"My deepest thanks for your guidance, sir. Should this old woman see her wishes fulfilled, there will be rich rewards in days to come." Queen Dowager Jun rose, offering a deep bow before turning away, her attendants helping her depart the tavern.
By then, everyone in the room had pieced it together: the elder lady was none other than Queen Dowager Jun herself.
"You knew from the start she was the Queen Dowager?" Xiao Meng asked, eyes wide with surprise.
"Anyone with eyes could've spotted it—who but royalty dares golden phoenix-embroidered slippers? And those eunuch servants? No other old dame in Qi commands that entourage." Li Haimo shot her a sidelong glance.
"But will she actually go through with it?" Xue Nu wondered.
"And King Jian's the ruler of a realm—how could he stoop to three bows and nine kowtows?" Xiao Meng added.
"That's just it—your Daoist insight's lacking, especially yours, Xiao Meng. You've gone soft. In our Daoist view, are there nobles and commoners? Only the masses. King Jian's a man first—Grand Scribe Ao's grandson after. What's wrong with a grandson kneeling to his grandsire? Does the crown erase his blood kin?" Li Haimo countered.
"But the royal clan won't stand for it," Xue Nu pressed.
"You underestimate Linzi folk's sharp tongues and the Queen Dowager's cunning." Li Haimo replied.
"Who'd dare block her homecoming rites? Linzi's rabble would pelt their gates with rotten fish, shrimp, and eggs. And the Confucians? They'd tip off the Grand Scribe's kin ahead—lest Jixia Academy's sword-wielding wanderers take my words today as a cue to test their blades' edge." Li Haimo chuckled.
Truth be told, Li Haimo pitied Queen Dowager Jun. For love, she'd eloped with a penniless nobody, propped him to a throne—and her own father cast her out, barring all contact till death: no grain or drop from her hand, no grave-tending allowed. Spotting her as the old woman, he'd lent a hand—really, let Linzi's spirit do the heavy lifting. The credit? Han Fei's, alas. Who knows if it'll butterfly into Qi aiding Han when Qin strikes later? With her temperament, yeah—might just tip the scales.
"You've heard the talk swirling through Linzi?" Queen Dowager Jun eyed her son, King Jian of Qi.
He nodded, awaiting her lead.
"Would you stand in for your mother?" she asked. She'd have commanded it once—straight from the lips. But the words twisted en route; these years, she'd never once asked what he desired.
King Jian blinked, stunned—his mother, soliciting his view? He smiled. "I'd like to light that incense for Grandfather too. Ten li's nothing—I'm young, no trouble at all."
King Jian's nature ran yielding, indecisive—molded by his mother's iron will. Yet he brimmed with filial piety, never once crossing her. Even beauties or delicacies in hand, he'd check: Mother gone? Eaten yet? It fueled whispers that after her passing, Qi surrendered without a fight—handing the realm to Qin on a platter, himself confined to the western wilds.
Next day in court, Queen Dowager Jun declared her intent: a return to Ju for her father's rites. The grand scholars erupted in fury.
"This is family business—none of your meddling. Without your backroom schemes, my father and I wouldn't have parted in death's shadow. Still grumbling? Fine—I'll drag myself to Sanghai's Little Sage Hamlet and haul Master Xun out for justice. I refuse to believe he'd side with your ilk." She thumped her dragon-headed staff, voice like cracking ice.
"Any objections?" King Jian, ever the court ghost, rose and shattered the silence.
"How can Your Majesty, Qi's sovereign, debase himself with three bows and nine kowtows?" a minister ventured.
Queen Dowager Jun's mouth parted—but her gaze lingered on her son's back, and she held her tongue. The fledgling can't learn wings forever under mine.
"I am Qi's king—so isn't my grandfather the king's grandsire? Why deny him this honor? Or do you, Minister San Yi, demand your own grandsire bow to you at home?" King Jian bellowed.
The hall fell deathly still, eyes flicking 'twixt king and dowager. She sat serene, eyes shut in repose—as if deaf and blind, letting him unfurl.
"Further dissent?" King Jian's glare swept the ranks, daring a peep.
"None from your servants," the chorus murmured. Family squabbles, after all. As for shaming the realm? You fool—ever hear of the Spring and Autumn brush? A Confucian quill could spin it: King Jian returns to Ju, nine kowtows in thrice-fold filial piety, stirring Lucheng folk to line the ten li in welcome. Truth? Word spreads of King Jian's Ju rites for the Grand Scribe; Lucheng masses blockade ten li out.
A sovereign's three bows and nine kowtows for a grandsire? Purest filial gold—damn the crown's flaws. Temple names could swing from "ruined wastrel" to neutral or even lauded. History damned King Jian as "Qi Wei, the Fallen" or "Qi Gong, the Shared." Might this nudge a flat one at least?
Word flew fast: King Jian proxies his mother's grand obeisance to her sire; court roars down the dissenting minister. Linzi buzzed with the yarn, dubbing their king "the Filial Sovereign." Past follies faded—his piety won the streets' nod.
Dawn of the morrow: the royal procession rolled from Linzi toward Ju. Confucian seal came swift—Master Xun's lone word: Shan (Worthy). Then Confucian chief Fu Nian: What child forsakes the blood-offering? Second-in-command Yan Lu: The son honors kin, riches be damned. With the Three Pillars' blessing, Confucian ranks fell mute—a tidal swell of acclaim.
Ju's folk grumbled at first—old wounds—but Han's Ninth Prince's Linzi riff on "What is Ru?" reached them, softening hearts to the estranged pair. They streamed ten li out, not to bar but to greet the royal coach—and smoothed the ruts besides, fearing the jolt for the king.
Under Ju masses' gaze and the literati swordsmen's witness, King Jian stood proxy: three steps, one bow; nine strides, one kowtow—trudging to Grand Scribe Ao's mound. By rite's end, his brow wept blood, knees shredded through breeches in crimson streaks, palms raw and flayed.
Yet he pressed on, finishing the homage. Onlookers wept at such devotion; Queen Dowager Jun, beholding her bloodied shell of a son, swooned in tears.
The tale blanketed Qi—pride swelled for their filial lord. Rival kings grudged the nod: Qi's king, paragon of sons. It lured scholars and worthies to Qi's gates.
"Let's go." Li Haimo eyed the two beside him, bawling their eyes out, and sighed in defeat. Told 'em not to come—stubborn as sin. Here they are, and now the waterworks. Which one's first for consoling?
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