The servants of Yunjin Courtyard finally conducted themselves with proper decorum this time. As soon as they saw the group approaching, they raised their voices in formal announcement:
“The General has arrived! The Young Madam has arrived! The Eldest Young Madam has arrived! The Eighth Miss has arrived! Young Master Ping has arrived!”
It had been many years since anyone from the East Courtyard received such respect. Not only the masters, but even the maids and junior servants trailing behind them felt their spirits rise with pride.
Upon entering the main hall, Duke Shang Yukuan and Madam Wei were already seated in the place of highest honor.
Both were dressed with solemn ceremony befitting the day. The Duke, the undisputed central figure of this grand occasion, looked remarkably youthful—hardly like a man celebrating his fifty-fifth birthday.
Beside him, Madam Wei wore her familiar gentle smile, though a trace of insincerity lingered in her eyes.
Shang Ji stepped forward first, together with his wife, Du Jingyi.
“This son respectfully greets Father. May Father enjoy ten thousand years of peace and a long, illustrious life.”
“This daughter-in-law respectfully greets Father-in-law. May Father-in-law enjoy prosperity and long life.”
Behind them, the Eldest Sister-in-law Madam Liu, Young Master Shang Zhiping (“Ping’er”), and Eighth Miss Xueniang followed in turn:
“This daughter-in-law greets Father-in-law, wishing him enduring health and longevity.”
“This daughter greets Father, wishing him long life and good fortune.”
“This grandson greets Grandfather, wishing him boundless years and well-being.”
Each spoke with proper bowing etiquette. Their solemn respect delighted Duke Shang Yukuan, who quickly raised his hand in benevolence:
“Enough, enough—rise, all of you. You are good children.”
His eyes curved into a smile, nearly closing with joy.
Once everyone had stood, their greetings turned to Madam Wei. They offered only:
“Greetings, Madam Wei.”
And nothing further.
This coldness was long familiar to her; in the East Courtyard, such restraint had become customary. She gave no sign of displeasure. Instead, she turned warmly toward Shang Zhiping, beckoning with exaggerated fondness:
“I haven’t seen Ping’er in so long. Come closer, let Grandmother have a look.”
Zhiping, ever cautious of Madam Wei—thanks largely to his Eldest Sister-in-law Liu’s constant warnings—felt uneasy. Yet given the setting, he could not refuse. He stepped forward reluctantly, his expression taut with discomfort.
Madam Wei’s smile softened further.
“He’s grown taller, hasn’t he, Master?” she said, adopting the tone of a doting grandmother.
Yet none from the East Courtyard believed her sincerity.
The Duke himself, though kind to all, seldom displayed particular affection toward one grandchild over another. He glanced briefly at Zhiping and gave a restrained nod.
“Yes… he is somewhat taller.”
His words lacked warmth, and he seemed faintly embarrassed at their hollowness. The atmosphere wavered into awkward silence—until it was broken by a childish call from outside:
“Grandfather! Grandmother!”
The voices, bright and youthful, belonged to none other than the children of the Duke’s fourth son: Shang Zhihe’s son and daughter, Shang Zhiyin.
Sure enough, the siblings burst into the hall like a gust of wind. Without hesitation, they seized Shang Zhiping’s seat, even pushing him aside in their haste.
Zhiping’s face flushed with helplessness and embarrassment. Quietly, he retreated to stand beside his Mother, as he had done many times before.
But Shang Ji would not overlook such insolence. His voice cut sharply through the hall:
“Where did you learn your manners? How dare you barge in shouting and behaving so rudely?”
Tall and stern, his rebuke made the children flinch. Yet they had long disliked their Sixth Uncle and bristled with defiance. With necks stiff, they turned their gazes upon him—half petulant, half tearful.
“Grandfather,” Shang Zhiyin whined, “Sixth Uncle is so fierce! My brother and I did nothing wrong, yet he scolded us.”
At eight or nine years old, Shang Zhiyin had dressed carefully today, her outfit chosen to make her appear delicate and charming [note: children of noble households often wore ruqun, a traditional Han Chinese blouse-and-skirt ensemble]. But in Du Jingyi’s eyes, this child’s innocence was false—already cunning, already trained by her parents to exploit weakness.
Pretending to sob, Zhiyin cast herself as the victim. To an unknowing eye, it seemed as though Shang Ji bullied her.
The Duke, seeing his granddaughter’s tears, felt a pang of heartache. Yet he could not openly oppose his own son. With gentle words, he tried to ease the matter:
“Yin’er, don’t cry. Your Sixth Uncle was only joking. Today is Grandfather’s birthday—no tears, only happiness.”
It sounded like affection, yet to Shang Zhiping, who lowered his head in silence, it was only another reminder of difference. Madam Liu, his mother , inwardly seethed with resentment. If her late husband and mother-in-law still lived, her own son would have known such favor.
But Zhiping had long learned not to contend. He endured quietly, retreating from quarrels he could never win.
Liu’s heart ached at his silence. Du Jingyi, sensing her distress, discreetly tugged her sleeve to calm her.
At that moment, footsteps and voices came from outside. A larger party was arriving.
It was Fourth Son Shang Silang, his wife, and their son Qilang—all of Madam Wei’s branch. They resided in the West Courtyard, rarely clashing with the East in public, though private rivalry was no secret.
“Yin’er, why are you crying? Who dares bully you?” Silang’s wife exclaimed at once.
Shang Ji’s expression darkened further. The Wei family branch was notorious for twisting situations; Madam Wei herself excelled at it, and Silang’s wife was much the same.
Seizing her chance, Shang Zhiyin darted to her mother’s side, feigning innocence as she pointed toward Shang Ji.
“Mother, Sixth Uncle scolded us the moment we entered. He said my brother and I had no manners.”
Xueniang, unable to bear the falsehood, spoke sharply:
“How dare you complain first? You pushed Ping’er aside without so much as an apology. Sixth Brother merely asked where you learned your rules. How has that become ‘scolding’?”
At her words, Zhiyin wailed even louder, her sobs exaggerated and pitiful.
Her mother crouched to comfort her, her voice edged with accusation:
“So now even Eighth Sister dares to bully her own niece?”
With a single phrase, she condemned both Shang Ji and Xueniang.
Shang Ji stood with hands clasped behind his back, his face stormy.
But before he could reply, Du Jingyi stepped in with a gentle smile.
“Come now, Fourth Sister-in-law, let us not be angry. Eighth Sister only spoke in haste, just as Yin’er is still half a child herself. We grown-ups, surely, would never make matters difficult for children.”
Her words, outwardly conciliatory, carried an edge of calm restraint—diffusing tension without yielding ground.