"Thank you, Your Grace, for your kind words," Ruyi replied with a gentle smile. After a moment, she spoke again, her tone calm and respectful. "May I ask what Your Grace finds joy in?"
Consort Yao sighed, her voice tinged with a hint of melancholy. "I like painting," she revealed. "When I was younger, I'd practice until my hands ached. My parents would get rid of my papers and brushes, but I always found a way to get more. Painting gave me a sense of living," Consort Yao explained, as if lost in a memory. "My mother wanted me to learn embroidery and also how to play the guqin. But I chose painting. My father thought it was a waste of time, so he forced me to attend dates with sons of noble officials, insisting I think about how to secure my future. But I just wanted to paint. What a pity… I can't paint anymore."
Ruyi could have sworn she saw a tear trace Consort Yao's cheek. Confusion clouded her mind; as far as she knew, Consort Yao had a good childhood growing up. She almost felt a pang of pity, but that was her old self. She was now Xu Ruyi, and no amount of sweet words could sway her anymore; she wouldn't let the virtues she wielded in her former life shape this one.
Consort Yao found her voice again. "I think music isn't bad; there's something about it—the ability to express one's emotion. Yet, I haven't met anyone who can truly capture its essence. Eh, why am I suddenly in the mood for some music?"
The head attendant understood the assignment and immediately beckoned two servants, who in turn brought the musical instrument forward: a guqin. It lay low on a table, seven silk strings stretched over the wooden surface. It was one of a kind, passed down through generations; the finest tutors and scholars had played this same instrument, but no one had been able to pour their soul into it.
A handmaiden bowed, then took her seat before the instrument. She plucked the first note, and a faint melody filled the air, the kind meant to soothe rather than captivate. Her hands moved freely over the strings, but there was no deep meaning behind it—only technique.
Consort Yao sighed in disappointment. "What did I tell you? No one has been able to play it right." She turned to Ruyi, shaking her head.
Ruyi smiled with confidence. "Do you mind if I try?" She asked.
Consort Yao raised an eyebrow in curiosity. "You? Do you play?" she asked.
Ruyi remained calm as she responded, "No, but I like music myself and I took some lessons. I'd like to give it a try."
Consort Yao smiled, and with a gentle wave of her hand, the handmaiden rose, bowed, and stepped aside, making way for Ruyi.
Ruyi settled before the guqin and traced her fingers over the strings. But as she touched it, memories of her past life flooded back like a bullet train.
The ghost of her past life surged through, whispering into her ears and taking her back to the time where she had been trapped, naive, and left with no choice.
The first time she played, she was just a girl, a girl full of life, full of dreams and ambition, a girl who couldn't comprehend what was going on, a girl who had been given too many rules, a girl who had been shaped into someone she never wanted to be.
"You will play."
The voice echoed in her head. She had hesitated, her fingers trembling, but what came next was the pain from the sharp edge of a long ruler against her knuckles, yet she dared not cry out.
"Again!"
The voice called out, and her fingers pressed against the strings weakly, but it didn't produce any sound. Another strike—harder this time. The impact of the cane made her eyes red and blurry with tears, but she dared not shed them.
"You will not stop until it is flawless!"
She played again, but it wasn't good enough. The next strike came even harder, and blood dripped on the guqin, but they didn't let her stop. No matter how much her hands ached, how tired she got, how much she bled, they forced her to continue until she was perfect, until she could play without fear, without hesitation, without any drawbacks.
She had hated it: the cold voices, the people that dictated her worth, her choice, as if she were not a person but merely an instrument used, shaped, and sharpened to perfection.
Sometimes, the lesson went on for hours, even days, without rest. The bruises on her hands never really had time to heal before new ones took their place. To shape her into perfection, she was constantly locked in a dark room with nothing but the guqin and a single candle, its light faint and flickering, as if mocking her struggle.
On days she missed sessions, she was made to kneel on the cold, hard floor, and the cut in blood circulation caused her legs to go numb. When she collapsed from exhaustion, they poured ice-cold water over her face to jolt her awake.
"If you're to become the Crown Princess, you must be perfect in every way—poised, refined, skilled, and graceful. You must possess these qualities to help him claim the throne."
She wanted to scream, to run away from it all, but there was nowhere to go, no home to call her own. Her parents were long gone, and she was all alone in this dark, cruel word.
She had believed marriage to Sun Jun would change her life; maybe people would start to see her. She had endured the pain and hardship for him and believed he was going to protect her, but she had been wrong; it became worse. He had been cruel to her in every way. He never treated her as a person, never acknowledged her presence; he made her feel so small and inferior. He had never been satisfied with whatever she did, even when it was for his own benefit. The only time he ever acted like he was good was when he needed something from her, when he wanted her to help him with his selfish ambitions and desires. There came a day when the emperor demanded the three princes write and submit an essay on "Forging a strong economy, alleviating poverty, and enhancing citizen's welfare." She had stayed up all night working on his essay while he slept like a log of wood.
She never got any appreciation, never gave her any credit when his essays were chosen; he acted like she never existed. He would sweet-talk her anytime he needed her to do his work, and the naive girl that she was would gladly succumb, all because she loved him. Having come from a humble background, her father owned a vegetable stall, and she would always follow him to deliver some to the palace. They had struggled to provide for her education. Her family had supplied vegetables to the Jing family, and that was how she and Jing Yan became friends. Her father, Jing Tao, who was a court official, had promised to help with her education. But one day, Li Mei had followed her father to the palace to supply vegetables; her father had been tending to business when she wandered off until she got to a place in the section of the palace where lessons were being taught. She watched and gained some experience. Day after day, weeks after weeks, she would sneak into the place where the private lessons were taking place. Then one day, she saw Sun Jun struggling to recite something; he was alone, and he kept slamming his books to the ground in anger. She had approached him and inquired what was wrong; she had even playfully called him stupid and helped him with his problem. That was how it started: He became lazy and dependent on her. Anytime there was an assignment, he would make her do it, but she didn't mind. The tutors had been taken aback about Sun Jun's ability to do well; even the emperor had heard about it and summoned him to the palace. He was given ink and the finest brush and was told to write a proposal, but he couldn't.
He began to tremble, and sweat began forming on his forehead. He knew the consequences of lying to his father, a heavy weight on his young shoulders. He chose to confess, understanding the gravity of his actions. Soon after, the Emperor summoned Li Mei to the palace. There, she faced a unique test: interpreting a complex drawing. She not only met the Emperor's expectations but surpassed them. None of the court officials could solve the puzzle. Her success shocked everyone, and she was richly rewarded. The Emperor, impressed by her intellect, took a liking to her. This marked a turning point. Li Mei changed the fate of her family; her father was elevated to the position of an officer. Meanwhile, Sun Jun expressed his interest in Li Mei to his mother. Consort Yao, recognizing an opportunity, arranged for their marriage, knowing Li Mei's potential to aid him in court.
She had tended to every of his needs, remained by his side, thinking it was out of love and support for the man she loved, but she never realized she had bound herself in servitude for the rest of eternity.
Sun Jun had no patience for tedious work, no interest in mastering the complexities of government, yet he was determined to rule, and to do that, he needed someone with a mind sharper than his own, someone he could use and rely on, and she had been perfect.
She has been nothing more than a tool, and she had never realized it until it was too late.
Yet here she was, sitting before the same instrument—the very thing that had once been her prison.
But this time, things were different; she was playing because she wanted to, not because she was forced to.
With a slow breath and determined mind, she began to play.