Chapter Twenty-Five: The First Oscar Statuette

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“So that’s it—the ‘bullying’ of the Tang Dynasty isn’t the same as the ‘bullying’ in twenty-first-century Chinese!” In a flash, Zhang Qian was struck by sudden insight. Immediately, a complex and indescribable sensation surged in his chest. “In the Great Tang, it’s absurdly easy to be a good person. As long as you don’t pounce on a thirteen- or fourteen-year-old maid the moment you see her, you’re fine.”

Yet, right after, Zhang Qian realized he was trapped in a thoroughly absurd and deeply awkward predicament.

A problem that could have been resolved with a forceful twist of the girl’s fingers or an over-the-shoulder throw, he found himself utterly incapable of carrying out with a ruthless heart. As for Zijuan, it seemed she had exhausted all her courage uttering those words just now. She remained silent, only pressing her forehead tightly against his back, her arms wrapped around his waist like an octopus, as if the slightest relaxation would cause Zhang Qian to evaporate into thin air before her eyes.

Was he moved? To say he wasn’t, even a little, would have been a lie.

For a twenty-two-year-old virgin who had yet to find a girlfriend, having a girl confess her feelings face to face was a shock, a happiness, and a pride all mingled together, intoxicating as fine wine.

But to act on it? How would that differ from being a brute?

Zhang Qian’s sense of shame simply wasn’t thick enough to shamelessly claim he and a thirteen-year-old girl had fallen in love at first sight. Nor would he ever assume that, just because he had shown her some kindness, her body now belonged to him.

That sort of thing was the domain of certain PhDs returning from overseas. He was just a philosophy undergrad grinding toward graduate school!

What’s more, the desperate Zijuan behind him was a living, breathing girl, not some cartoon character on a computer or phone screen.

Many people harbored a fondness for ‘lolis,’ and Zhang Qian was no exception. But most loli-lovers adored the big-eyed, small-nosed, voluptuous two-dimensional girls on screens, or the imaginary beauties conjured in their minds—they would never transpose that into reality.

“Zijuan, Zijuan!” Sweat beading his brow, Zhang Qian tried to speak as gently as possible to the girl clinging to his back. “Let go a little, just loosen up. I can barely breathe…”

A wail escaped the girl’s lips; she slackened her arms a little, but her fingers interlaced even more tightly. In the moonlight streaming through the window, Zhang Qian could see her knuckles turning white.

“Zijuan, please, let go of my hand, and listen to me.” A pang of tenderness struck his heart, and his sympathy quickly overwhelmed any desire he’d felt.

Faced with the choice between being ‘worse than a beast’ or ‘a gentlemanly beast,’ he resolutely chose the former. He was a product of sixteen years of modern education, not a creature driven by base instinct.

Another wail, full of despair, came from Zijuan’s lips.

Her arms fell limp, though her fingers still gripped tightly. More tears seeped through her clothes, dampening Zhang Qian’s back—and his heart.

“No, no, I’m not rejecting you!” Zhang Qian realized he’d been misunderstood, and quickly corrected himself, “No, I’m not refusing, but I’m not accepting either. You’re still young, just thirteen. I mean, you don’t have to sleep with me—I can still take you with me!”

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Just a few words, but they left Zhang Qian more exhausted than a wrestling match with a wolf, sweat trickling down his forehead.

The sobbing from behind turned into a low, plaintive wail. Zijuan’s arms began to tremble, her fingers loosened, and she collapsed softly to the ground.

“I’m not lying to you, really! I swear to heaven—I will take you away!” Feeling another stab of pain, Zhang Qian turned around and crouched beside her, explaining as gently as if the slightest harshness would frighten her.

He had never seen his biological parents, nor had he ever dated, but a great woman had taught him, early on, the meaning of love and kindness.

He knew Zijuan hadn’t fallen for him at first sight, even if he always thought himself fairly handsome—broad-shouldered, muscular, and masculine.

He understood that Zijuan’s desperation to offer herself to him stemmed from deep-seated insecurity. His constant kindness over the past days had given her a final glimmer of hope in her despair.

It was like someone lost in the snow, stumbling upon a campfire—no matter how illusory it might be, one would rush forward, even if it were only a mirage.

Like the little match girl, who, in the glow of her last match, saw her grandmother—she would open her arms, knowing her grandmother was long gone, and in that embrace, quietly slip away from the world.

At least, before death claimed her, she felt a final, fleeting warmth.

“I’m friends with the steward Ren Cong! Tomorrow I’ll ask him to let you come with me,” Zhang Qian said, his heart aching all the more. He tried to make his voice even gentler and more reassuring, as though speaking to his childhood self in an orphanage.

“If he refuses, I’ll buy you from him. I just earned a lot of money, Zijuan—a great deal, enough to redeem you from the Ren family.” He gently smoothed her disheveled, yellowing hair and continued softly, as if to ease her tension, “And if he still refuses, I’ll tell him he can forget about ever learning anything from me.”

“That boy thinks I’m some reclusive master, you know? Wants me as his teacher so he can become a sword immortal. I may not be a sword immortal, but I have plenty to teach him. If all else fails, I’ll tempt him with comics. I can draw comics—not very well, but well enough. Comics, you know, those addictive picture stories—I can draw them for a whole year without repeating myself…”

“Young master!” Zijuan suddenly looked up at him, her reddened eyes full of despair. “Is it because you think I’m not pretty enough? My mother was beautiful, and when I grow up, I’ll look just like her. I can do laundry, cook, make all sorts of dishes, even better than a chef. I can make clothes and shoes for you, comb your hair, massage your back…”

Well, all that he’d said before had been for nothing! Zhang Qian shook his head helplessly and smiled, gently taking Zijuan’s hand. “Come on, don’t squat—your legs will go numb. You’re already very pretty, a little beauty. Let’s sit on the bed and talk…”

A shiver ran through Zijuan’s hand, then her whole body. Still, she struggled to her feet and walked toward the bed, as if afraid a moment’s hesitation would make Zhang Qian change his mind.

“That’s not what I meant!” Zhang Qian felt a headache coming on and hesitated to let go of her hand, lest he crush her fragile confidence. With a sigh and a smile, he said, “Just sit down first, let’s talk. Some things must be taken step by step, you understand? Haste makes waste.”

This time, Zijuan wasn’t crushed by despair. She obediently sat at the edge of the bed, her tear-filled eyes fixed on him, brimming with hope.

“I’ll definitely take you with me. Ren Cong owes me a favor—he shouldn’t refuse.” After four years of teacher training, Zhang Qian knew a little about how to counsel a child. Smiling, he sat beside her, offering reassurance first.

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A flush like red wine quickly colored the girl’s cheeks, luminous and alluring in the moonlight.

Turning his eyes aside, Zhang Qian silently recited a couplet on honor and shame, then continued softly, “I came here a stranger, with no one to trust. You’re clever; you can study and help me at the same time. I know you want me to see your worth, but your value isn’t in warming my bed—not now. You’re not fully grown yet. Development, you know, like a young tree growing taller. Have you seen apricot trees? If they bloom before they’ve grown, they’ll never get big and might even die. Don’t interrupt—just listen to me. I promise, I’ll take you with me. You’ve seen women in the manor die in childbirth, haven’t you? Mother and child both lost—that’s because they bloomed too soon…”

He went on at length—longer than the Tang Monk himself—making promises, assuring her repeatedly that he would take her with him. After an hour and a half of gentle, rambling persuasion, he finally succeeded.

How much Zijuan understood, Zhang Qian couldn’t say. But the result was that she no longer cried. She lay with her head in his lap, arms around his waist, sleeping soundly like an infant.

“Ah, it’s so hard to be a good man these days!” He glanced down at his body’s involuntary response, sighed, then picked Zijuan up and laid her gently on the bed. Afterward, he dragged himself to the pallet in the outer room.

His mind drifted to the conversation he’d need to have with Ren Cong in the morning about taking Zijuan with him, and how to avoid any misunderstanding. With those thoughts, he fell into a muddled sleep, only waking when daylight was already bright.

Rolling over, he sensed something was off. Opening his eyes, he saw that he was still on the pallet, but Zijuan—who should have been on the bed—was lying quietly beside him. Her flat chest rose and fell with each breath, her long, black lashes unmoving.

“Ah—!” With a low cry, Zhang Qian sat up, instantly alert.

He quickly checked his clothes—nothing amiss—and noted that his body’s natural morning reaction was even more pronounced than last night. Relieved, he shook his head with a wry smile.

The girl was still uneasy; for now, he could only let her be. Once they reached his own manor, he’d have plenty of rooms to settle her in, and enough time to teach her basic physiology.

He hadn’t yet figured out how to combine theory with practice to make her understand faster when a soft knock came at the door. “Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock. Zijuan, Brother Zhang, are you awake? His Lordship is here early and would like you to join him for tea in the main hall.”

“I’m up, Brother Ren, please wait a moment!” Worried about misunderstandings, Zhang Qian quickly replied, slipped his feet into mismatched wooden clogs, and hurried to the door. He cracked it open, slipped out, and closed it behind him. “Just give me a moment to wash up. Why is His Lordship here so early? I thought it’d be noon at least.”

Ren Cong didn’t answer, his gaze fixed intently behind Zhang Qian.

“What’s wrong?” A sudden sense of danger welled up in Zhang Qian, and he instinctively turned back.

The door—whether he hadn’t closed it properly, or the wind had blown it open—now let in the bright morning sun, filling the room with light.

There stood Zijuan, clutching her washbasin, her brows furrowed and cheeks flushed, legs pressed together in a half-crouch, her skirt creased by the awkward posture.