ITIEQ C74

Chapter 74 – Returning Once More to the Capital

The carriages and horses only set off again after midday. Shen Qinghe rested alone with his eyes closed, conserving his energy. The official road leading toward the capital was smooth and well-guarded, so they dared press onward by night, arriving at last at the gates of Capital.

By then the nightly curfew had fallen, the city sunk deep in quiet. Yet the Censor-in-Chief carried with him an imperial token personally bestowed by Emperor Zhaohuan, so the two of them were admitted into the city without hindrance.

Kong Zhengqing knew well that before departing, Shen Qinghe had quarreled with his family more than once. Thus he extended a timely offer: “The night is late. Lord Shen, why not lodge at my estate for the time being?”

Shen Qinghe waved it off. “After being away so many years, my longing for home has only grown. Now that I’ve returned to the capital—how could I not go back and take a look at my own household?”

Seeing him so calm, Kong Zhengqing acquiesced. “Just don’t forget—tomorrow you must enter the palace to present your thanks. His Majesty is waiting for you.”

Shen Qinghe: “Naturally.”

Though Emperor Zhaohuan personally controlled the realm’s affairs, save for a few rare occasions when he went incognito, the chances to meet in person were exceedingly few. Yet over these years, messages delivered by carrier pigeons had been abundant—the pigeons themselves had even been replaced once or twice. Between them, there was no sense of estrangement.

Locked within Shen Qinghe’s traveling chest was not only the crimson official robe with its high crown, but also the year’s academic summaries from Qingbei Academy, its financial reports, critical archives, and plans for the coming year.

He ran a hand along the carved box. Inside were not only that man’s letters, but all the marks he had made in this world.

Times had shifted. He no longer regarded Emperor Zhaohuan as some superior to be flattered, but rather as a like‑minded brother and companion.

True, every ounce of power he could currently wield came from leaning on this “good brother.” But still—let him wait just a little longer. When Shen Qinghe’s wings were fully grown, he would return gift for gift. Those noble houses, those arrogant ministers—he would flatten them all, so that this emperor could rule with peace and ease.

How treasonous that thought sounded. He himself found it a little funny.

But that was precisely his true intention.

At a fork in the road, the two convoys parted ways.

Shen Qinghe returned carrying little—only himself, a lone carriage, his snow‑white steed, and the coachman lent him by Lord Kong.

By night, Capital lay in absolute silence. Only the pair of lanterns before his gates trembled faintly, casting light upon the words “Shen Manor.” Shen Qinghe lifted the carriage curtain and watched for a while as the coachman went forward to knock.

The doorkeeper, roused at midnight, was already impatient. Under curfew, who would dare such rudeness at the gates? Rubbing his eyes and holding his lantern, he marched forward ready to scold—when from the distant carriage a quiet voice drifted out:

“Your young master has returned. Don’t you recognize him?”

Even the carriage horse, his snow stallion, gave an aggrieved snort.

The servant jumped, raising his lantern toward the voice. There he saw a young man in plain blue robes parting the curtain. As a household slave from birth, he knew at once—this was the second young master who had been absent so long. Or rather—no. That one had long since been struck from the family registry. Their house had only two proper heirs now.

But a name struck off did not mean such servants could rashly drive him away. The patriarch had left no clear instructions. At a loss, the servant trembled, neither able to open nor shut the gate. Gods may fight, but it is the imps who suffer. Should he usher him in or not?

At last he stammered “Young Master, wait here,” and dashed inside without a backward glance.

Shen Qinghe rubbed his nose. Was he truly so frightening, that the poor fellow even lost a shoe in the rush?

Seeing the half‑open gate, he simply gestured the coachman forward. No matter what shock his sudden return might spark, the black‑haired youth dragged his weary body back into his childhood courtyard.

In those days when Shen Manor had purchased and expanded, much of the money had come from his mother’s dowry. Naturally, his residence was broad and lavish, nearly rivaling even his father’s main hall. He had lived as a pampered wastrel, with every comfort.

After all these years, the rooms should have been musty and unkempt—

Huh?

He raised a foot and kicked open the closed outer door. At once, it was revealed: two lanterns were burning, the courtyard swept spotless, not a leaf upon the paving stones. Not the look of an abandoned dwelling at all.

Clearly, someone had stolen his nest.

The kick had startled all within the gatehouse. He cared nothing for impropriety, snatched a lamp, and strode all the way to his bedchamber. Upon the couch, someone slept soundly, undisturbed even by this racket.

Shen Qinghe tilted the flame low to illuminate a familiar face. Shen Qingchun blinked groggily awake. And there it was—the face Shen Qinghe had seen in many a midnight dream.

??!!

“Ah—!!!”

Amusement glimmered as Shen Qinghe watched his brother’s complexion shift from pale to blue to crimson—altogether most attractive. Just as he drew breath to shriek again, Shen Qinghe placed the lamp aside and regarded him silently.

“Shen… Shen Qinghe?!”

“Mm‑hmm.”

Shen Qingchun forced his eyes wide, only then convinced he had not mis-seen.

Shen Qinghe had returned!

But how could he have returned?!

“Up.”

Overwhelmed with fright, Shen Qingchun failed even to argue. Half dazed, he crawled from bed—only to watch Shen Qinghe loose his sash, shed his robe, and with a lift of the quilt, crawl right into the bed.

“You—you, what are you doing!”

“Can’t you see?” Shen Qinghe had already settled into a sleeping posture. “It’s late. I’m going to sleep.”

His voice was thick with drowsiness.

“Out. And close the door.”

Like ordering a dog. In this manor, aside from Shen Qinghe, who else would dare such words?

At once whatever guilty conscience Shen Qingchun had for occupying the courtyard vanished. Shen Qinghe had lost his post at court, offended countless people, was disowned by their father—how dared he return home with face intact!

Just as he opened his mouth to scold, the man upon the bed cracked an eye open. Those black pupils spilled out the faintest glow—chilled to the bone, Shen Qingchun’s words seized tight in his throat.

“Hush. Best not make another sound. Tomorrow I’ll settle accounts with you.”

To Shen Qinghe, Shen Qingchun was no more than a brat.

And brats were to be scolded only in front of the parents.

For Shen Qingchun, the night was true misery. Frightened half to death, threatened by this shameless man, and worst of all, the servants roused by the noise had remained outside, watching him be cowed, without lifting a finger to aid him—merely enjoying the spectacle as he lost face.

His heart twisted in rage and shame, but of course he did not dare provoke this lunatic. He spat out only, “I’ll fetch Father to deal with you!” Then, clad merely in inner robes, he fled the courtyard.

Shen Qinghe cared not who he roused. Eyes closed, he turned over and sank to sleep again.

At first light, sparrows on the garden wall were startled into flight by a furious shout.

The night before, Shen Qingchun had failed to find their father. Instead he had located Shen Qingfeng, the elder brother, who after consideration postponed alarm until morning.

By dawn, Shen Zhao had just returned home. Hearing the youngest son’s tale, his face shifted from shock to fury. Too many great matters had been afoot this fortnight. He had been in constant motion, only last night attending a nocturnal gathering at Minister Qi’s residence—a rare honor he previously had never enjoyed. To return home to news of his rebel son—he had barely removed his robe before seizing the family rod and storming to the inner court.

Madam Qin came at once, the two sons in tow.

The courtyard doors, battered twice in one night, groaned upon their hinges.

“Abomination! Where are you hiding? Come out at once!”

Repeated shouts, yet no reply. Shen Zhao, boiling with rage, strode toward the bedchamber to drag him out.

Such ruckus could wake even the dead. Seated upon the couch, Shen Qinghe waited calmly—and soon faced his father head‑on.

“So it really is you!”

“Yes, it’s me.”

It seemed this post in the capital had not treated Shen Zhao kindly. Wrinkles gathered at the eyes and brow, his demeanor worn, long gone the vigor of old. Shen Qinghe glanced at the black rod in his father’s hand, pressing a palm to his throbbing temple. His eyes strayed past him—Shen Qingchun cowering behind, Madam Qin standing aloof with her brows creased in disdain.

Shen Qinghe’s gaze circled back to Shen Zhao. “Father—so you plan to beat me again?”

“You offended those we should never have offended, ruined your sister’s marriage—how could I not beat you!” Alone, with little wealth or escort here, Shen Zhao had already concluded this son’s exile had left him low and luckless.

Yet his emotions were tangled. This son had never been likable—swift rises and falls, reckless in all things, never like a true Shen.

Suddenly remembering—the emperor himself had decreed, forbidding his return without summons. Shen Zhao’s face contorted: “His Majesty said you were never to return to the capital without summons. What are you doing here? Do you mean to ruin us all?”

“Father.” Shen Qinghe interrupted, voice languid. “Since I am able to return, naturally it is with permission.”

“Permission? From who?!” Shen Zhao refused to believe it. Regardless, he seized Shen Qinghe by the sleeve to haul him away. “Quickly! Yoke the horses—he must be sent out of the city at once! Do you know what hour it is, what calamity your return brings upon us all!”

Dragged a few steps, Shen Qinghe looked down at the hand on his sleeve. Shen Zhao found his strength failing, unable to move him. Surely this boy was born to destroy his life.

Turning to see what trick the youth would now play, he was shocked. For the figure standing tall before them, carved by years of hardship, revealed fully his sharpened edge. Plain though his robes, his presence cut like a blade—difficult even to look upon.

What queer fortune had the Northwest held? It seemed to forge finer men even than the capital.

Among Shen’s sons, few bore much name. But this one, simply by standing, would draw alliances of his own accord—as though all the ancestral fortune of their clan rested in him alone. Enough to stoke envy in brothers who had nothing for all their scheming.

“Father, think carefully. To send me away is easy. But to call me back again—would be no easy matter.”

From behind, Shen Qingchun jutted out his head: “Don’t be absurd! You’ve already been struck from our family registry. Who would call you back?”

Shen Qingfeng restrained his brother. Calmly he said: “Qinghe, it’s not that the Shen family disowned you—it was that your behavior went too far. Father suffered so greatly in court. Only sending you away was already merciful. If you insist on staying, don’t blame us for being ruthless.”

Shen Zhao held silent, clearly agreeing.

The system within Shen Qinghe’s mind was already cursing vilely.

As for Shen Qinghe, he showed little reaction. Calmly, his gaze swept the familiar yet unfamiliar chamber. Then his eyes, dark as ink, slid over each face—anger, jealousy, contempt—and curved into a smile. With that, he drew from his sleeve a book and tossed it onto the floor.

The cover fell open. Page upon page of vulgar drawings. Shen Qingchun’s face blazed crimson at once.

“Last night in bed, something kept poking uncomfortably. Five or six years past and I’ve yet to hear of you passing any exams. Now I know why—it’s because you spend your days staring at these.”

Every face in the room changed color at once.

“You—you…” Shen Qingchun sputtered.

Shen Qinghe cared nothing. Petty squabbles, bitter words—these were trifles at best, sport for his amusement. Against him, the Shen family would need to wait in line.

Why had he wandered here first thing? Even he had wondered. Now he knew.

“Shen Zhao.”

For the first time, he called his father by name.

Between his lips lingered a smile, but his words struck like thunder. In this age so reverent of filial piety, such words were damning enough to be impeached without question. Yet he spoke them without a thought.

“Between us, there is truly no bond of affection.”

“But—that cannot be helped. For blood still ties us. And so, I must fulfill my duty as a son.”

Once, Shen Zhao had feared his son’s vengeance for that day in the Hall of Governance, when he had denounced him for righteousness’ sake. He thought the boy returned for ruin and spite. Now he felt suddenly uncertain.

Had he ever truly known this son?

Shen Qinghe’s words were wild, baffling, mad. To the others’ ears, proof of his lunacy. After all, he was always the mad one, the one who made every heart tremble.

Before any could act, Shen Qinghe turned lightly, stepping from the doorway.

After all, he inhabited this body. The Shen family was no good bunch—but blood still bound them. For that much, he would not harm them.

“I’m leaving.”

So he tossed out his words, not even glancing back. Neither lingering nor reluctant—merely as though he had come to sleep a night, leaving behind a mere message: I have returned. Nothing more.

Staring at the black‑haired youth’s retreating back, Shen Zhao felt suddenly overcome by a fierce, potent premonition.

That he would lose this son forever.

A pang of hollow loss clenched within him. Shen Qingchun, ever sharp to read faces, sensed danger. So he quickly clutched his father’s arm and wheedled: “Father, Shen Qinghe dares spout such rebellious madness. Best that we never let him appear again—then we need never fear trouble from him.”

Not without reason. Shen Zhao too understood. Yet gazing at this youngest son, so long doted upon, his words still rang in his ears: “And you—leave this courtyard. At once.”

“Father!”

Shen Qingchun choked with grievance. Always, Shen Qinghe’s fault! His father’s harshest words, aimed never at him until now—all because of that man’s return!

Shen Zhao flung off his hand. “Say what you will, it’s useless! Back to your original chamber. Study day and night. These vile things that corrupt your mind—I never want to see them again! Not until you pass your examinations!” His eyes flicked to Madam Qin, standing mutely beyond the doorframe. “See how you’ve coddled him. Not the slightest air of a scholar!”

Already tears brimmed in Shen Qingchun’s eyes. Never before had his father spoken so cruelly to him. All Shen Qinghe’s fault! Whenever he appeared, no good ever followed!

Madam Qin clutched her son’s hand to prevent his outburst. She knew her husband’s words were borne of momentary wrath, taken out upon the boy for nothing. In time, his anger would fade, and all would return to what it had been.

On her face she nodded meekly. But in her heart she rolled her eyes.

What use is my teaching? I am no scholar myself. How should I know the airs of one?

Footnotes for Readers:

1. Family rod / 家法 (jiafa) – A heavy rod or staff symbolizing patriarchal authority for family discipline, often used to punish disobedient members. 
2. Disownment / 除名 – In traditional Chinese families, being struck from the genealogy meant severing legal recognition as a descendant. Extremely severe. 
3. Filial piety (孝) – A foundational virtue in Confucian ideology. Denying familial ties was scandalous and grounds for official impeachment. 
4. Imperial decree barring return – Being forbidden the capital by decree implied grave disgrace. A return without sanction could endanger one’s entire clan.