Is there anything in this world more delightful than taking a lovely, undisturbed nap? 

Yes, my friend, there is. 

His Majesty Wen Maomao can say with certainty that the only thing happier than that is waking up to a meal already waiting~

Eunuch Bi Fang said, “During the mourning period, everything must be kept simple—I’m afraid Your Majesty will have to make do,” while having servants file in one after another to serve eight plates of hot dishes, four plates of cold dishes, three types of staple foods, and two bowls of soup and congee. 

“How is this an inconvenience?” Wen Maomao asked, puzzled and deeply shocked. 

Consort Huo and General Huo, standing nearby, were even more deeply moved. What kind of hardships had the child endured in the past?

The court scribe, who had already taken his post, stood behind the Emperor, head bowed as he wielded his brush. With a few swift strokes, he produced a masterful piece of prose:

This morning, the Emperor was so overcome with grief that he had not eaten; it was not until evening that he felt hungry. The Chief of the Bureau of Ceremonial Affairs, holding a brush and presenting a bowl of porridge, stepped forward and humbly reported: “As we are currently in mourning for the late Emperor, everything must be conducted with frugality and simplicity, which is causing the Emperor great hardship.”Upon hearing this, the Emperor, puzzled, asked, “In what way am I being inconvenienced?” Though still young, the Emperor understood that mourning is rooted in grief; he did not consider it an inconvenience. Upholding ritual propriety and sparing the people’s labor truly form the foundation of his sacred virtue. Those around him were all deeply moved. *

【This is the court historian responsible for recording the daily activities and words of the Emperor—that is, you. The *Qiju Zhu* is essentially the Emperor’s diary.】 Translated by Cloth Tiger 666, 【He just paid you a huge compliment.】 

Wen Maomao was still in awe of this round table—large enough to seat ten or eight people—at which only three people were seated: himself, Aunt Huo, and Uncle Huo. Facing a spread arranged from south to north, from sweet to savory, the eunuchs serving the meal arranged the white rice, soup, and seasonal side dishes in separate sections. Looking across the entire table, this “simple meal” consisted of dozens of bowls and plates.

The head chef of the Imperial Kitchen pulled out all the stops; even during the mourning period when a vegetarian diet was required, he went to great lengths to ensure the Emperor’s meals were varied, sophisticated, and left a lasting impression.

Otherwise, were they really going to wait for His Majesty to say that Consort Shun’s cooking was better? Would they have no sense of dignity left? 

In particular, there was a dish of braised oyster mushrooms and tofu. When the eunuch serving the meal presented it, there was not a trace of meat, yet a rich, savory aroma filled the air. The oyster mushrooms were saturated with a rich, yet not greasy broth, and the tofu was filled with a medley of vegetarian ingredients that were flavorful without being bland. Every bite showcased the perfect cooking technique and the natural flavors of the ingredients. 

If it weren’t for Jianlan’s concern that Wen Maomao might overeat and develop indigestion, he probably would have polished off the entire dish. 

Yes, Aunt Jianlan—whom Wen Maomao knew and liked well—had now joined the palace attendants responsible for attending to him. To be precise, all the palace attendants who had served him devotedly in the Third Residence had, just as they had joked about in their dreams, received major career promotions and were now serving at the imperial court. 

General Huo, who had already started eating beside them with the natural ease of someone who’d been part of the family in a past life, interjected, “My older brother arranged it, fearing His Majesty might feel out of place upon waking.”

The previous staffing at the third residence certainly didn’t meet the standards required for the imperial court, but Huo Qichuan—known for his meticulous attention to detail—had filled the vacant positions with trusted palace attendants, and the two groups had seamlessly merged into an entirely new imperial court staff. If it weren’t for the mourning period for the late Emperor, it would have been truly difficult for everyone to contain their joy at the promotions, wealth, and pay raises they’d received.

There were so many people around Wen Maomao that he couldn’t keep track of them all at once. But each one appeared so well-trained and focused on their duties that, even with the hall filled to capacity, there was never a sense of chaos or commotion.

“Where’s Uncle Qichuan?” the little one asked.

“They’ve gone next door to continue their argument. It got so heated later on that Big Brother complained their voices were too loud—you even stirred in your sleep, so it was obvious you hadn’t slept soundly.” Huo Jintuo shoveled the food from his bowl in big mouthfuls, managing to make the table full of delicacies look like a mess hall meal from a military camp. “Don’t worry—all the officials have been granted a meal.” 

A chronicler highly skilled in the “Spring and Autumn Annals” style of writing: During the meal, the Emperor suddenly set down his chopsticks and asked those around him, “Have the officials, from morning until night, had anything to eat?” The Grand General replied, “Thanks to Your Majesty’s benevolence, an imperial decree has already been issued to provide meals for all the officials.” The Emperor then nodded and ate a little more. 

Little Tiger: 【He’s spouting another load of flattery. But if he could have tied this in with what he wrote earlier to say, “He first inquires about his subjects’ hunger and satisfaction, and only then speaks of not feeling wronged himself; his benevolence and filial piety are innate, and even during the mourning period, he does not lose his virtue as a ruler,” it would have been even more perfect.】 

Swish, swish, swish—the brush moved ceaselessly, yet he did his best to keep a low profile.

But it was hard not to notice Wen Maomao; out of curiosity, he asked, “Are you going to keep writing like this from morning till night from now on? Doesn’t it tire you out?” 

The record-keeper’s reply came in the form of another swift stroke: “His Majesty showed compassion, saying, ‘You hold the brush all day long; that must be exhausting,’ and I was deeply moved.” 

666, furious: 【He’s talking nonsense! We two are the best in the world—you haven’t even said I’m working hard, so how could you say he is?!!!】

Wen Maomao: …Fine.

“My older brother told me to stay behind to protect you all, and to catch up with you while I’m at it—to find out what they’ve been discussing over here.” General Huo continued holding his bowl, eating as he spoke. The Huo family came from a military background and didn’t observe the custom of not speaking while eating; the whole family was accustomed to sharing updates on their day over the dinner table.

Huo Hanguang cut right to the chase: “It’s because they’re sick of seeing you, so they found you an excuse to take a break, right?”

Wen Maomao continued to observe the silent court chronicler, and then realized that he had no intention of recording this particular passage at all. A wise person knows very well what should be written and what should not. Although both the daily records and the official historical annals are written by court historians, their perspectives differ.

In any case, part of the outcome of the argument had just been finalized.

First of all, the late emperor’s temple name was finally settled on “Yingzong,” and his posthumous title was something like “Xiaode”—it was too long, so Huo Jintuo didn’t catch it all. In any case, the first characters were “Ying” and “De,” both of which sound like positive terms, but in practice… well, one only needs to look at which emperors throughout history have used these two characters to get a rough idea of what attitude these court astrologers and divination experts hold toward Yingzong. 

Wen Maomao’s era name was set as “Sui Feng,” derived from the phrase “sui feng nian ren” (bountiful years and prosperous harvests). It embodies the simple wish for abundant harvests and national peace and prosperity, while also subtly hinting at His Majesty’s personal fondness for food. 

There was another reason Huo Qichuan decided on this era name: his younger brother recalled that in the fourth year of the Jiade era of his previous life—which would be next year—it would indeed be a year of great abundance. Not seizing this golden opportunity to promote feudal superstition would be a waste of his younger brother’s rebirth. 

Wen Maomao’s future private quarters were designated to be the former Wuwei Hall.

As mentioned earlier, the emperors of Great Qi originally resided in the Wuwei Hall on the central axis; it was only after Emperor Yingzong ascended the throne that they moved to the adjacent Changle Palace, which he believed had better feng shui. Huo Qichuan had already discussed this with his sister the previous night at Changle Hall. Huo Hanguang felt that living in Changle Palace—where Emperor Yingzong had once resided—would bring bad luck, and suggested renovating the Wuwei Hall instead. 

Then Wen Maomao must definitely prefer the Wuwei Hall—the Wuwei Hall where the Face-Tearing Wisdom King resides. He’s been dying to see it for ages! It just goes to show that Consort Huo really understands Wen Maomao’s tastes.

Huo Jintuo only remembered the most important points—or rather, the things his older brother had repeatedly urged him to convey without fail: “There are only two matters left, and these are the ones they’re still arguing about, the ones that have really set them off.”

This is where the real, crucial drama lies.

First, whether to allow the various princes to return to the capital for the funeral.

The ancestral statutes of Great Qi explicitly state that “princes residing outside the capital serve as the nation’s bulwark and must not leave their territories without authorization.” This rule has been strictly enforced over the years, with the occasional exception being when the new emperor issues an edict explicitly inviting a specific prince or several princes to the capital.

Some court officials felt there was absolutely no need to allow the princes to enter the capital; their implicit concern was that the princes might use the pretext of attending the funeral to amass troops, posing a direct threat to the new monarch whose position was still unstable. Moreover, if multiple princes were permitted to enter the capital simultaneously, they would easily collude with one another—a gathering of troublemakers from all regions. Just imagining that scene was like dropping dumplings into a pot of boiling oil.

Another group of court officials, however, argued that if not a single prince were allowed to enter the capital—given the new emperor’s youth—it might instead give some ambitious figures a pretext to claim the succession was fraudulent, that the court was acting out of fear, and that they had no choice but to raise an army. 

It’s a catch-22 situation.

“Big Brother believes there’s no such thing as a perfect solution in this world—it’s all just a game of odds,” said Huo Jintuo after finishing two bowls of rice and polishing off four pan-fried buns. As he casually drowned a pan-fried dumpling in aged vinegar, he remarked nonchalantly, “If you ask me, with our family’s Hu Xiao Guards stationed in the capital, what’s there to fear?” 

If a prince dares to rebel in the capital, we can simply arrest him on the spot; if he rebels in his fiefdom, we’ll just roll right in and reclaim the territory. Isn’t that much simpler than the late Emperor’s endless scheming to reclaim those few territories? 

Just as Huo Jintuo had said earlier, now was the best time to assassinate the Emperor—not only because the Emperor was a prime target, but also because the Huo family’s military power hadn’t yet been stripped away. Unlike later, when their influence would be at its peak due to the Crown Prince’s ascension, at this very moment, even without a Crown Prince, no one dared to cross them. 

Huo Jintuo said to his future imperial nephew: “My elder brother asked me to tell you this—he wants you to know not to be afraid. Whatever you want to do, you can do it.” We adults will always have your back.

“Then can I summon Prince Su back to the capital?” Little Wen Maomao really did have a mind of his own. 

In the Great Qi Dynasty, where princes generally took their titles from ancient states such as Qi, Chu, Yan, Han, Zhao, Wei, and Qin, Prince Su’s title alone set him apart from the rest. He wasn’t particularly easy to bully—rather, he was a formidable foe.

Let’s just put it this way: even Emperor Yingzong was afraid of him. In all the years since Emperor Yingzong ascended the throne, he had never once approved Prince Su’s tireless petitions requesting permission to bring his mother back to the capital for a visit, effectively creating a situation in this dynasty where they would never see each other again, even in life or in death. 

Wen Maomao, however, had heard plenty of legends about Prince Su circulating in the underworld back when he was in Jiangzuo, and he was eager to see for himself whether this man truly had a green face, fangs, and three heads and six arms.

“All right.” The reply was crisp and to the point, with no beating around the bush.

The cloth tiger stood to one side, keeping watch over the palace, and was nearly overjoyed: 【Prince Su is great! Prince Su is brilliant! Prince Su is the best! Just hearing his name gives me a headache—he must be a truly formidable villain. Whether we join forces as villains or clash with other villains, we’ll be able to wreak havoc across the land! Wahahaha!】 

Without a doubt, Empress Pei would be elevated to the rank of Empress Dowager Pei.

Huo Qichuan’s implication is: “Our family can’t just work for nothing, can we? The titles of the two Empress Dowagers are what they deserve.”

The Pei family’s stance is that such a precedent has never existed in history. Now that the new emperor has ascended the throne, the throne should rightfully go to the Empress’s child—how could it possibly be handed over to the Imperial Consort? Even though the Huo family is powerful, they can’t just run the show however they please. 

The argument has spilled over to the next room, and it’s actually reached a lull now. Everyone is still sticking to their own positions, refusing to back down. The dignitaries from both sides are seated at the table as they eat,

Draw a clear line between right and wrong, and stay far away from unscrupulous opponents.

However, Huo Qichuan wasn’t particularly worried about this.

Because he had just one thing to say: “It’s fine if you don’t want to raise His Majesty. My sister has no children of her own—shouldn’t she have an adopted son to bring her joy in her old age and see her through to the end? Go ahead, you choose.” You may feel free to register any one of these three children under the Huo family’s name. 

At that moment, nearly all the adults empathized with the late Emperor Yingzong: if they absolutely had to choose among the three children, Wen Maomao—who had no political connections—was indeed the best option. Otherwise, even if they held the young emperor in their hands, the mere prospect of the Huo family joining forces with the Prince of Qin—or with the Prince of Wu—would keep them awake at night and rob them of their appetite. 

Pei Mingda was a shrewd woman; she knew exactly which choice would be best. 

She also understood Imperial Consort Huo’s longing for a child—just as she herself did. She dared not show it in front of the late Emperor because, at that moment, he actually wasn’t all that eager to have a legitimate son from a prominent clan in his grasp; what might happen later was anyone’s guess, but at least for now, it wasn’t feasible.

In Huo Qichuan’s view, the noble clans were no concern at all; the only opinions that truly mattered to him were those of his sister and nephew. Before leaving, he hurriedly gave a remark to his younger brother: “There’s no question about the Empress Dowager’s decision—get Guangniang to acknowledge her son as soon as possible.”

Upon hearing this, Huo Hanguang thought her brother was being utterly unreasonable and domineering. Who did he think he was? Some feudal patriarch? She quickly set down the incense sticks she was holding and covered Wen Maomao’s ears: “Don’t listen to my brother’s nonsense. Why on earth do you have to acknowledge a mother? My cousin lost her mother at a young age and came to Beijing to live with us. She’s always called my mother ‘Aunt,’ and my mother has been very, very kind to her. I’m the same way toward you. We can’t go back to Jiangzuo, and it’s already humiliating enough to have to serve as this lousy emperor in Yongji—and now this…” 

Huo Jintuo: ? Being emperor is a hardship? A Zihan mom doesn’t care about that.

Wen Maomao, however, blinked her eyes and said, “But I want to call Auntie ‘Mom.’ Don’t you want to be my mom, Auntie?”

Huo Hanguang: “!!!” 

How could she not want to? She knew that some women lived perfectly well without children, and she understood that some people simply weren’t naturally fond of children—she wouldn’t force anyone to like them. But she wasn’t that kind of person. She loved little kids. When she played house with her cousin as a child, she would always imagine having a cute little baby of her own. 

The reason she had never openly expressed this desire was that she knew her father and brother’s temperaments all too well—if she showed even the slightest hint of such a wish, they’d be bold enough to go ahead and set her up with a handsome guard. 

But, in truth, she didn’t dare to give birth herself—she was afraid of the pain, and she was afraid of dying. 

At least in the Great Qi of today, no divine physician could guarantee that a woman could completely avoid the agony of childbirth. And she didn’t want to do something that would drive a wedge between a mother and her child. 

Wen Maomao—fatherless, motherless, and a blood relative—was practically a gift from heaven.

But—but, as always, Consort Huo chose her words carefully, speaking with great caution for fear of hurting the child: “You said you have your own parents.”

“I do,” Wen Maomao replied with absolute conviction, as if it were a truth as self-evident as one plus one equals two. “Doesn’t every family have several children? So why can’t one child have several mothers and fathers?” 

Huo Hanguang: That makes so much sense; I can’t even argue with it. But of course a person can have two mothers.

Her cousin has two—one is the mother who gave birth to her, and the other is Huo Hanguang’s mother, who raised her. 

“That’s what my grandma said.”

Wen Maomao’s grandmother passed away last winter; she was his only remaining relative. The old lady had always tried so hard to live on for her little grandson, but unfortunately, the health issues stemming from her overwork in her youth meant she ultimately couldn’t defy fate. 

On her deathbed, her eyes were nearly blinded by tears, yet she forced herself to remain calm. Clutching the hand of her grandson—who was barely taller than the bed—she carefully weighed all the possible outcomes for his future, doing everything she could to help him understand and accept them. 

“Your mother and father died in a carriage accident. They suffered a great deal before they died, so perhaps finally passing away was a blessing.” 

“When your mother was still conscious, she asked me for just one thing—don’t let Maomao remember me; don’t let the child know about me.”

It wasn’t that she didn’t love her child; rather, it was precisely because she loved him so much that she made this decision at this very moment. She didn’t want Wen Maomao to have to go through the pain of losing his mother all over again once he was old enough to understand, nor did she want the child’s future mother to feel resentful simply because he already had a mother from before.

“Your mother was a good person; she spent her whole life thinking of others.”

“But I’m not like that. I can’t agree to something like this. I want you to remember: your mother’s name is Zhou Qiao. She’s from Jiangzuo, and her family lives south of Jichuan—the very little river where you love to go fishing so much. She was skilled in everything from hunting to embroidery. She grew up eating meals at countless households and endured all the hardships of being without parents, which is why she hopes you can have a complete family.” 

When her daughter-in-law, Zhou Qiao, passed away, she was only eighteen. Like her, she didn’t have a distinguished surname, nor a name that sounded particularly cultured, nor did she lead a dramatic life. The farthest and finest place she’d ever been was Jiangzuo Prefecture. 

“But your mother was just like me—she loved you dearly, and there’s nothing about her love that isn’t worthy of pride.” 

“Some people’s parents are chosen by heaven, while others find their own later in life. Our Maomao is especially lucky—she’s been able to experience both.”

If this is the family you want, then tell her all of this and discuss it sincerely with her—ask if she’s willing to become part of your family. No one is replacing anyone else; rather, we’ll become one big family that supports each other along the way. If she doesn’t want to, that’s okay too, because you still have your own biological parents—you haven’t lost anything. 

“Before that…” Imperial Consort Huo hadn’t finished speaking when she realized what she was about to say.

In the child’s mind, he remembered what his grandmother had said: whether or not to become a family was something that needed to be discussed. Since the distant Emperor hadn’t said anything to him, it must have been a misunderstanding. And now, he was extending a sincere invitation to her: “Auntie, would you be willing to become part of my family?” 

Of course she would.

His silly mother was hugging her silly son and crying her eyes out. If she’d known that Wen Maomao didn’t mind this at all, she would have spoken up long ago—why make a child have to rack his brains over such things? 

The court chronicler, standing nearby, was struck by a burst of inspiration: “Following a recent bereavement, with a young master and a compassionate mother, their resolve to rely on one another grows even stronger amidst their grief—a blessing in disguise.”

— Author’s Note —

* The record keeper’s classical Chinese text: I don’t have much of a background in classical Chinese, so please forgive me if any parts sound too archaic or stilted, QAQ. I used straight quotation marks like “” because I thought it would make it look a bit more like classical Chinese.

*”As princes residing outside the capital serve as the nation’s bulwark, they must not leave their territories without authorization”: This is the original text from the posthumous edict of Emperor Renzong of the Ming Dynasty, Zhu Gaochi, and is merely cited here. Regulations regarding princes returning to the capital for funerals have varied across dynasties; even within a single dynasty, different periods may have had differing rules. The text refers to the principle that, in general, princes were not permitted to return to the capital for funerals unless specifically authorized by the emperor.