-blooded.
Li Zhongqian laughed softly and ruffled Yaoying’s hair.
Yaoying thought he had taken her words to heart, but the next day she discovered all her attendants had been replaced.
Attendant A said: “My lady, the Second Young Master is deeply beloved by the common people!”
Attendant B said: “My lady, please rest assured, the common people don’t curse the Second Young Master.”
Yaoying was so angry she nearly fell backward: How could Li Zhongqian come up with such a ridiculous way of covering things up?
The sleeping Li Zhongqian suddenly turned over, his hand closing tightly around Yaoying’s wrist.
Yaoying was pulled off balance, coming back to her senses. She pried off Li Zhongqian’s hand, cursing softly: “Officials can start fires, but common people can’t even light lamps!”
The gauze curtain rustled as Chunru’s voice came from outside: “My lady, the monk has finished.”
Yaoying left a palace maid to look after Li Zhongqian and went to the western wing.
Mondattiva wore a black kasaya popular among Northern Chinese monks today, his appearance solemn and his bearing dignified. He stepped out from the inner hall with palms pressed together: “Princess, the Noble Consort indeed took Brahmin medicine.”
The attending physician beside him lowered his head, sweating profusely.
Yaoying’s expression darkened slightly.
She knew Xie Noble Consort’s mental illness was incurable. She hadn’t invited Mondattiva to the palace to treat her mother but to investigate the cause of her illness.
Xie Noble Consort’s illness was strange. She was already delusional when Yaoying was born. By then, Lady Tang was already dead, but the Xie family was still at its peak, showing no signs of imminent downfall.