ITVCFITB CHAPTER 5

 Chapter 5 – Don't Cry

The Imperial Astronomical Bureau was not slow about choosing dates. They submitted two auspicious days to Emperor Tiansheng: one just before Mid-Autumn, and one on the eighteenth day of the twelfth month.

After morning court, the emperor summoned the Third Prince. He and the empress favored the earlier day: the tenth of the eighth month.

“I and the empress prefer the tenth day of the eighth month. You two will be wed before Mid-Autumn.”

The Third Prince wore his customary unreadable expression. “Very well.”

The emperor tried, without much hope, to make conversation. “You’ll be a married man soon enough.”

“Mm,” the prince replied.

Any trace of familial warmth died in the emperor’s chest. With any of his other sons, this would have prompted a heartfelt exchange. He waved a hand, dismissing him.

“Go on then. Make ready.”

“Thank you, Father.”

---

That day, the Luo family’s eldest son, Luo Shumo, was hosting a poetry gathering in his courtyard. He had invited many friends and classmates—among them the prime minister’s second son, Liu Zhufeng. What no one expected was that Liu would arrive with not one but three princes. The crowd and the Luo servants collectively paled. The Third Prince’s reputation alone was enough to set knees knocking; the servants dreaded that a single misstep might earn them a lash across the legs.

Scholars and poets glanced nervously at one another. The Third Prince never joined such literary assemblies. What did it mean that he was here?

Three days earlier, the imperial betrothal had been announced, but the Luo clan had yet to feel its implications. Now, with the Third Prince on their doorstep, dread spread through the household, most of all in Luo Shumo, whose event this was.

Since coming of age, Li Mingjin had held office, and Luo Renshou saw him often at court but so far, so ordinary. Among the younger crowd, the Third Prince rarely socialized. Luo Shumo had his own circle and, following his father’s advice, avoided taking sides. In the past, he had served as the Crown Prince’s study companion and thus was closest to him. He had hardly any dealings with the Third Prince since their posts were in different ministries, their tempers worlds apart.

The First Prince was in the Ministry of Works; the Crown Prince, the Ministry of Revenue; the Third Prince, the Ministry of Justice; the Fourth Prince, the Ministry of Rites.

Everyone now knew that the Luo family’s third young master was to marry the Third Prince. Even so, however little Luo Shumo knew the prince, he could hardly think of him as a future brother-in-law. A prince was, after all, a prince.

Still, he quietly turned the question over in his mind: Why had the Third Prince come? Was it because of his third brother?

But his third brother rarely left his courtyard. Betrothal or no, they were unlikely to have met. If anything, it was Shen Mingyun who had crossed paths with the Third Prince a few times.

At first, the literary guests cowered under the weight of royal presence. But once the First Prince proposed prizes for the best verses, spirits rose. Wine flowed along the winding stream, lines of poetry sparkled, and before long they began to forget the Third Prince sitting off to the side, drinking in silence like a storm cloud.

---

After lunch, drowsy from a full stomach, Luo Shuyu dozed and slipped into the dreams of his former life.

He dreamt he was holding his child’s cold, stiff little body, staring at a face turned purple by the cold. He begged and wept and pleaded, running door to door for help. Every door remained shut. No one would even spare them a bowl of hot soup. In the end, the three of them fell beneath a rain of arrows. Snow fell in great silent sheets, burying their bodies. Such bitter desolation.

He woke with a start. His lashes were damp. He had been crying in his sleep.

Sleep would not return. Qingquan brought rinse water; he washed his face and cleared his head.

It was three-quarters past the Hour of the Goat¹. The afternoon sun was heavy, the heat enough to daze anyone who stepped outside.

“Where’s Qingwang?” he asked.

“He was here just now,” said Qingquan. “Most likely off chatting somewhere again. When he gets back, I’ll give him a talking-to.”

Qingquan was older than Qingwang and the chief maidservant in the Minister’s household assigned to manage Luo Shuyu’s courtyard. She had been sent over by Lady Liu years ago. Luo Shuyu had never had much privacy, but Qingquan had often defended him, and so he had not objected.

Luo Shuyu did not believe in “repaying evil with kindness.” Pity that others did.

Since his rebirth, though, his trust in Qingquan had cooled. He now entrusted important errands only to Qingwang. Recently, Qingquan had felt out of step, she found the third young master harder to read and grew uneasy.

Several servants had begun to seek transfers. None of them wished to enter the Third Prince’s household. Luo Shuyu saw all this and respected their decisions. In his past life, he had brought no one with him but Qingwang. The quickest to run, once the decree came, had been Qingquan herself. These past few days he had watched quietly. He suspected she would soon ask to leave Ruyi Pavilion.

He ate a bowl of cold jelly and felt the heat ease from his chest. He had a desk set beneath the flower trellis; he wanted to calm his mind with a few brushstrokes.

He had not yet picked up the brush when Qingquan appeared, just as she had in the last life, hesitating, words on the tip of her tongue. He pretended not to see until she blurted, “Young Master, Qingquan has a request.”

He lowered his eyes, idly smoothing the brush tip with his fingers, not looking at her. “You’ve been with me four years now, haven’t you?”

Qingquan’s heart skipped. “Yes, Young Master. Four years.”

“I have never shorted you in all that time,” he said, his gaze flat.

Qingquan dropped to her knees at once. She knew he had a clever, delicate heart. He never beat or scolded the servants without cause; he was kind. But kindness meant less to her now than survival.

“I’m sorry, Young Master. M-my mother wrote two days ago. She’s arranged a marriage for me.”

He didn’t try to persuade her to stay. His answer was crisp, almost cold. “Very well. Since you don’t wish to enter the Third Prince’s household with me, I won’t force you. Pack your things and leave cleanly.” He lifted his head and glanced at the others standing nearby, his voice cooling further. “Who else wishes to go? I’ll grant it all at once.”

A handful of maids, those closest to Qingquan, knelt to ask for release. None were house-born servants; all had been transferred from Lady Liu’s quarters.

To outsiders, the third young master seemed aloof and hard to approach. Those who served him knew he was easy to speak to. Put bluntly, he had little standing in the Luo home; even servants felt bolder than him. And now he was to enter the Third Prince’s household—more frightening than any ghost story. Who could say they would live to see next year?

To Luo Shuyu, it was an old wound reopened. People sought benefit and avoided harm; he would not chain them.

Qingquan was still reeling from his swift consent when Qingwang burst into the courtyard, breathless. “Master! Master!”

Luo Shuyu, taking in his bright face, said, “Qingwang, fetch the contracts for Qingquan and the others.”

“A-ah? Master…?”

A light breeze slipped through, stirring away a layer of the afternoon’s heat.

Qingquan and the rest had not expected him to act so quickly. It knocked the breath from them.

But Qingwang didn’t head inside to fetch the contracts. He leaned close, panting, and whispered, “I just heard that the Third Prince is here. He’s at Eldest Young Master’s poetry gathering!”

The brush slipped from Luo Shuyu’s hand and hit the ground. He didn’t spare a glance at those kneeling. “Come,” he said to Qingwang, and went inside.

“What about them?” Qingwang asked, following him.

“Have Fubao keep watch,” Luo Shuyu said, voice emotionless. “Until I return, no one gets up. Let them kneel.”

“When did Eldest Brother’s gathering begin?”

“At a quarter past the Hour of the Goat. I heard the Third Prince seems to have come as well.”

“Are there other princes?”

“Yes. You guessed it! Prime Minister Liu’s second son brought the First Prince and the Fourth Prince. I don’t know why the Third Prince followed.”

“Is Shen Mingyun home today?”

“I haven’t heard that he went out. He should be here. Master, what is it?”

“Nothing. Come, we’ll go have a look.”

When they stepped out again, Luo Shuyu had changed into a fresh, narrow-sleeved azure robe with a crescent-white cloud-patterned belt and a pierced white-jade pendant at his waist.

Qingwang blinked. Dressed like this, his master seemed a different man, so handsome it hurt to look straight at him. Surely more dazzling than the capital’s famed beauties.

Luo Shuyu knew perfectly well he was not lacking when he cared to dress. He took a sealed letter from a small chest, tucked it away, and left with Qingwang.

Behind them, Qingquan and the others exchanged glances, left kneeling on sun-baked cobbles beneath a merciless sky. For a moment, none of them knew whether their choice had been right or wrong.

Qingquan bit her lip. The third young master had always refrained from competing or complaining; she had assumed he would find no favor in the Third Prince’s household and that serving the main wife here would be safer. But now, this calm, decisive refusal to keep her, she could not make sense of him.

No attempt to retain her. Only finality.

Panic pooled cold in her belly. Could he have known what I’ve done?
No. He hardly leaves his rooms. No.

---

On the path to Luo Shumo’s courtyard, lotus leaves spread like lacquered jade across the pond, and pale pink blossoms opened fresh and dewy. Soothes the eyes and cools the heart.

If he remembered correctly, Shen Mingyun was supposed to shine at today’s gathering. Presenting a poem that would catch the princes’ attention.

Not that it was Shen Mingyun’s work. It was a “system” piece by some “Immortal Poet” from a dynasty unknown to this world.

Luo Shuyu paused by the pond’s edge, the title forming in his mind: “Bring in the Wine.” That poem would sweep the capital for months. Many scholars would use it to exhort their students.

If he was to change his family’s fate, he must first shatter Shen Mingyun’s lucky encounters. Under no circumstances could Shen be allowed to appear at this poetry meet.

He turned to go and saw someone standing in the pavilion across the water. The figure was familiar. He was looking this way.

They gazed at one another across the lotus pond. Luo Shuyu quickened his pace toward the pavilion, but when only five paces remained, he stopped. He stared, breath catching, turning unsteady.

He had imagined they would not meet until the wedding day. He had not expected this... so sudden, so close.

Li Mingjin. Alive. Flesh and blood. Those light-brown eyes fixed on him.

In his previous life, at this time, he had feared the man. Now there was no fear, no resentment of the marriage, no urge to flee, only the joy of finding what had once been lost.

Li Mingjin had once taken arrows for him, had lived and nearly died alongside him. They had even had a child.

He was alive. He was young and beautiful still.

At the sight of that jade-cut face, blood-streaked memories surged up, arrows piercing his back, the grim endurance in his eyes, and tears slipped from Luo Shuyu’s lashes before he knew it. Pain, relief, and the ache of a reborn heart spilled over at once.

Li Mingjin had stepped out from the gathering to catch his breath. He paused, brow drawing tight, then suppressing a flicker of astonishment before walking forward a few paces.

Somehow, he knew this must be Luo Shuyu. His future consort.

But… why was he crying?

For a moment, Li Mingjin stood there, at a loss, facing him with a grave expression, saying nothing.

“I didn’t bully you,” he muttered at last.

The moment he spoke, Luo Shuyu’s tears fell harder. He stared up at him, barely daring to blink, afraid the man would vanish like mist. The face was a shade younger; the voice, oh the voice, was exactly as he remembered.

Li Mingjin had only meant to sneak a glance at the Minister’s son. He had not expected to make him cry. He had never comforted anyone in his life, but he couldn’t let this continue. Scowling from habit, he forced out, “Don’t cry.”

A nameless pain tugged hard in his chest. He lifted his sleeve and gently wiped the tears from Luo Shuyu’s cheeks. The line of his mouth was stern, but his touch was unbearably tender. As if in some other life, he had wanted to do this and had never managed it. Now, impulse carried him through.

He looked at those reddened eyes and said, low and heavy, “No more crying.”

---

Author’s Note:
Third Prince: No tears, wife. Come here, let me pet you.
Luo Shuyu: …Get lost.

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Little Note(s):
Hour of the Goat: 1PM - 3PM