Chapter 22: Strange Martial Noble

“Zhi Shao, Zhi Shao...”

Jia Cong called out to Zhi Shao, who was staring at him in daze.

Zhi Shao jolted awake, her small face flushed red: “Third Young Master, what is it?”

“Today you’re coming with me. I can’t leave you alone at home—I’ll take you somewhere first, then we’ll return to the mansion together after I come back from Nanxi.”

When Jia Cong was present, Jia She and his wife never tried to coax or pressure Zhi Shao, though in their eyes, Jia Cong was no better than the mud outside the second gate.

But asking for their son’s personal maid as a concubine right before his face was too humiliating, too hard to say aloud—even Jia She, for all his arrogance, still had some sense of face.

Besides, if it got out and reached the Old Lady’s ears, she’d grow even more disgusted with them, and they’d never rise again in the Jia household, doomed forever to be the burnt rolls in the Eastern Courtyard.

Jia Cong understood all this, so he did his best to avoid leaving Zhi Shao alone in the mansion, guarding against Jia She and Lady Xing taking advantage.

Zhi Shao knew Jia Cong cared for her—he took her everywhere he went, lest she be bullied alone at home by Master and Lady—and thinking of this, her heart grew sweet.

Jia Cong opened the door and found everything around him blank white; Tan Chun had said yesterday the clouds were heavy and snow would fall today—and she was right, the snow had fallen all night.

This carriage wasn’t from the Eastern Courtyard; Jia She would never be so foolish as to provide Jia Cong with a carriage so he could go out and show off.

Jia Zheng always rode his own carriage when traveling out, because Guo Zhigui was small but clever, and drove fast and steady.

The carriage had already stopped outside the black-oil gate of the Eastern Courtyard, with two attendants riding horses behind.

The carriage emerged from Juede Lane into a blinding snowstorm, traveled a little over half an hour, then halted near Chunhua Pavilion in the Western City.

His feet sank half a finger’s depth into the snow, crunching with crisp, brittle sounds.

Guo Zhigui was the same age as Jia Cong.

Though young, he had learned horsemanship from some unknown source—no matter how unruly the beast, it became docile in his hands.

Jia Cong saw that though Guo Zhigui was his age, he had grown tall and sturdy, like a boy of fifteen or sixteen.

Jia Cong helped Zhi Shao into the carriage; the sky was still dim, most of the Eastern Courtyard still asleep, no one around to disturb them.

This was the Western Mansion’s carriage, arranged by Jia Zheng the day before—he even had it go ahead to Shuyun Villa to avoid delays from unfamiliar roads.

The driver was Guo Zhigui, son of Aunt Zhao; he was Jia Cong’s milk-brother. By rights, their bond was close, but Jia Cong had rarely seen Guo Zhigui since childhood.

Seeing Jia Cong approach, Guo Zhigui grinned a simple, earnest smile, revealing clean white teeth; he jumped down from the carriage bench and brought out a small stool: “Third Young Master Jia, please step aboard.”

With just this skill, the boy had already served as a driver in the Western Mansion for a full year.

Jia Cong saw his milk-brother sitting steadily on the carriage bench, his face darkened by sun and wind, wearing a felt hat thickly dusted with snow—he must have been waiting a long time.

Shuyun Villa, where the Nanxi Literary Gathering was held, sat atop Qifeng Ridge on the city’s western outskirts; leaving through Hongde Gate, the carriage still had to travel another hour to reach it.

Jia Cong and Zhi Shao got down from the carriage, instructing Guo Zhigui to wait where he was.

His milk-brother looked honest and plain, not the type to harbor deceit—but in a grand household like the Jias, the waters ran too deep; caution was always wise.

The two walked through two streets to a quiet alley, stopping before a small courtyard at its end.

Zhi Shao was surprised to see Jia Cong pull out a key and unlock the pillow lock on the courtyard gate; inside stood a small house with four side rooms, and a tall mulberry tree in the center.

This was the lodging Jia Cong had rented in the Western City a few days ago; he settled Zhi Shao inside, shut the gate, then returned to Guo Zhigui’s carriage.

As the carriage passed through Hongde Gate, Jia Cong saw several other carriages passing ahead and behind—some plain and simple, others lavish and opulent.

They were headed the same way—he guessed they too were going to the Nanxi Literary Gathering; as time passed, more and more carriages joined the road.

Jia Cong’s carriage bore the Rongguo Mansion’s emblem, and along the way he noticed many passing carriages had their curtains drawn back, eyes fixed on them.

Some must have wondered: a martial noble family, whose heirs typically served in the military, were usually crude and uncultivated.

Under such a family’s influence, it was nearly impossible to produce a proper scholar—so how had Rongguo Mansion produced someone who would attend the Nanxi Literary Gathering?

Yet others recalled that Ningguo Mansion, once of the same lineage as Rongguo, had produced Jia Jing—a refined scholar who passed the imperial examination.

In the past fifty years of the empire, only one martial noble family had ever produced a scholar who sang his name at Qujiang—could the Jias be about to repeat this feat?

Jia Cong did not know that even before he reached Shuyun Villa, his arrival had already stirred considerable commotion among the scholars and literati attending the gathering.

Ten li beyond Hongde Gate, villages and people vanished; Jia Cong lifted the carriage curtain and saw only a vast, snow-covered expanse.

Not far ahead, a great river lay frozen solid; broken ice floes drifted slowly with the undercurrents, colliding with metallic, shrill clangs.

In the dense trees along the riverbank, branches stretched skyward, laden with jade-like snow, appearing eerily elegant and graceful in the cold wind.

Jia Cong, seeing the scene, recalled the great man’s verse: “The northern land’s scenery, a thousand li frozen, ten thousand li snow drifting; beyond the Great Wall, only boundless white; along the great river, the surging waves now gone...”

But he would never dare speak this poem aloud—he’d only ever recite it silently in his heart.

Less than ten li further, the carriage reached the foot of Qifeng Ridge, where servants of the Jia Shun Prince’s mansion waited to guide arriving carriages.

Jia Cong’s carriage followed the guide through a mountain pass and saw ahead a towering archway, bearing a massive black plaque with golden characters: “Shuyun Villa.”

Behind the archway stretched a straight stone staircase winding up the mountainside; at its summit, white walls and blue-tiled roofs emerged, pavilions and eaves half-hidden, like celestial palaces in the clouds.

Dozens of carriages of all kinds stood beneath the archway—their owners, surely, were all here for the Nanxi Literary Gathering.

Those who disembarked often knew each other, bowing and exchanging greetings; others were introduced by acquaintances, expressing long-held admiration.

When Jia Cong’s carriage halted beneath the archway, it immediately drew many eyes—its Rongguo Mansion emblem was far too conspicuous.

Just like those encountered on the road, those gathered beneath the archway were astonished that such a prominent martial noble house as Rongguo had been invited to the literary gathering.

When the passengers stepped down, their stares grew even stranger.

For the person stepping out was not a composed adult, but a boy of ten or so—when had the Nanxi Literary Gathering begun inviting children?

The boy wore a bright red Xingxingzhan cloak, beneath which peeked a silver-bamboo-patterned pale robe, black velvet-soled cloud-walking boots, and held a purple-copper hand warmer inlaid with blue.

His attire was refined and elegant, yet not ostentatious.

His glossy black hair was tied with a single Xiuyuzan ; though his cheeks were slightly thin, his features were exquisitely handsome, his eyes clear and warm, calm and serene.

Tall and straight, standing like a jade tree; his red cloak stirred in the cold wind, glowing against the snow like a proud plum blossom.

Many silently marveled: though a child, such noble grace was rare indeed—who was this boy from Rongguo Mansion? They’d never heard of him.

“Hey, isn’t that Young Master Jia? What are you doing here?” A young man’s voice broke the oddly tense atmosphere.

Jia Cong turned and saw a man in his early twenties striding toward him—it was Liu Bi, whom he’d met just days ago.

(End of Chapter)