Shao Yao made the bed with swift efficiency. Though it still wasn’t quite neat enough, it was already far better than her first attempt, and Hua Zhi didn’t mind — Zeng Han even less so.

In the courtyard, servants were tidying up. When they saw the two of them come out, they paused their work. Chen Shan stepped forward. “First Young Miss, is there anything you need?”

“Bring two lamps over.”

“Yes.”

The servants held the lamps and stood to either side. Hua Zhi used a teaching pointer to guide Shao Yao through creating various terrains on the sand table. The activity naturally drew the attention of those inside the house, and before long, quite a few people had gathered around to watch.

Hua Zhi paid them no mind. She had always intended to teach them — whether today or tomorrow made no difference.

What she had never expected, however, was just how deeply Zeng Han truly understood. Not only had he grasped the rules of the game, he was actually holding his own against Shao Yao in battle — and even with Shao Yao going easy on him, that was still astonishing enough! After all, he wasn’t even four years old yet!

Even in the Hua Family, four-year-olds had only just begun their earliest studies!

This child… this child was actually…

Did Zeng Xian even know what a genius of a son he had? If he had properly cultivated the boy, there would never have been any need for him to risk his own life doing what he did.

And then, just as quickly, Hua Zhi felt a wave of relief that Zeng Xian hadn’t known how clever his son was. Raised by that man, the child would have been anything but a blessing to the Great Qing dynasty.

“I lost.” Zeng Han’s face, usually so devoid of expression, now carried a trace of dejection.

Hua Zhi patted his head. “You’ve already won. When Sister Shao Yao was your age, she couldn’t do any of this.”

Zeng Han looked up, and a faint light came into his eyes.

Shao Yao pursed her lips. She knew it — the moment there was a younger one around, Hua Zhi would always rank her last.

Hua Zhi exchanged a glance with her grandfather, then returned to her room first. Now was not the time for conversation.

Young children fall asleep quickly. Listening to the child’s long, even breaths, Shao Yao said softly, “Zeng Han is excellent material for a military commander.”

“It’s too early to say that. Zeng Xian’s influence on him runs too deep. Have you ever seen a four-year-old this calm? He has none of the carefree, playful spirit a child his age should have. When I give him a toy, his pleasure doesn’t come from receiving something new or from the toy itself — it comes from the fact that I was the one who gave it to him.”

Hua Zhi let out a soft sigh. “If his temperament stays this way, then he’ll stay by my side. As long as I am safe, I’ll keep him safe. There’s nothing wrong with living out an ordinary life.”

“Are you worried he’ll turn out as extreme as his father?”

“His father was a normal person to begin with — he was driven to madness. That sort of thing isn’t hereditary. You’re a physician; do I really need to tell you that?”

Shao Yao sidled up to her placatingly. “That’s not what I meant. You’re worried about the influence Zeng Xian had on him, aren’t you?”

“Growing up in an atmosphere steeped in hatred — of course that leaves a mark. But he’s still so young. Put him in a better environment and things may well change. I don’t want to steer him toward a certain path just because he shows talent in that area — there’s no need for it. Children should live children’s lives. If the sky falls, there are adults to hold it up. Zeng Xian may have had an air of expecting repayment for his kindness, but the fact remains that he did the Hua Family a great service. This child is all that’s left of him, and I have to give him proper care. Besides — doesn’t it break your heart, seeing a child this small carrying all of this? And don’t think I don’t know you’ve been setting aside a portion of the good food for him. Go easy on it — don’t give him so much. His stomach isn’t as big as yours. You could eat a whole table.”

Hua Zhi flicked Shao Yao on the forehead, sending her burrowing deeper under the covers — not from pain, but from guilt.

“And another thing — don’t think I don’t know you’ve been sneaking meat into the medicinal meals. I haven’t touched meat in nearly half a year. Put a little less in next time; it’s been making me uncomfortable.”

Shao Yao had braced herself for a scolding, but to her surprise, Hua Zhi wasn’t angry with her at all. She broke into a delighted grin. She’d always known Hua Zhi cared about her most.

Hua Zhi kneaded her cheeks gently, and said nothing about how the moment she had taken that first bite, her stomach had lurched and she had nearly retched — but when she caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye of Shao Yao watching anxiously, the discomfort had ceased to matter at all. If not out of care for her, why would Shao Yao have done something like that, knowing full well she was in mourning?

Mourning was only a formality, after all. She was not the sort to cling rigidly to convention. Her body needed nourishment to heal. Breaking the fast was breaking the fast — if her grandmother’s spirit lingered, she would not blame her for it. True filial piety was never about appearances; it lived in the heart.

Listening to the steady breathing beside her, Hua Zhi smiled despite herself. Such a child’s heart — Shao Yao had been so lively just moments ago, and now she was already asleep.

She wasn’t sure if it was because she’d slept so much these past weeks, but for the past two nights, Hua Zhi had struggled to sleep.

Moonlight filtered through the latticed window and fell across the small child’s face — soft and unhurried. He was curled up, sleeping soundly.

The cleverness the child had shown tonight startled her. The Hua Family children were all bright. Take Bailin — his intelligence was rare, the kind that in another age would let a person breeze through life playing and still rise to the top of his class. Xiao Liu went without saying — his circumstances had forced him to grow sharp far too young. And yet, neither of them could match Zeng Han’s genius.

She had sensed it over these past few days. Whatever she set before him, he grasped it at once. Earlier today, she had found him sitting alone reading a book — and yet Zeng Xian had never taught him to read, and she herself had only taught him a handful of characters these past few days. And there he was, reading! No matter how many characters he actually recognized, no matter how much he truly understood — the fact that he could sit with a book for an entire day and turn the pages slowly was already saying a great deal.

At the time, she had thought he was simply well-suited to the Hua Family, that he would grow into an excellent scholar. It had never occurred to her that his gifts extended beyond that.

Hua Zhi rubbed her temples with a dull ache. A child being too clever was not necessarily a good thing — especially one who had lived through what he had. Others might not remember what happened to them at three years old, but she had a strong feeling that Zeng Han would remember — remember those unhappy years, remember the death of his father. She genuinely worried that without proper guidance, this child might one day turn against the world.

It was truly a long road ahead. Hua Zhi sighed. She would have to put a great deal more care into him going forward.

First thing the following morning, Hua Zhi had someone make a small sand table — scaled to Zeng Han’s height, reaching just to his waist.

Zeng Xian had not yet passed the seventh day of mourning. Zeng Han was still wearing mourning clothes. Hua Zhi drew him close, straightened his garments, and said softly, “When you’re playing, don’t let certain people see.”

“Certain people?”

“Whoever you think those people are.”

Zeng Han nodded. “Wu Yong.”

Hua Zhi smiled. “Good. Wu Yong it is.”

“Whatever you want to learn, just tell me. What I know, I’ll teach you. What I don’t know, I’ll find you a proper teacher once we’re back in the capital.”

Zeng Han looked at her steadily. Hua Zhi met his gaze just as steadily, neither flinching nor looking away.

After a long moment, Zeng Han lowered his head. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll end up like my father?”

“And will you?”

“I don’t know.” Zeng Han lifted his face — there was something stubborn in it, yet underneath, a wounded vulnerability. “Why would I become like my father? I’m not Zeng Xian!”

Hua Zhi stilled for a moment, then smiled. “That’s right. You are Zeng Han. You just need to become whoever Zeng Han wants to be.”

Author’s note: May each of us live as our truest selves.