novelSusiti Chapter 72 Li Zhi
Chapter 72 Li Zhi
As for His Majesty, Cheng Yaojin grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth.
His Majesty surely knows everything.
The Changsun family's secret arrangements, the Cheng family's hidden spies, and the movements of the five surnames and seven clans—none of these could escape His Majesty's notice.
The biggest hidden danger in His Majesty's heart has always been the deeply entrenched power of aristocratic families and the growing influence of maternal relatives. These two forces have been colluding in secret, becoming too powerful to be controlled, and have long been a chronic problem in the court.
His Majesty remained silent, intending to let these people take action on their own. Once they started moving, their hidden thoughts would surface. If they didn't move, things would remain unclear.
This is the art of imperial strategy. These old brothers are all shrewd individuals who have served His Majesty for decades; who doesn't know the ins and outs of the others?
Cheng Yaojin protected this young man not out of impulse.
Firstly, he trusted his son's judgment and cherished the boy's pure talent;
Secondly, he saw through His Majesty's thoughts and acted accordingly, becoming His Majesty's visible shield, thus both complying with His Majesty's wishes and protecting this key piece.
Thirdly, it also serves to safeguard the bottom line of newly rich military officials, preventing powerful families and relatives of the emperor from becoming too dominant and disrupting the stability of the court.
Cheng Yaojin picked up the teacup, gulped down the last mouthful of cold tea, stood up, and patted his belly.
"Father, what are you laughing at?" Cheng Chuliang peeked out from under the eaves, holding half a sesame seed cake in his hand.
"Did I laugh?" Cheng Yaojin touched his face. "Go feed the horses! Mind your own business!"
Cheng Chuliang pulled his head back, and the sound of his footsteps faded into the distance.
As Cheng Yaojin watched his son's retreating figure, he suddenly thought of Changsun Wuji. None of that old fox's sons were as capable of standing on their own as Chumo.
This was his first move—not a title, not military power, but his son.
The eldest son, whose fate was changed by that boy and who has since embarked on the right path, is the one who can well inherit his family business.
This favor, Changsun Wuji couldn't give. Neither could the five clans and seven families. Only that boy from Lantian Farm could give it to him.
Therefore, he had to protect the boy. No matter what move Changsun Wuji made, Cheng Yaojin could handle it.
Eastern foothills of the Taihang Mountains.
On the winding mountain road, a group of people were struggling to move forward under the scorching sun.
The leader was a boy of sixteen or seventeen, with handsome features and a dark complexion from the mountain wind. He carried a medicine box on his back, the leather strap of which was worn rough.
Behind him followed a dilapidated oxcart, on which lay a young man with a sallow complexion. His left leg was bound with a strip of cloth soaked in black blood, and the stench of decay emanating from the wound mingled with the hot wind.
"Uncle Zhou, we'll reach the main road in about ten more li."
The boy turned to the old man beside the oxcart and spoke in a hoarse but gentle voice.
Old Zhou wiped the sweat from his forehead, his lips moved for a long time, but he only nodded.
He sold all the valuables in his house and took his son to seek medical treatment everywhere, from the Taihang Mountains to Luoyang, and from Luoyang to Chang'an, but all the doctors shook their heads.
Only this young apprentice, guarding a dilapidated medical hut, spent the entire night poring over his master's notes, and then told him:
There is a glimmer of hope, but we need a strong liquor that can burn our hands to wash the wound.
The liquor was so strong it could burn your hands. They traveled over a hundred miles, and the liquor in the taverns along the way was so weak it was like water; if you poured it on their wounds, it wouldn't even make a bubble.
The boy pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. Two lines of writing were crookedly written on it, news he had heard from a passing merchant.
He looked down at it once, then looked at it again, folded the paper back up, and stuffed it back into his pocket.
The paper described a place: outside Lantian County, beside a mulberry grove, there was a winery owned by a man surnamed Wang.
He didn't know who this Master Wang was, how strong the wine was, or even if he could get it on this trip.
All he knew was what his master said before he died: "A doctor should persevere to the very end as long as there is a glimmer of hope."
The boy tightened the straps of the medicine box and quickened his pace.
In the distance, the foothills of the Taihang Mountains gradually disappeared below the sweltering horizon. Ahead lay the Guanzhong Plain, the city of Chang'an, and Lantian County.
He was unaware of the undercurrents that had gathered at the farm beside the mulberry grove, the scale of the game, or that he was heading towards the center of those undercurrents.
Before the storm is brewing, there are always people already on their way.
On the sixth day of the sixth month of the ninth year of Zhenguan, before dawn, Wang Zhihuan woke up.
He put on his coat, got out of bed, and shuffled to the kitchen in his cloth shoes.
The well water splashed on my face, the coolness running down my neck, and I felt a jolt of energy, instantly refreshed.
Rice porridge was simmering on the stove, bubbling and steaming with fine bubbles.
He took the dough he had kneaded the night before out of the basin, pinched it into small pieces, arranged them in a bamboo tray, covered them with a coarse cloth, and waited for them to rise.
After doing all that, he took a ceramic jar out of the cabinet.
I opened the seal and brought it close to my nose—the orchid fragrance of the wild tea was still so delicate, neither strong nor overpowering, like a wild orchid hidden in the morning mist of the mountains, appearing and disappearing.
This tea was picked from wild tea trees on the back mountain last month. The buds were tight and fine, covered with white down. It was withered and killed using modern methods, and then dried on a bamboo sieve for half a month.
He had originally planned to keep it for himself to drink slowly, but yesterday Chang Le came to tell him that Master Li was bringing his wife over today, so he changed his mind.
We can't just offer them plain water when they've come all this way. For those who appreciate fine wine and tea, sharing a drink with friends is one of life's greatest pleasures.
He set up a small red clay stove under the jujube tree, and the pine charcoal was burning brightly.
Place the kettle on it, and soon tiny bubbles will appear at the bottom of the kettle—the first signs of bubbles, just right.
He plucked a pinch of tea leaves and put them into the plain porcelain teapot, then lifted the teapot and slowly poured water along the inside of the cup.
A wisp of white steam rose, carrying the delicate fragrance of orchids, and drifted away in the morning mist.
Hua Hua and Hui Hui jumped down from the windowsill and looked up at the stone table.
Grey Grey stretched out one of its front paws and tentatively reached towards the teapot, but Wang Zhihuan quickly grabbed the tip of its paw.
"You glutton, this isn't for you to drink."
Grey wagged its tail, didn't make a fuss, and squatted down at his feet, its amber eyes staring intently at the rising steam from the teapot, making soft purring sounds in its throat.
Around the end of Chen Shi (7-9 AM), the sound of carriages and horses could be heard on the official road.
First, before the man arrived, his voice preceded him—"Smoke is coming from Guo Guo's chimney!"
Then came Chang Le's admonition, followed by a series of steady and powerful footsteps.
The group stopped the car at the entrance. Mr. Li lifted the curtain and got out of the car. He turned around and helped Mrs. Li. His movements were swift and decisive.
Little Sizi wore an apricot-pink ruqun (a type of traditional Chinese dress), with two little pigtails tied with light green ribbons. She ran ahead with her short legs, like a fluttering pink butterfly.
Behind her followed a pretty little girl, about seven or eight years old, with bright, spirited eyes, wearing a light purple short jacket, her eyes full of wonder.
Walking at the very back was a boy of eight or nine years old, wearing a light blue round-necked robe, with a slender figure and a fair complexion.