Chapter 101

Chapter 101

Pei Yue led a small patrol outside the city, his retinue mostly comprised of capable fighters he had personally selected from the ranks in recent days. Having charged into battle with him several times and witnessed his prowess, they now followed him with genuine admiration.

When he first arrived in Shaanxi, things were far from the smooth sailing he had described in his letters home.

The previous Commander-in-Chief had been a scion of nobility—and so was Pei Yue, only younger. This left the generals and captains, who had just barely stabilized the situation after the conflict and were awaiting the court’s appointment of a new leader, deeply suspicious. Privately, they grumbled that the court officials cared little for the borderlands, sending them one ineffective leader after another.

While some doubted, others were immediately reassured upon hearing Pei Yue was from the Pei family.

Though the Shaanxi garrison was not like Yulin, where many were veteran officers of the Pei family, the Pei name carried a formidable reputation across the northwest, accumulated over generations. Even before Pei Yue had a chance to prove himself, this reputation alone inspired trust.

Some eagerly anticipated his arrival, determined to follow him for future prospects, while others assumed he was just another useless noble, plotting to sideline him. But the moment they laid eyes on Pei Yue, all preconceptions were shattered.

He had clearly traveled day and night to reach them, accompanied by a dozen men, kicking up dust in the distance. His dust-covered arrival drew murmurs—"The last one left in disgrace, and now this one arrives looking just as disheveled?"

Yet as Pei Yue drew nearer, all thoughts of mockery vanished. If this was "disheveled," they might as well hang themselves. Though fatigue lingered in his expression, it only added a touch of weariness to his handsome features. His innate noble demeanor made it clear—this was no ordinary noble.

People often judge by appearances, and these seasoned soldiers were no exception. Stunned, many forgot their prepared greetings. It was Prefectural Governor Li, who had once glimpsed Pei Yue from afar, who saved the moment, diplomatically hosting a welcoming banquet.

Tensions between civil and military officials were common, but in Shaanxi, the previous Commander-in-Chief’s incompetence had left the deputy commanders equally despised. With those yes-men sidelined, the remaining officers, accustomed to following Prefectural Governor Li’s lead, now took the measure of the newcomer—yet the atmosphere remained surprisingly harmonious.

Pei Yue had anticipated this. At the banquet, he drank and conversed with the generals effortlessly. Though he spoke calmly, without any overt authority, some found themselves straightening their postures, their tipsy minds sharpening. The idea that he was just another pampered noble now seemed laughable.

Who had called him an untested youth unfit for command? Listen to how he spoke—within minutes, some were nearly revealing their innermost thoughts. His confidence wasn’t mere aristocratic poise, but the assurance of someone accustomed to control. How could this be the same young man who had just raced across a thousand miles to take up his post?

This first impression proved lasting, making the work of Pei Yue’s three aides far easier. They, in turn, carried out their duties diligently, adapting to military customs and subtly reflecting Pei Yue’s leadership style—his men were already a marked improvement over the previous Commander-in-Chief’s cronies.

Over the next fortnight, Pei Yue focused on the big picture, rewarding merit and punishing faults without any dramatic shows of force. Yet capable officers soon spoke of him with respect, and the dispirited soldiers began to regain their spirit.

After demonstrating his combat skills in training bouts and leading successful ambushes against small Tatar forces, even the most skeptical captains could no longer hold back, volunteering to join him in battle.

A month had passed since his arrival.

Perhaps Heaven smiled upon them. Last year’s late frost and snowstorms had ruined the harvest, prompting tax relief across the realm. This year’s heavy snows, however, fell at the right time, sparing the crops. As spring warmed the land, timely rains nourished the wheat fields, turning them lush almost overnight.

By early March, experienced farmers predicted a bountiful harvest, tending their fields with renewed vigor.

With the border stabilized and Pei Yue’s forces routinely hunting down Tatar raiders, the people dared to return to their fields under the army’s protection. Land brought stability, and with it, peace of mind.

For the Tatars, however, the season brought frustration.

The same favorable weather that blessed the farmers also revived the grasslands, but their herds, decimated by the previous winter’s storms, could not recover. Raids earlier in the year had yielded some grain, but after the Shaanxi Commander-in-Chief’s injury, defenses quickly tightened, leaving them empty-handed.

Interrogating their spies, the Tatars demanded to know why their "decapitation strike" had failed—had they not crippled the Han commander? Only after Pei Yue’s arrival did they realize their mistake: the previous Commander-in-Chief’s incompetence had been more hindrance than help. Without him, the Han officers had rallied, rendering the Tatars’ costly plan useless.

Now, hearing of Pei Yue’s youth and exceptional looks, the Tatars tested him—only to lose hundreds of warriors and horses to his tactics. As grazing season arrived, their raiding bands vanished completely.

After two weeks of failed reconnaissance, the Shaanxi garrison reluctantly declared: the Tatars had retreated.

When the victory report reached the capital, the court breathed a united sigh of relief. Rewards were distributed, and the city’s mood lightened.

But Pei Yue remained vigilant.

—The Tatars retreated because it was the lean season between harvests, with the wheat still growing in the fields and last year’s stored grain nearly depleted. There was little left to plunder, and no advantage to be gained—hardly proof they’d truly given up or changed their ways.

For now, they must remain vigilant in training, preparing for what may come.

His cautious approach was met with unwavering discipline from his soldiers, who had long been won over by their commander’s extraordinary archery and devastating spear technique. Some even secretly hoped for another major battle, eager to carve out a future for themselves. For a time, the army was united as one.

This left Prefectural Governor Li, who had witnessed the previous Commander-in-Chief’s tenure, both astonished and regretful: *Had the Duke of Dingguo’s heir arrived in Shaanxi earlier, would that disgraceful episode have ever happened?* Though the primary blame did not fall on him, such a scandal during his term would still tank his year-end evaluation.

Governor Li, just past forty, held office in Xi’an, a strategically vital city, and naturally had some connections. Recalling the misdeeds of the former Commander-in-Chief—the Duke of Rong’s heir apparent—and now comparing him to Pei Yue, he couldn’t resist mentioning it in letters to friends and family. Soon enough, someone would surely trip up the current Duke of Rong’s household. When a wall begins to crumble, everyone pushes—that’s just how things worked. If done discreetly, who would notice? Settling scores for his allies mattered most.

Living in the capital was no easy feat, but for the Duke of Rong’s household, torn by internal and external chaos, “no easy feat” was an understatement.

During the Dragon Boat Festival races by the Kunyu River, when the Rong dowager reappeared on the jade pavilion, her once-sharp gaze—once so self-assured as the maternal grandmother of the Emperor’s eldest son—had grown dull. Yet her spine remained straight, her chin slightly raised, refusing to show weakness before the crowd. Her bet was extravagant, placed on a boat already lagging far behind—a blatant donation play.

The crowd instinctively paused, straining to hear what she would say—after donating such valuables, denying her a chance to speak would violate the capital’s polite, roundabout way of doing things.

And speak she did. As more eyes turned her way, she began: “This old woman’s unfilial son committed grave errors, yet by His Majesty’s mercy, his life was spared. Now, with the border defenses entrusted to the Duke of Dingguo’s heir—a man of heaven-blessed talent—peace has been restored, keeping my disgraceful son’s sins from piling higher. As it has long been custom during the Dragon Boat Festival, I humbly seize this chance to donate for the sake of the unfortunate, as atonement for my son’s misdeeds.” By the end, her eyes were faintly red.

Just as she finished, the race concluded—her chosen boat, as expected, failed to stage any miraculous comeback, remaining dead last.

Predicting the first-place winner was hard, but so was picking the last. The Metropolitan Governor’s wife, responsible for procuring clothing and food for the orphanage, sensed the Rong dowager’s ulterior motives but said nothing, rising instead to formally thank her on behalf of the charity.

As she recited polite formalities, many gazes drifted toward where the Dingguo dowager and her daughter-in-law sat.

The Duke of Dingguo’s household had never openly clashed with the Duke of Rong’s. Both were ducal families, but the latter had once been illustrious—boasting the Virtuous Consort, mother of the Emperor’s eldest son, and a heir apparent who commanded Shaanxi’s strategic defenses. The Duke of Dingguo’s household had once rivaled them, with two renowned sons of exceptional talent—until the elder’s death forced them to retreat into the background. The younger son’s appointment as heir and subsequent posting to the Imperial Guards only made them more formidable.

Though the two families were never close, nor bound by kinship, mere months ago, the Duke of Rong’s household might still have sought friendly ties with the Pei family. But fate had other plans—their heir apparent had brought shame upon himself, and the one cleaning up his mess was none other than the Duke of Dingguo’s heir.

When the military reports arrived, the court unanimously agreed that the Duke of Dingguo’s heir should take over Shaanxi’s defenses. The entire court acted as though his mere presence would resolve all worries—and indeed, he did not disappoint. Dispatch after dispatch arrived, and though no major battles occurred, the Tatars retreated, casting the Duke of Rong’s household in an even more pitiful light.

Now, as the Rong dowager rose to speak, her extravagant donation overshadowed all others, and her words circled back to Pei Yue. Many secretly hoped the Duke of Dingguo’s household would respond. “Heaven-blessed talent” was high praise—but coming from her, it carried a sting.

After all, the Dingguo dowager had been famously sharp-tongued in her youth, and her daughter-in-law was no less quick-witted. If words started flying, what a spectacle it would be!

Under the weight of expectant stares, Lady Pei indeed straightened, while Ming Tang adjusted her sleeves behind her.

*Here it comes!* The crowd buzzed with anticipation, attention sharpening.

After a pause, however, it was Ming Tang who rose gracefully, offering the Rong dowager only the slightest nod. Her tone was gentle, devoid of any sharpness: “Under normal circumstances, I ought to bow to you, but now it would be inappropriate. I beg your forgiveness.”

—In the past, of course, it *would* have been proper. By status and age, Ming Tang would have bowed to the ladies of ducal households. But now, with the Duke of Rong’s household demoted to a mere earldom, things were different. By seniority, the Duchess—now Countess—could still demand such courtesy. Yet Ming Tang happened to have a father serving as Rites Minister, and she was well aware that no petition had been submitted to confirm the new Countess or heir.

In other words, the woman before her held no official rank. She was addressed as “Countess” out of courtesy—but if denied that courtesy, she might not even have a seat on the Kunyu Pavilion. Thus, accepting Ming Tang’s bow would be improper.

Realizing this, some who had heard of Ming Tang’s reputation couldn’t help but pity the Rong dowager: *Knowing how sharp the Duke of Dingguo’s wife is, why provoke her by mentioning him? This is just handing them the paddle to spank you with.*

But Ming Tang wasn’t finished. Still speaking at that unhurried pace, she continued: “As for ‘heaven-blessed talent,’ my husband does not deserve such praise. In his letters home, he has repeatedly emphasized that any success is owed to His Majesty’s wisdom and the soldiers’ dedication. After Shaanxi’s earlier humiliation, unity prevailed. He was just doing his job—as any capable commander in the court would have. Please refrain from such words in the future, lest it seem he boasts of his own merits.”

With that, she sat, handing her bet to a nearby maid. This year, she and Lady Pei had wagered lightly—one guessing third place, the other second, neither picking the winner. Earlier, they had debated playfully; now, seeing the results, they exchanged a grin and moved on, turning to quiet conversation.

They cared nothing for the outcome, nor did they seem like they had just engaged in a verbal duel. The Rong dowager was left standing alone, making the onlookers all the more convinced that this mother-and-daughter-in-law pair were a perfect match—cool as cucumbers and twice as annoying. The Heir’s wife, true to her scholarly upbringing, had phrased everything impeccably, pleasing everyone while leaving those who couldn’t even “do their duty” speechless.

Moreover, though clearly of one household, they had donated separately—their combined contributions, if not the day’s most lavish, were certainly close. Some eyes gleamed with realization: *Had the Rong dowager not drawn attention to herself, few might have noticed just how generous the Duke of Dingguo’s household’s donations were.*

By comparison, the one loudly proclaiming “atonement” seemed far less sincere.

Sensing the shift in atmosphere, the still-standing Rong dowager stiffened, dropping the subject to instead converse with the Metropolitan Governor’s wife.

The latter, married to a man who had survived years as Metropolitan Governor, was a master of diplomacy. Within moments, she restored harmony, tallying the bets with practiced grace, congratulating the winners, and overseeing the “donation” formalities. Gradually, the crowd dispersed.

She deliberately looked around: indeed, the mother-in-law and daughter-in-law duo from the Duke of Dingguo's household were early departures again.

She was used to it—in social functions, if left unprovoked, this high-ranking pair was quite amiable, conversing with anyone without the slightest hint of arrogance. But when official matters concluded, they were always among the first to leave. They rarely appeared except for important occasions, clearly not the type who enjoyed casual visits or were social butterflies. One couldn’t help but wonder what they did at home all day.

With so few masters in the Duke of Dingguo's household, it was likely they couldn’t even make up a mahjong table. If they didn’t go out, wouldn’t they be bored to death? The Metropolitan Governor's Lady shuddered involuntarily at the thought and quickly sought out familiar company, making arrangements in a few words to attend an elderly lady’s birthday banquet.

Meanwhile, the supposedly dull Duke of Dingguo's residence was actually lively: while the military reports had arrived, Pei Yue’s personal letters and gifts had only just reached them today. Before heading out, they had encountered the returning convoy. If not for the tradition of donating items during the Dragon Boat Festival races, Mrs. Pei and Ming Tang might have stayed home together.

Upon returning, they first read Pei Yue’s letters. Mrs. Pei couldn’t help but smile after finishing. "Look at this—isn’t it exactly what you said on the jade terrace today? It seems you two truly share the same mind."

Ming Tang took the letter and saw that it indeed echoed the nonsense she'd spouted earlier: praising subordinates, commending logistics, and mentioning a few trivial matters about his daily life—all as reassurances for those who worried about him.

"How did Mother confirm I hadn’t read this beforehand?"

Mrs. Pei was momentarily stunned before realizing Ming Tang was teasing her. "You almost had me fooled," she said, shaking her head.

The coincidence was uncanny—the letter’s content and even its sequence matched Ming Tang’s speech so closely it seemed she had summarized it after reading.

Both women were at ease now: if Pei Yue had the leisure to send gifts home, it meant he had control over his duties. It was much like their own experiences after marriage—if life in the husband’s household was difficult, one wouldn’t have the energy or mood to send things back to their natal family. Only after settling in could one spare thoughts for such matters.

From Shaanxi, Pei Yue hadn’t sent anything particularly valuable, just local specialties for their uniqueness. However, two enormous ox horns left the family puzzled—what could he have meant by them?

"Could they be meant as decorations for the house?" The horns were indeed well-shaped, slender and smooth, not coarse and clumsy. If polished by a craftsman, wrapped with silk at the base, and mounted on a stand in the front hall, they would make a fitting display.

"Yue probably wouldn’t appreciate them, but A Ze would adore them." Pei Yue, after all, was a meticulously raised young master from an aristocratic mansion. Though not incapable of enduring hardship, his tastes leaned toward refinement.

Pei Ze, on the other hand, had likely never seen an ox before. The novelty alone would make him cling to the horns stubbornly.

Sure enough, when Pei Ze returned from school and inquired about his uncle’s well-being with childish gravity—"I’m relieved to hear Uncle is safe"—he immediately fixated on the horns, insisting they be stood upright so he could compare their height to his own. He looked ready to whisk them away to show his friends.

Fortunately, Ming Tang found a note stuck inside the envelope that had gone unnoticed earlier, sparing Mrs. Pei the sight of her grandson making an embarrassing spectacle around the estate.

"Yue says these were acquired just two days before sending the letter—the best horns for crafting bows. Since Shaanxi lacks skilled craftsmen, he sent them back to be made into a horn bow for A Ze."

Mrs. Pei understood at once. "He must mean Wu Chang’an. A Jun learned bow-making from him. He’s currently residing in Daxing—I’ll have someone deliver them tomorrow."

With this explanation, the horns suddenly seemed like excellent material for a bow.

Pei Ze, however, was disappointed. "So Uncle didn’t send them for me to play with? I wanted to show them to Qing-ge and my nephews to admire."

Mrs. Pei relented. "You may take them now, but only if a nursemaid or elder supervises." The horns were still sharp, and an accident could be serious.

"Such sophisticated phrasing for his age," Ming Tang murmured under her breath. As Pei Ze prepared to leave with the horns, she called him back. "Since it’s for ‘appreciation,’ it wouldn’t do to have nothing else. Shall I send some snacks and drinks along?"

Pei Ze’s face lit up, his expression a mix of "Such luck!" and "Why didn’t I think of that?" He thanked Ming Tang profusely and hurried off, nearly tripping over the threshold because he refused to let go of the horns. Fortunately, he had grown taller over the past year, and his once-short legs were now a bit longer. He steadied himself without help and made it out unscathed.

His voice carried as he assigned tasks—inviting classmates, Mr. Lu, and Instructor Pei to his impromptu gathering.

With the young master hosting a "banquet" and the ladies tacitly approving, the servants scrambled to fulfill every request. The revelry lasted two to three hours, barely ending before bedtime. Ming Tang was curious: What could they have talked about for so long? Did Mr. Lu and Instructor Pei really indulge the children’s whims? Surely two grown men wouldn’t be fascinated by a pair of ox horns.

The next day, she learned the gathering had dragged on because the two instructors had spontaneously added lessons. Recently, the school had covered rhyme books, so Mr. Lu had the children compose poems. He collected a handful of awkward, error-riddled verses, finally appeasing his annoyance at the unscheduled work.

Instructor Pei had even more to say—he knew bow-making. Hearing the children’s curiosity about how horns became longbows, he explained the entire process. Pei Ze understood none of it, only the time required. The thought of waiting one or two years for the finished bow—which he might not even be strong enough to use—left him both eager and frustrated.

Ming Tang was thoroughly amused by the children’s "poetry anthology." Seeing Pei Ze’s appetite ruined by anticipation only made her laugh harder. Mr. Lu had sabotaged their evening plans out of spite, while Instructor Pei’s unintended torment stemmed from the children’s enthusiasm—inviting their teachers to play without considering whether they wanted overtime.

Still chuckling, she placed a small three-delicacy bun on Pei Ze’s plate. "Be patient, A Ze. Master your skills with a smaller bow first. When your archery skills mature, the new bow will be a perfect match. Otherwise, even if you got it now, you wouldn’t be able to draw it—wouldn’t that be a waste?"

Pei Ze frowned for a long moment before nodding in acceptance. From then on, he applied himself even more diligently in martial training.

As the weather grew warmer, lightweight clothing replaced heavier layers. Pei Ze and his peers continued their martial lessons on the training grounds. Under the open sky, even early summer sun felt scorching.

After half a year under Instructor Pei’s tutelage, the children found the sessions grueling but never complained. At most, they rewarded themselves with extra cups of fruit cordials afterward. Over time, their complexions had darkened considerably.

Parents, torn between heartache and pride, felt additional gratitude toward the Pei family. Their children, though not unruly by nature, were essentially study companions to Pei Ze. Yet the Peis had always treated them with such care—how could one not feel thankful?

As for Mu Qing, whose near-abduction still haunted his family, his relatives cared little for academic progress. They rejoiced in his personality transformation: the once overly serious boy had grown lively and cheerful, proof of a nurturing environment.

The Peis’ sincerity moved the children’s families, who reciprocated with gestures of closeness—sending fresh produce, homemade delicacies, or simply dropping by to share gossip with Ming Tang, who relished these real-life dramas far more thrilling than any novel. The only downside was struggling to keep a straight face when meeting subjects of these embellished tales at social events.

Time flowed quietly until Pei Ze’s birthday arrived. There were no grand celebrations, just a family meal. But the heartfelt gifts from his new friends delighted him. After longevity noodles, he solemnly wished for his parents in heaven to protect his uncle far away.

A sensible child, Pei Ze didn’t "trouble" his parents further after this primary wish. Instead, he quietly wondered about their daily necessities and comforts before basking in his hard-earned holiday.

His birthday fell outside the usual rest days, and unwilling to disappoint the elders who praised his diligence, he’d hesitated to ask for time off. The relief upon learning he’d have three full days was immense—though he played the model student, "declining" thrice with ceremonious refusals when Ming Tang offered, before racing off to pick outfits. Three days surely meant outings!

Pei Ze had noticed his sun-darkened complexion in the mirror. Now, surveying his clothes, he sighed: *Ah, which robe can make this little charcoal-like appearance look dashing again?*