The cold wind raged as Chu Yu lightly stroked the sharp thorns of the bundle, as if genuinely considering whether such an instrument of torture could be put to use.

Wang Chiyi, who had been certain the Crown Prince would never dare to whip him with this, suddenly lost his confidence. No way, right? Is he actually going to use this thing on me? He lowered his head and shot a fierce glare at his servant. This bundle of thorns was something he had ordered the servant to find; the servant, unaware it might be used on his own master, had put great effort into finding the “best” one to please him. Now, the servant’s face was deathly pale, regretting it to his very core.

“Hmph…” A light, teasing tone escaped Chu Yu. He held the bundle and flicked it to test the weight, then turned to Yan Huai. “Yan Huai, this thing is actually quite interesting.”

Yan Huai caught the Prince’s drift and laughed along. “Indeed. It seems Young Master Chiyi is quite sincere. If we were to waste this sincerity, we would be doing a disservice to him.”

Their conversation left Wang Chiyi trembling with terror. He quickly looked up, flashing a fawning smile. “Yo… Your Highness…”

“Hm?” Chu Yu was still inspecting the bundle, not even lifting his head. His slender, fair fingers grazed the sharp spikes, a sight that sent a chill down Wang Chiyi’s spine. “What is it? Didn’t Young Master Chiyi come to plead for mercy?”

Wang Chiyi swallowed, unable to utter a single word. Didn’t Father say the Prince wouldn’t dare take it, let alone hit me? The case against my uncle is still being investigated—could it be that the Prince thinks my Wang clan is about to fall, so he’s planning to burn his bridges?

He turned the possibilities over in his mind. Seeing the bundle of thorns held high, his posture collapsed from a kneel to a heap on the ground, ready to scramble away. Having been pampered his entire life, Wang Chiyi had barely even suffered a scratch, and the mere thought of those thorns piercing his flesh filled him with uncontrollable dread.

“Don’t… don’t hit me…”

Watching his pathetic display, Chu Yu let out a small, amused sound. He looked down at Wang Chiyi, peering down at him from above. “I was only joking with you, Young Master Chiyi. I didn’t expect to frighten you so much. It seems that is my fault.”

“How could I blame you?” His voice was soft, but his eyes were cold as ice. Wang Chiyi, shielding his face, could not see his expression. “The Wang clan has rendered great service to our Long Dynasty. If a collateral relative commits a crime, death is a fair payment. To implicate the Prime Minister and make him feel wronged—I feel troubled by it myself.”

With that, he tossed the bundle of thorns casually at Wang Chiyi’s feet. “Let’s go inside, Yan Huai.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

As Yan Huai walked past Wang Chiyi, the latter caught the look of contempt and disdain in the other man’s eyes as he lowered his hands.

Once the two had entered the Wenhua Hall, Wang Chiyi clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white.

“Yo… Young Master.” His servant approached, trembling, to help him up.

Knowing he had lost face for his father, Wang Chiyi grabbed the bundle of thorns Chu Yu had discarded and struck the servant’s head in a fit of rage. “Useless, incompetent trash!”

The servant didn’t dare protect his head, only enduring the whipping and pleading for mercy. After venting his anger, Wang Chiyi glared back at the Wenhua Hall with a venomous expression.

So what if you’re the Crown Prince? You’ve offended my father and lost the Emperor’s favor. I want to see how much longer you can sit on that throne. When the day comes that you lose this position, I will make sure you pay the price for what you did today!

Yongcheng.

Rustle, rustle.

With the crowing of the rooster, the other students in the dormitory began to wake up, filling the room with noisy, grating sounds. Ji Linxi, who was prone to oversleeping, pulled his quilt over his head, attempting to ignore the world and steal a few more moments of rest. But eventually, he tossed the quilt aside and reached for his clothes.

After a night of freezing temperatures, the air outside was even colder. Because he had stayed up so late, his head felt heavy and foggy. While others went to fetch hot water to wash their faces, he grabbed a handful of snow and rubbed it into his skin to snap himself awake.

“Seven more days until the winter break.”

“My mother wrote to me saying she made new clothes for me to wear home.”

“I’m envious, Brother Chen. If I go home, I won’t escape my father testing my studies.”

Listening to the idle chatter, Ji Linxi, who was in the middle of dressing, rolled his eyes. Once the winter break began, the academy would be cleared out for a month, not reopening until after the New Year. Fishing a corner of a banknote from his robe, he calculated quickly.

If he rented a place, he would have to pay a significant amount for the month, on top of books, candles, paper, and ink—a huge expense. He also had to pay tuition and other miscellaneous fees. Moreover, if he wanted to pass the civil service examinations, he had to study until his dying breath; reading a few simple books wouldn’t be enough—he needed to be well-versed in everything.

“Miscellaneous” books were cheap, but proper scholarly texts were extremely expensive. He clearly couldn’t afford to buy that many. The best way was to borrow from others. But these students were his future competitors; anyone with a brain wouldn’t lend him books. He had to look elsewhere. Among the people he could reach, who had the richest collection? The masters of the academy, of course.

Having made his decision, Ji Linxi, who had been planning to wear his warm new clothes, took them off when no one was looking. He swapped into his old, patched robes and headed to the classroom looking as impoverished as possible.

He was a master of pretense. Even though he had been freezing the day before, he had endured it without showing it, making others think he was focused and that the weather barely affected him. Today, however, he listened carefully while pulling his thin clothes tight, gnashing his teeth, and blowing on his hands to keep working the brush. Every move he made radiated effort and diligence.

Compared to the thick, warm clothes of the other students, his own looked visibly thin. While most students studied hard, they inevitably had moments of slackening—especially after class. Ji Linxi, on the other hand, would chase after the masters with his book, asking questions with humble curiosity, bowing and thanking them repeatedly afterward. By the third day, the contrast made a deep impression on the masters. Even the head of the academy remembered him.

“That Ji Linxi is truly diligent and painstaking.”

“If he keeps this up, he might even pass the county and prefectural exams.”

“He answers questions enthusiastically; you can tell he works hard in private. If he had started his studies a few years earlier, aiming for the metropolitan examination wouldn’t be impossible.”

“The only thing is…” The masters shared a consensus: “His handwriting is truly too terrible.”

It was beyond just “terrible.” It was an absolute mess—crooked, lacking any sense of structure or style, yet overly bold and unrefined. They had taught for years and never seen such atrocious writing. Looking at his assignments, they sometimes had to study the characters for a long time just to figure out what they said. Any examiner would frown at such a paper and toss it aside in disgust.

The master teaching the classics finally couldn’t take it anymore. He called Ji Linxi aside privately and said, “It is good to study hard, but reading alone is not enough. You must cultivate your handwriting as you cultivate your learning. The style reveals the man. If you truly wish to take the imperial examinations, you must practice a good hand.” He showed Ji Linxi some exquisite calligraphy articles he had collected, placing them side-by-side with Ji Linxi’s work for comparison. “If you were the examiner, you wouldn’t want to give a high score to this kind of paper, would you?”

Ji Linxi knew his handwriting was just as “lewd” as he was, but that was exactly the effect he wanted. He put on a look of profound shame. “Student also wishes to practice a good hand, but I cannot find good copybooks. Even if I could, the money I have…” He paused, stopping himself in a panic. “Student will go back and practice in private.”

The master heard his distress. Most teachers have a heart of gold, and hearing Ji Linxi say this, he guessed his situation. He gritted his teeth and told him to wait, turned to his bookshelf, rummaged through it, and found two volumes of carefully curated copybooks, giving them up with a pained heart: “Take these and practice.”

Ji Linxi, naturally, was “overwhelmed” and waved his hands in refusal, claiming he couldn’t take the master’s treasures, that he would live frugally to save money to find some later. But by the time he left, those two volumes were tucked firmly into his robes.

In a place where no one could see, the corners of his mouth curled into an evil grin.

By the sixth day, he changed his act again. Instead of his usual diligent focus, he spent class looking troubled. When he forced himself to pay attention, he would soon fall into a distracted, despondent stupor.

The history master finally had him stand in the classroom, then called him to the masters’ courtyard after class to interrogate him with a grim face.

“Ji Linxi, why were you so absent-minded in class today?”

Ji Linxi kept his mouth shut, only showing a look of misery and humiliation. Under the master’s repeated questioning and a cold ultimatum—if you don’t speak, you won’t need to return to this academy come spring—he finally confessed that he had no parents, no home, and no place to study, and that he didn’t know how he would survive this long, long winter.