SFP - Chapter 6

The moon had barely cleared the crimson-tiled rooftops of the Yuan Palace when Lin Xiao made a bold declaration to the stars:

"My body doesn’t believe in sweating before midnight."

Eunuch Zhao, standing a respectful distance behind the prince’s lounging chair, adjusted his expression into the blank serenity of long-suffering servitude. It was nearly the second watch of the night, and Lin Xiao had just finished his third bowl of almond pudding.

“Your Highness, this proclamation seems—if I may— somewhat irrelevant.”

“It is completely relevant,” Lin Xiao said, waving his spoon like a philosopher’s fan. “Tomorrow’s swordsmanship session threatens the delicate balance of my evening rest.”

"You’re not resting yet," Eunuch Zhao said with a dry tone.

“I am preparing for it,” Lin Xiao corrected, then yawned grandly. “One must court sleep with grace, not sneak up on it like some sweaty martial artist.”

At that very moment, distant clanging echoed from the martial barracks. Lin Xiao flinched.

“That was a warning bell,” Eunuch Zhao noted.

“More like a death knell for comfort,” Lin Xiao muttered. “And lo! The heavens weep.”

By the time the palace roosters crowed and the first light bathed the vermilion corridors, Lin Xiao had already begun staging his most ambitious escape yet. He did not fear battle—but he absolutely loathed physical exertion, particularly before tea.

“This is not just evasion,” he told Eunuch Zhao, who was gently helping him tie a silk sash over his sleeping robe. “This is art. No, this is... theatre.”

First, the decoy: Lin Xiao arranged his bed with uncanny precision. Several rolled-up scrolls—borrowed, perhaps permanently, from the imperial archives—were wrapped in a quilt, given a touch of perfumed powder, and arranged with two black beans balanced delicately as ‘eyeballs’ peeking out.

Second, the sound illusion. He placed a small hand-operated bellows beneath a silk cushion near his pillow. Every few minutes, it released a rhythmic, snore-like puff, just convincing enough to fool an inattentive servant—or, with any luck, a sleepy instructor.

“Marvelous,” Lin Xiao whispered, beaming. “He snores better than I do.”

Third, and most crucially: the canine bribe. Palace Dog Number Five, affectionately nicknamed Buns, was lured with sweet rice cakes and a pat on the head. Buns had been trained (or rather, opportunistically fed) to bark furiously anytime someone neared Lin Xiao’s chambers. Today, that same energy would become his defensive perimeter.

With the final piece in place, Lin Xiao turned to Eunuch Zhao. “I’m escaping through the laundry corridor. I’ve timed the rotations of the maids. There’s a fifteen-second window between their second rinse and first folding. It’s surgical.”

“You’ve spent more energy avoiding this lesson than completing it,” Eunuch Zhao observed.

Lin Xiao slipped on his softest slippers—the ones made of velvet, designed for tiptoeing and looking morally superior—and gave a slow nod. “History shall thank me for conserving energy.”

The two of them glided through shadowy corridors like shadows in silk. They emerged at last into the southern courtyard, an underused part of the palace known mostly for being the final home of misplaced ceremonial umbrellas and one mildly vengeful peacock.

Here, among overgrown grass, patches of lavender, and sun-warmed stones, Lin Xiao flung out his arms.

“Welcome to base camp, Eunuch Zhao,” he declared. “Henceforth, this sacred land shall be known as... the Fortress of Avoidance.”

Eunuch Zhao stared at a squirrel hanging upside down from a branch above them. It seemed to be judging them.

“Let the record show,” he said, “that I am merely an accomplice under duress.”

“Noted and appreciated,” Lin Xiao replied. “Operation Avoid Sharp Objects is now in motion.”

Then, with a theatrical flourish, he unfurled a rolled mat and laid it down in a patch of filtered sunlight. “We begin with a warm-up. Or in our case—a nap-down.”

Lin Xiao did not waste time. Well, actually, he did—but he wasted it with theatrical precision. With his mat rolled out on a flat stone warmed by morning light, he dropped into what could only be described as an enthusiastic collapse.

“Eunuch Zhao,” he intoned gravely, “do you feel it?”

“Feel what, Your Highness?”

“The subtle awakening of muscles previously known only to philosophers and concubines.”

“I feel a mild breeze and creeping regret,” Eunuch Zhao replied.

Lin Xiao twisted, bent, arched, and breathed in deeply through his nose, as though the sun itself had kissed his ribs. “I call this one the 'Imperial Sigh Reaches the West Pavilion.'”

At first, there were only squirrels and silence. But then—voices.

A maid carrying a tea tray paused. Another girl joined her. By the time Lin Xiao was balancing on one foot and reaching dramatically toward a patch of sky like a tragic willow tree, there were five onlookers mimicking him.

And thus, his fraudulent freedom transformed into an accidental phenomenon…

Meanwhile, in the martial training courtyard, sword instructors grew increasingly irate.

“He’s late,” grunted Commander Qian, whose shoulders could be mistaken for a city wall.

“He’s not coming,” Instructor Ji muttered. “Last time, he claimed his inner chi was allergic to steel.”

A young page raised a timid hand. “Yesterday, he said he’d caught the ‘soul of poetry’ and could only write couplets all week.”

There was a pause. Then, all three instructors let out a groan of professional anguish.

The palace, however, was beginning to hum with other reports.

“He’s bending like a reed, with all the grace of a dumpling,” whispered a court lady.

“Did you see the ‘Lazy Dragon Flop to the East’ pose?” a junior attendant gushed.

In just one morning, Lin Xiao’s ridiculous contortions had sparked imitation among servants, courtiers, and even a few curious scholars.

Summoned by imperial decree, Lin Xiao arrived at the Hall of Heavenly Discipline not with guilt, but with a cushion tucked under one arm.

The Emperor raised an eyebrow.

“My son,” he began slowly, “I was told you’ve... led a spiritual awakening?”

Lin Xiao bowed deeply. “Indeed, Father Emperor. I have transcended mere muscle. I now dwell in the realm of enlightened idleness.”

The Empress stifled a chuckle behind her fan. Eunuch Zhao cleared his throat and added diplomatically, “Several courtiers report improved digestion and clarity of mind.”

The Emperor studied his son’s unbothered expression. “And sword practice?”

Lin Xiao raised a hand in solemn protest. “Swords are for the body. What I offer... is liberation of the spine.”

There was a long silence.

Finally, the Emperor waved him off. “Very well. But tomorrow—you train.”

Lin Xiao bowed again. “Then I shall bend... minimally.”

Morning found Lin Xiao at the martial courtyard.

He wore embroidered robes far too elegant for exercise, a headband that served no purpose, and a look of preemptive exhaustion.

Commander Qian glared. “Why are you barefoot?”

“To feel the Earth’s grievances,” Lin Xiao replied serenely.

The instructor barked commands.

“Left strike!”

Lin Xiao moved as if underwater. “Flow like soup,” he murmured. “Deflect like tofu.”

“Right block!”

Lin Xiao turned, stretching leisurely. “Ah yes, the ‘Sleeping Ox Rolls in the Dust.’”

By the end of training, the only thing Lin Xiao had cut was a cucumber during the snack break.

His eldest sister, Princess Lin Xue, confronted him that afternoon.

“You told Concubine Yun that your stretches ward off nightmares?”

“I merely said they invite better dreams,” Lin Xiao replied from his mat.

Third Brother Lin Heng sat beside him. “Teach me the one where you twist like a steamed bun.”

Even the Crown Prince was caught trying the ‘Stoic Scholar Collapses on a Scroll’ behind a pillar.

Word spread. Ministers, eunuchs, even the palace cat tried a version of ‘Lazy Imperial Curl.’

By week’s end, a scroll arrived from the Southern Garrison.

To His Highness Prince Lin Xiao: Your movements have been adopted for post-training recovery. Soldiers report fewer injuries and greater morale.

We call it: The Way of the Gentle Spine.

Lin Xiao rolled onto his side, grinning.

“Eunuch Zhao, prepare more cushions. My ministry of restfulness has begun.”

Eunuch Zhao bowed. “Shall I inform the scribes to inscribe your teachings?”

“Only if they write it lying down,” Lin Xiao replied.

And thus, from a singular act of avoidance, the Salted Fish Prince accidentally became the founder of the most relaxed discipline the empire had ever known.