SFP - Chapter 5

The rooster crowed. Then it crowed again. Then it crowed once more, as if it were personally offended that someone was still asleep.

Inside the eastern wing of the Fifth Prince’s residence, chaos trembled just beneath the tranquil silence. Silk curtains fluttered lazily in the breeze, the scent of osmanthus tea wafted faintly through the carved sandalwood windowpanes, and somewhere in the vast compound, a junior eunuch tiptoed as if sneezing might get him exiled.

In the middle of it all, Lin Xiao snored.

He snored like a noble beast at peace, sprawled diagonally across his massive bed with one leg dangling dramatically and one arm clutching a rolled-up scroll as if it were a bolster. His royal robe had become a makeshift blanket, his hair pins were poking out from under the bed, and a long drool trail had made a diplomatic alliance with his embroidered pillowcase.

The scene was, in a word, art. In another word, disgraceful.

"Eunuch Zhao, he still refuses to wake!" a maid whispered, her hands clutching a tray of morning pastries so tightly the steamed buns had developed new dents.

Eunuch Zhao, who had long since ascended into the realm of eternal patience, gave a gentle wave of his fan. “I shall try. Again.”

He approached the bed with the solemnity of a man about to wake a sleeping tiger cub armed with sarcasm and pillow-related violence.

“Your Highness,” he called softly.

A snore answered him.

“Your Highness, the morning court has already begun.”

The scroll-bolster was pulled tighter.

“Your Highness, the Empress has sent you a new silk inner robe with golden koi embroidery.”

One eye cracked open.

“Your Highness, the kitchen has prepared sweet lotus seed porridge, four treasures congee, and chilled lychee jelly.”

Both eyes opened. Lin Xiao sat up like a revenant summoned by sugar.

“I’m awake. Physically. Spiritually, I am still napping. But continue.” Lin Xiao’s voice was gravelly with sleep and reluctant responsibility.

Eunuch Zhao bowed slightly, already relieved they had bypassed the phase involving strategic bed flips. “Today, you have been summoned by His Majesty to present your academic progress.”

Lin Xiao squinted. “I’m being graded?” he asked, as if the idea of evaluation had personally insulted him.

“Yes, Your Highness. On your learning and application of state affairs.”

Lin Xiao exhaled the way only a man who had once studied ancient tax reform while upside down in a hot bath could. “What if I fail?”

Eunuch Zhao blinked. “You will disappoint the Emperor, and the Empress might personally attend your next study session.”

Lin Xiao paled. “Get the robe. The koi one. And add extra jelly.”

An hour later, the Fifth Prince appeared at the Emperor’s study, dressed in koi and dread.

The Emperor was already seated, dressed in a stately robe of deep indigo and gold, sipping tea with the air of a man both powerful and perpetually bemused by his children. The study was lined with books, maps, scrolls, and a faint scent of sandalwood incense that lingered with every word uttered within those walls.

“Come, Xiao’er,” the Emperor said with a smile that spelled fatherly affection mixed with emperor-grade scrutiny.

Lin Xiao bowed low, then muttered, “Your Majesty Father. If I faint, it’s not because I’m overwhelmed. It’s just a new method of mental escape.”

“Duly noted,” the Emperor said. “Tell me, what did you learn this week at the Academy?”

Lin Xiao straightened. “That one must never stand between a noble and his bean cake. That sun-drenched courtyards induce naps. And that if you repeat Confucius quotes slowly and with enough gravitas, everyone assumes you’re a scholar.”

The Emperor raised a brow.

“And also,” Lin Xiao added quickly, “the foundational structures of governance are taxation, public trust, and ensuring no minister is ever hungry enough to plot rebellion.”

A pause. The Emperor laughed.

“Your wit is sharper than most blades in the arsenal,” he said. “Very well. You’ve passed.”

Lin Xiao beamed. “Does this mean I can return to my salted fish cultivation?”

“No,” said the Emperor. “It means you’re attending the Mid-Autumn Festival banquet planning committee.”

Lin Xiao deflated. “Bureaucracy is cruelty in silk robes.”

And so began Lin Xiao’s unexpected descent into event planning.

The Banquet Planning Committee met in what was arguably the most cursed room in the imperial palace—Room Sixteen of the South Administration Wing, also known by staff as the Room of Eternal Scheduling.

Here, scrolls stacked higher than dignities, and each meeting smelled faintly of old ink and older frustration. The walls were lined with scroll racks detailing past banquets, weather records, moonrise timings, and even reports on ministerial wine tolerances.

When Lin Xiao arrived, he was greeted by the Grand Steward of Ceremonies, Lord Fei, who had the eyes of a man who once tried to balance ten porcelain vases while blindfolded—and succeeded only in achieving trauma.

“Fifth Prince,” Lord Fei said with tight decorum, “we are honored by your presence.”

Lin Xiao blinked. “That’s the most polite way someone’s ever said ‘Why are you here?’” he replied, already sliding into a chair.

The room of ministers coughed in collective panic.

“I’ve come to observe and contribute in the laziest possible yet socially acceptable way,” Lin Xiao continued, folding into a chair that made a loud creak of protest. “Proceed.”

Lord Fei twitched.

First topic on the scroll: Lantern themes.

A junior official rose. “We propose a motif of phoenixes rising over lotus ponds. Elegant, symbolically rich, and poetic.”

Lin Xiao tilted his head. “What about lazy cats on rooftops under moonlight?”

Silence.

“Symbolically rich,” Lin Xiao explained. “The cat represents grace. The rooftop, aspirations. The nap, peace.”

Another pause. Lord Fei opened his mouth. Closed it.

A scribe in the back slowly wrote it down: *Prince’s Suggestion: Feline Tranquility in Lunar Reflection.*

Then came the issue of seating arrangements. A matter that might seem simple—until one realized that misplacing one minister next to a lower-ranked cousin of a noble lady from a rival prefecture three years ago had nearly caused a tea shortage.

Lord Fei gestured to a sprawling parchment map of the banquet hall.

“We must ensure proper balance. No one above Third Rank should be seated to the east unless paired with someone of equal status on the western platform. Also, we must maintain the seating feng shui.”

Lin Xiao leaned in. “What if we drew names from a hat?”

“Your Highness!” Lord Fei gasped.

“A brocade hat. Embroidered with peonies. Dignified chaos.”

There was a strangled sound from Minister Yu, who looked ready to chew the hem of his sleeve.

To everyone’s relief—or horror—Lin Xiao continued, “Or… everyone sits based on their favorite type of soup.”

Silence.

“No? Fine. Proceed with your precious scroll of stress.”

Lord Fei, sweating, moved on.

Next on the list: Entertainment.

A solemn-looking official with a scroll as long as a laundry list stood up. “We have scheduled five classical opera performances, including ‘Moonlight Over River Ji’ and ‘The Tragedy of Scholar Deng.’”

Lin Xiao perked up. “Is there a comedy?”

The official faltered. “Comedy… Your Highness?”

“Yes. Perhaps ‘How the Chicken Outsmarted the Magistrate’ or ‘That One Time the Ox Got Drunk’?” Lin Xiao said.

A eunuch in the corner snorted before coughing furiously.

Lord Fei was pale. “That’s… unorthodox, Your Highness.”

“Exactly,” Lin Xiao nodded. “Nothing livens up a banquet like unpredictable poultry and satire.”

The meeting stretched on. Time became a vague concept measured only by how many times Lord Fei’s left eyebrow twitched and how many pastries Lin Xiao had filched from the offering tray near the window.

“Next,” said Lord Fei, voice tight like a bowstring, “we must decide on the entertainment lineup for the Mid-Autumn banquet. Acrobats? Fire dancers? Perhaps the Jiangnan String Ensemble?”

Lin Xiao perked up, mid-mooncake. “What about a dramatic reading of tragic poetry by officials who have not taken a single vacation in three years?”

A few ministers shifted uncomfortably.

Lord Fei coughed. “That may be… too real, Your Highness.”

“Exactly. Catharsis and realism. Tragic tears are an underrated delicacy,” Lin Xiao said, taking another bite of lotus seed filling. “Pair it with wine and you’ve got a night.”

Minister Yu, an aging scholar with a reputation for having memorized every major treatise on etiquette and still managing to look bored at parties, cleared his throat.

“If I may… while His Highness's… *interpretation* is artistically adventurous, perhaps a classical dance from the Ministry of Music would suffice?”

Lin Xiao waved his hand magnanimously. “Very well. But I reserve the right to insert a surprise performance. Possibly involving puppets.”

Lord Fei looked as if he aged three years in five seconds.

“Your Highness, there is a… decorum to follow.”

“Decorum,” Lin Xiao echoed thoughtfully, “is just societal peer pressure wrapped in brocade.”

A stunned silence.

The scribe in the back dutifully wrote: *Prince’s Reflection: Brocade Peer Pressure – Pending Review.*

After the meeting, Lin Xiao wandered out into the palace garden, mooncake crumbs on his sleeves and ink smudges on his fingers. Every step he took rustled against the gravel path that led beneath arches of fragrant jasmine and early-blooming osmanthus.

The moon had not yet risen, but the sky was beginning to turn the soft lavender of evening.

He flopped under a plum tree and sighed.

“System,” he murmured.

A mechanical chime echoed in his mind. [System Activated. Please confirm user request]

“I need to send the poor me something.”

[Specify parallel-world transmission. Inventory ready]

Lin Xiao stared at the horizon. “Send him… a full Mid-Autumn care package. Lanterns. Mooncakes. A plan for a festival. Make it ridiculous. He needs joy.”

[Upload initiated]

Somewhere, across space and time, another Lin Xiao—the struggling monarch in a world with no golden koi robes or sassy eunuchs—would open a wooden box and find mooncakes shaped like sleeping cats, a hand-drawn festival schedule with doodles in the margins, and a note:

"Eat well. Sleep more. Don’t forget to enjoy the moon."

Lin Xiao chuckled to himself.

“He laughed. Genuinely. For the second time this month. As he ate warm rice with braised pork and sipped tea that reminded him of spring, he murmured, 'This guy… really doesn’t care about thrones. But somehow, he’s protecting mine.'”

And in a way, across space and time, the two Lin Xiaos—one salted fish, one struggling monarch—stood back to back, each guarding the peace of their worlds in their own way.