HCT – Chapter 109 Clear Tea and Osmanthus Cake

Qin Zhao Xiang Wang’s final resting place was at Qin Dongling.

Qin Dongling was located on the western foot of Mount Li, east of the Ba River, west of what would later become Lintong District in Xi’an. Because it lay near Zhiyang County in Qin, it was also called Zhiyang Tomb.

It lay just east of Xianyang City.

Standing atop the high palace tower, Qin King Zhu often gazed eastward, always under the illusion that he could see Qin Dongling.

For the sake of his health, he stayed only one day after the burial before returning to the Xianyang Palace. Crown Prince Zichu continued the rituals on his behalf.

Crown Prince Zichu held little Ying Zheng’s hand, step by step ascending the sacrificial altar. This was a step Qin King Zhu had instructed him to take personally.

Last year, Zichu had gained another son in the harem, born of a Han woman gifted by Lady Xia.

Zichu had always been frail, with few children, a fact that had long worried his supporters. Though Prince Zheng was bright, children were fragile—easy to lose in youth, and even if they reached adulthood, fate remained uncertain.

Now that the crown prince had another son, not only did it ease concerns about his line dying out, it also proved his health was not an issue and that he could continue having children. This was excellent news to his supporters.

This child, strengthening Zichu’s standing, was naturally cherished. He was promptly named Chengjiao.

In Qin, one of the revered Five Emperors was Shaohao, whose son was named Jiaoji. “Chengjiao” derived from this, reflecting the high hopes Zichu placed upon him.

Though this child shared no blood with Zhu Xiang, since he was the son of a close friend, Zhu Xiang eagerly helped Zichu choose the name and brought Ying Zheng along.

Dangling from Zhu Xiang’s neck, Ying Zheng, having heard Zhu Xiang sincerely declare, “Even if Zichu has more sons, Zheng’er is my only nephew,” put on a gracious act.

He knew that in the dream, this brother would betray him.

Perhaps Chengjiao never intended to betray him and was only swept up by others, but betrayal was betrayal nonetheless.

However, he also knew that the world in the dream was not his reality. The future of those around him would be determined by him.

If Zhao’s Lord Wu’an, Li Mu, could become his teacher and Qin’s future Lord Wu’an, what was a Chengjiao to him?

Ying Zheng had complicated feelings about Chengjiao. Compared to his own hardship in Zhao, this younger brother had grown up pampered beside their father. His dream self couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy.

This brother likely had his own complicated feelings. For most of his life, he must’ve believed himself to be their father’s only son. A brother far away in Zhao, born of a low-born mother, long forgotten by the Qin people.

Before Zheng’er returned to Qin, all noble circles in Qin revolved around Chengjiao.

It was precisely for this reason that Zhao had sent him and his mother back to Xianyang as soon as the former king passed, aiming to disrupt Qin’s succession.

Because of Lu Buwei, their father acknowledged his mother’s status as Crown Princess, placing Zheng above Chengjiao and shattering ten years of Chengjiao’s certainty like a soap bubble.

So, dream-Zheng had been angry, but not surprised, that Chengjiao would rebel—or be forced into it.

Ying Zheng poked his brother’s cheek. The baby smacked his lips, drooling down his chin.

Ying Zheng withdrew his hand in disgust.

In this world, his claim to the throne was secure. Chengjiao had grown up knowing the throne belonged to his brother. There would be no hatred between them.

He also had enough power to ensure no one could use his kin against him.

Ying Zheng didn’t particularly like Chengjiao. He simply couldn’t tolerate others using his brother as a pawn to attack him. It wasn’t about Chengjiao—it was an insult to him.

Besides, the newborn Chengjiao hadn’t yet earned Zheng’er’s jealousy. Zheng’er had lived happily, and the baby, growing up away from his beloved uncle, couldn’t possibly be happier.

Zichu and those around him understood clearly: though Zichu loved his youngest, it was different from his feelings for his eldest. No matter how favored the younger son was, he could never compare to Prince Zheng.

Yet precisely because Prince Zheng was so powerful and well-supported, some people instinctively began to gather around the infant Chengjiao.

Some believed it wiser to offer support when most needed rather than to gild the lily—especially since Prince Zheng’s power was so great that even those wishing to support him had no entry.

Others simply feared a wise king’s rule. With a strong monarch, ministers weakened. If Prince Zheng ascended, even the highest merit might not earn a new fief.

Why serve Qin? Most men sought fame, fortune, or both. Nothing was more tempting than becoming a new noble—or even the next “Qin King.”

Qin King Zhu found this exhausting. He constantly reflected on whether his reputation made him seem too easy to bully.

His father hadn’t even been buried, yet the snakes and demons had already crawled out to flex their muscles.

Still, Qin King Zhu was indeed mild-tempered. Had Qin Zhao Xiang Wang been alive to witness this, Xianyang would’ve flowed with blood—at least a few would have been gifted wine and short swords.

After some thought, Qin King Zhu decided to let Crown Prince Zichu and Ying Zheng jointly lead the main sacrifice, publicly declaring Zheng’er’s status.

Zichu didn’t just sit idly either. He visited Queen Huayang, who then issued a decree to raise Chengjiao in her palace.

Those who had fawned over the child’s birth mother fell apart instantly. The Han faction in court supporting Chengjiao was furious.

They approached Lady Xia, hoping she’d pressure Zichu.

But Lady Xia refused all audiences, not even visiting her own grandson, born of the Han woman upon whom her natal family had pinned all their hopes.

While she remained secluded, she sewed a small cloak for Ying Zheng, who was to spend some time at the tomb, and sent it through Xue Ji.

Ying Zheng wore the cloak when he visited Qin Dongling, shielding himself from the wind.

After returning to Xianyang, Lady Xia continued sending embroidery to him—but never asked to see him.

Yet whenever Ying Zheng had time, he visited her with small gifts of flowers or pastries while greeting Queen Huayang.

Lady Xia never made a gift for Chengjiao by hand—until Ying Zheng took the throne.

But that was a matter for the future.

Now, Qin King Zhu merely and gently advised those below not to test their luck. Xunzi was quite pleased.

Compared to Qin Zhao Xiang Wang, Qin King Zhu’s methods were much more in line with what the Confucians envisioned in a sage king. Exposing conspiracies with dignity, without bloodshed—that was the highest form of strategy.

As for Zichu handing his son over to Queen Huayang, Xunzi found it rather cold.

But Zhu Xiang argued, “Zichu did this out of paternal love. No matter how comfortable the Crown Prince’s palace is, it can’t match the Queen’s. The Queen never bore children. When Zichu was made her son, he was already grown. Chengjiao will be her first child to raise personally—she’ll guard him like her eyeball. Even when Zheng becomes king, Chengjiao, pampered by a doting grandmother, might just throw tantrums and roll on the palace floor.”

Xunzi’s expression stiffened, then turned stern: “If that boy dares roll around in court, you’ll take the blame!”

Zhu Xiang: “?… Why me? What did I do?”

So he went to Zichu and suggested giving Chengjiao’s education to Lin Zhi.

“That way, if Chengjiao gets spoiled and misbehaves, it’s Old Zhuang’s fault, not Xunzi’s. Then Xunzi won’t beat me.”

Zichu: “…Instead of planning how to avoid punishment, how about focusing on raising him right?”

Zhu Xiang replied meaningfully, “You don’t understand how spoiled grandsons can get. He may be upright in character, but his behavior… might be another Lin Li. Trust me, let Lin Li teach him.”

Zichu didn’t agree and instead rolled up his sleeves to fight Zhu Xiang.

At the time, Lin Zhi hadn’t returned to Xianyang. Upon hearing the story later, he patted his chest and swore to raise Chengjiao into a fine young man.

Ying Zheng, passing by, sighed deeply. He could hardly imagine what Chengjiao would turn into under these elders.

Maybe… he should teach him himself?

But then he thought of the useless sons from the dream and twitched his mouth.

Better to trust Uncle Zhu and Uncle Lin. Worst case, he’d ask the reliable Uncle Cai to step in.

“Life back in Xianyang is no walk in the park,” Zhu Xiang said as he sat around a bonfire with Zichu and Ying Zheng, guarding the tomb. While roasting potatoes and pumpkins, he lamented, “Rumors saying we’re the puppet masters, disputes about mourning rites, your newborn son being used as a pawn… trouble never ends.”

Lin Zhi said, “A new king always brings waves of probing. It’s normal.”

Cai Ze asked, “Is it really okay to roast potatoes in front of the former king’s tomb?”

Zichu: “…”

Avoiding Cai Ze’s righteous gaze, he muttered, “It’s just keeping warm. Grandfather won’t mind.”

Cai Ze replied, “Of course I know he won’t mind. But… is this proper ritual?”

Zhu Xiang placed a hand on his shoulder, saying gravely, “We’re hungry. We can’t go without food. Isn’t it more respectful to cook for ourselves than be waited on?”

Cai Ze gently pushed his hand away. “I heard you said the same thing when playing music at Lin Gong’s grave.”

Zichu blushed. “That… that was different. I wouldn’t play music here.”

Cai Ze sighed. “Xia Tong, don’t let Zhu Xiang and Lin Li corrupt you. You’re to be the future Qin King. If you mimic their ways, it will disgrace Qin.”

Lin Zhi chimed in, “Now that’s unfair. Even if you despise me, Zhu Xiang is a renowned sage! If the future king follows his example, it’s a blessing for all. You dare slander Zhu Xiang? Do you know how his admirers would scold you?”

Zhu Xiang added, “That’s right, I’m a grand sage! Show some respect, Cai Ze!”

Zichu covered his face. He took Cai Ze’s advice to heart.

Just then, Ying Zheng, now fully rested and lured by the smell of roasted potatoes, stepped out—only to turn right back when he heard the bickering.

He didn’t want to get involved. Better to wait until his uncle brought the food over.

Cai Ze also stopped debating, afraid he’d lose control and insult his friends.

Zhu Xiang was a sage—just not necessarily a dignified one.

“A generation of kings, a generation of styles. The previous king ruled with authority, the current one is gentler,” Cai Ze said, bringing the topic back. “Gentle doesn’t mean weak. This style shows his capability.”

Lin Zhi said, “I still think the king should balance grace with might.”

Zichu agreed, “Those who need killing should be killed. Father is too soft.”

Zhu Xiang said, “We’re still in mourning. The king likely wants to avoid bloodshed. He may be trying for a peaceful transition by restraining dissenters rather than expelling them.”

Lin Zhi retorted, “Leaving hidden dangers isn’t peace.”

Zichu nodded, “Exactly.”

Zhu Xiang shook his head. “Killing or banishing is easy. But with so many doubting the king’s talent, winning them over without force proves his strength.”

Cai Ze said, “Soft inside, strong outside—that’s enough.”

The four argued from their perspectives while continuing to roast sweet potatoes and pumpkin.

Ying Zheng, growing fast and eating his uncle out of house and home, came out again, ravenous.

Zhu Xiang handed him a hot potato and pumpkin slice. Ying Zheng dipped it in chili and spices, his cheeks puffed out as he ate.

The elders paused to eat too, then resumed their debate.

Ying Zheng yawned, too lazy to wash up, and turned to go back to sleep.

Zhu Xiang stopped him and made him brush and rinse before allowing him to rest.

Once done tending to the little ancestor, Zhu Xiang strode back to the fire, full of spirit, resuming the great debate.

This was a battle of wits—no mercy!

“Where’s the chili powder? Zichu, eat less, you can’t handle spice.”

“I can eat it.”

“I made a vinegar dip—tastes better.”

“Soy sauce is better!”

“Heretic! Heretic! Trial the heretic!”

“Zhu Xiang, what nonsense are you spouting now?”…

Nearby guards and officials pricked up their ears to hear the great sages argue.

Some officials considered recording the scene but hesitated, fearing they might reveal state secrets. So they kept it in their hearts.

But later they thought, since the four sages made no effort to hide it, maybe they wanted this to spread?

Qin King Zhu soon heard of the debate and chuckled, tossing the report aside.

“These four are still just kids.”

But among them, aside from Zhu Xiang, Cai Ze remained his favorite choice for Chancellor.

Apologies, Father. The minister you recommended, Lin Zhi, is better suited for Zichu. They’re two of a kind.

“One generation tightens, the next loosens—it must alternate to avoid breaking,” Qin King Zhu murmured by the window, gazing east toward Qin Dongling. “I don’t know how many years I’ll reign, but Zichu, if I rest and recover now, you can take the reins and lead Qin’s war chariot onward at full speed.”

The only man he’d ever feared was the old Qin King.

Though submissive toward his father, Qin King Zhu had never been especially kind to anyone else.

Even when he was not yet crown prince, he was one of only two sons and the crown prince’s only brother.

Qin sons did not receive fiefdoms without merit—yet he had been granted the title of Lord Anguo, proof of the old king’s favor.

With such a background, Qin King Zhu probably understood even less than Zichu—who had once been a hostage and knew what it meant to endure humiliation—about being patient with ministers.

But he had made up his mind to endure, using diplomacy to face those testing him and the strength of Qin.

Before passing, the old king had pushed too hard to pave his path, making Qin’s court unstable. Nobles and in-laws were all uneasy. Even the Six States, cowed by the old king’s might, showed signs of alliance.

He had to soothe domestic nerves and lull foreign states to build strength—so that the next Qin King could one day strike with thunder and unify the world.

The next time Qin deploys its main force, the blade will not be sheathed again. King of Qin, Lord Zhu, looked down at his own aged hands, a trace of melancholy in his eyes. He had always wanted to be the king who unified all under Heaven—just as his father had done. But he knew full well his age and his health; he would never live to see that day, just as his father had not.

When he ascended the throne, he lay awake all night turning over in his mind what kind of king he ought to be. In the end he decided that, rather than push rashly ahead and change drivers in mid-course—risking disaster for Qin—it was far wiser to proceed steadily. Steadier. He had Zichu and little Zheng; with them, he could afford to be steadier.

“But I still can’t bear it,” King Zhu murmured to himself. He felt deeply the same resentment and regret his father must have felt on his deathbed. Truly, he was unwilling—so very unwilling.

When Zichu and Ying Zheng returned to Xianyang, “nanny” Zhu Xiang, of course, followed them back to the palace. And the “intermediary” Lin Zhi finally “found his chance” to arrange a meeting between Lord Chunshen and Zhu Xiang.

Zhu Xiang asked, “Must I play the part of some great sage languishing in prison, as in your script?”

Lin Zhi laughed. “No need. Just be yourself and speak from the heart.”

“Won’t that interfere with your plan?” Zhu Xiang wondered.

Lin Zhi winked. “Who do you think I am? Whatever Chunshen concludes, the moment he comes to the palace to see you, my purpose is achieved. What you say won’t affect my next moves. Say whatever you like.”

Zichu added, “I for one would like to see Lin Li’s scheme fail. Give it a try.”

Lin Zhi scoffed, “Pah! Some people just don’t know any better—good deeds unrewarded.”

Cai Ze sighed. “Enough. Can’t you see the palace servants’ horrified looks? Little Zheng is here—don’t set such a bad example for him.”

Ying Zheng, with a solemn air, said, “Uncle Cai, don’t worry; I’m used to it. I won’t be influenced.” Even if his father and uncles openly gathered in the palace courtyard at high noon to plot such foolishness, he would remain unmoved. He would not be foolish. No, never.

Cai Ze patted Ying Zheng on the shoulder, pleased. “Very good, very good.” He looked at Xiaozheng as one might at a lotus blooming from the mud, the sole straight stalk among a litter of crooked reeds. The future hope of Qin lay entirely with this boy.

King Zhu, having grown weary from official documents and now strolling through the palace, pointed at the younger men off in the distance and asked Xunzi, “What are they doing?”

Xunzi replied with perfect seriousness, “They are seeking to be beaten.”

King Zhu: “…I approve.”

Xunzi stormed off to confront them.

King Zhu sighed deeply. Perhaps he had spoiled his juniors too much—this palace atmosphere felt strangely frivolous. In his father’s day, the Xianyang court had been so solemn. He shook his head, sighed again, and, smiling, went off to watch Xunzi administer his discipline.

Huang Xie could never have imagined that, upon arriving at the western palace to meet Zhu Xiang—who waited him in the garden—he would first witness Xunzi’s ritual spanking. Xunzi then forced Zhu Xiang to change into garments befitting his status, personally choosing a jade coronet and selecting the ornaments at his waist and the length of his sword.

Qin’s nobility, unlike that of the other Six States, originally wore only short swords—no long ones. When Qin people once lived among the Rong and Di tribes, their noble’s short sword was used to carve meat at the table: owning one meant you had meat at every meal, a symbol of status. Later, as Qin expanded eastward and adopted Central Plains culture, nobles began to wear long swords too—though the short sword remained essential.

When Xunzi codified Qin’s rites, he even devised differences in how long and short swords were worn. Having Zhu Xiang don both, he signaled to Lord Chunshen that his charge was fully versed in Qin ritual. Every accessory spoke of Qin’s unique ceremonial culture.

As Xunzi droned on about hairstyles—how to tie one’s hair, which pins to use, how many pearls to hang from them, which rouge, which ornaments—and tested Zhu Xiang afterward, Zhu Xiang felt as if he were trapped in an endless palace-intrigue drama. “Perhaps Lord Chunshen won’t notice any of this,” Zhu Xiang muttered. Xunzi glared; Zhu Xiang fell silent and endured the rest of the lecture till Xunzi finally, anxiously, released him to meet one of the Warring States’ Four Great Lords: Lord Chunshen himself.

In Warring-States eyes, the Four Great Lords are martial-arts overlords. Mengchang is long dead, Pingyuan is ill, Xinling hides himself away—only Lord Chunshen remains among the Four. Not even a royal scion—he rose as a scholar, yet earned that rank, a testament to his talent. Now the newcomer among the powerful lords is Lord Changping , Zhu Xiang; many say he is the Fifth, or will even surpass the original four. In the hearts of scholars tabula rasa, Zhu Xiang leads the new aristocracy and is key to Qin’s talent-attraction.

Thus, Xunzi fretted. Though he’d taught Zhu Xiang well, he feared that with Lord Chunshen needing something from him, Zhu Xiang’s weakness would show. He’d come to deliver final admonitions alongside King Zhu—only to find Zhu Xiang plotting with the crown prince and others in the palace square, seeming utterly unprepared for the coming great clash. Xunzi nearly lost his composure. “This whelp! Useless as rotten wood!”

“Don’t worry,” Han Fei, terrified by Xunzi’s scowl, stammered out, “Zhu Xiang has never erred in his hospitality.”

Xunzi drew a deep breath, snorted: “If he slips up….”

Han Fei—having barely dragged himself from bed—nearly flopped back under the covers: “If he slips up—what? You can’t leave a sentence unfinished! You’re terrifying!”

But Zhu Xiang was indeed unfailingly courtly. He understood Xunzi’s anxiety: “All this just to show off? No problem—I can easily bamboozle Lord Chunshen.”

So Lord Chunshen was led through the winding garden paths to the pavilion over the pond, where Zhu Xiang had staged his most impressive scene. Bamboo blinds hid two sides of the pavilion, leaving only the view of water on one side and specially imported pine and bamboo—the kind brittle in this courtyard—on the other. Instead of Qin’s usual high-backed chairs and tables, Zhu Xiang set down mats and small low tables, sat upright before them, lit a mild incense, and prepared tea—water kept hot on a brazier by his side, at hand for any action.

Led along the corridor, Huang Xie drew back the blind and saw the composed white-haired scholar, scroll in hand. Hearing the blinds whisper, Zhu Xiang set down the scroll and rose to perform the formal bow: “Lord Chunshen, I have long admired you.”

Cloaked in fragrance and bamboo shadows, Lord Chunshen barely kept his composure. He bowed, stammering, until Zhu Xiang gestured him to sit and poured tea. First he rinsed the cups, then the leaves—with hot water—and only then steeped the tea. Precision without necessity: that is the art of impressive ritual. These movements, rehearsed until they flowed like clouds, were Xunzi’s handiwork as much as Zhu Xiang’s.

Before Lord Chunshen could sip, Zhu Xiang set the cup in front of him and said softly, “Clear tea to quench your thirst.”

“Clear tea?” Chunshen eyed the pale brew in its celadon cup and recalled rumors of Zhu Xiang’s austerity. They said he disliked thick brews and so invented this “clear tea”: bitter at first sip, sweet at the finish, leaving fragrance on the tongue and soothing body and mind alike—a harmony of Way and ritual. Chunshen had tried to brew it himself but found it nearly undrinkable.

Now, with Zhu Xiang’s precise ceremony, he discovered that the taste was exactly as praised. He wondered if the difference was the steps—or the leaves themselves.

Zhu Xiang opened a lacquer box brimming with tea leaves. “In truth, my steps weren’t needed. One need only drop leaves in a cup and pour hot water. But these leaves have been specially roasted. Lord Chunshen, you try.”

Skeptical, Lord Chunshen measured leaves and water himself—and found the taste much the same. He admitted, “Yet your tea is still superior.”

Zhu Xiang smiled. “That is the difference between ceiling and floor: ordinary steps can only take you so high; extra refinement gives a modest lift.”

Chunshen seized on the analogy. “Like reading, then: once you reach a certain level, further progress is hard.”

Zhu Xiang shook his head. “I meant only that I, born common, did not care much for ritual. You need not be so tense—your own tension makes me tense too.” He tapped the ornaments on his robes: “This morning, before meeting you, Xunzi dressed me in these and had me recite half a day’s books—lest I shame the title ‘Lord Changping.’ You cannot imagine the fatigue.”

Chunshen blinked. Zhu Xiang laughed. “Now that you see the real me, are you disappointed?”

Chunshen’s face twitched. He massaged his forehead. “No—it’s just….” They both burst into laughter, and the stiffness between them evaporated.

“I recall Lord Xinling,” Chunshen said. “He met me and insisted on dragging me down to drink, tearing my sleeve out of place.”

“I sat and drank with him on the ground as he saw me off,” Zhu Xiang replied.

“Was it merry—or sorrow?” Chunshen asked.

“It was sorrowful, but made joyful by meeting a friend,” said Zhu Xiang.

Chunshen sighed, “You are so carefree.”

Zhu Xiang offered him sweet-scented osmanthus cakes made of rice and last year’s flowers—white as jade, sprinkled with golden petals. Chunshen joked, “Did Lord Changping  bake these with his own hands?”

“Of course,” Zhu Xiang replied. “Is it not said, ‘Is it not a joy to have friends come from afar?’ ”

Chunshen’s heart warmed, then turned bittersweet. He had heard of Zhu Xiang’s fearsome gift for making friends—and now understood its power. He nearly blurted, “If only you were in Chu!” and reached for a cake—then paused. “I had sent envoys to invite you to Handan—but too late.”

Zhu Xiang smiled gently. “Not too late at all. When Zichu was still a hostage, he already plotted how to bring me to Qin.”

Chunshen nearly overturned his tea. “What?!”

Zhu Xiang laughed. “You must have heard that Zichu befriended me in Handan. Besides, Xiaozheng is my only heir; I could never let him enter Qin alone.” His smile faltered as he added, “I had planned to wait until Qin summoned its hostage back, then return to Qin with Xiaozheng, hidden as a nobody, for at least ten years—entering quietly when the time was right.”

Chunshen was silent for some time. “But the times forced your hand.”

“So it did.”

Chunshen sighed, “Truly, I was more than a step behind.”

Zhu Xiang lowered his voice, “Without Zichu and Xiaozheng, I doubt I’d have entered Qin at all. When I was at Changping, the king knew Zhao would be suspicious; he released me, and almost at once sent Lord Wu’an to escort me.”

Chunshen’s lips twitched: “Hence Qin’s army moved so swiftly—no wonder King Zhao feared you.”

Zhu Xiang nodded. Indeed, when Lord Bai told him that story, the old Qin king’s reputation for ruthless strategy made the hairs on Zhu Xiang’s neck stand on end.

Chunshen touched his cup. “I heard from Minister Lin that the king feared you—thus he confined you in Xianyang Palace?”

Zhu Xiang chuckled. “He misunderstood. I came willingly to care for his person and for Xiaozheng.”

Chunshen pressed on: “Yet if you are so close to the king, why not hold office at court?”

Zhu Xiang grew serious. “Court business begins too early—it disrupts rest.”

Chunshen raised an eyebrow.

Zhu Xiang laughed, “I know you don’t believe me—but truly, I do not wish to sit in court when the fields need tilling. The sage talents of the court are many, but the countryside needs only me. After his mourning is over, I shall again leave Xianyang and roam as before, planting fields.”

He tapped his cup, watching ripples spread in the tea. “ Lord, you yourself have tasted the fruit of my fields.”

And with that, they sipped again in amiable silence.