SFP - Chapter 7

It was not a particularly remarkable morning in the southern courtyard. The dogs were yawning. The plum trees were lazy with dew. A butterfly gave up halfway through a somersault and landed, defeated, on a teacup.

And Lin Xiao? He lay sprawled across a bamboo mat like a fallen starfish, one slipper dangling off his toe, a half-eaten plum resting on his chest. The shadows of plum blossoms danced across his robe, silk woven with the kind of detail only imperial hands could afford—and only Lin Xiao could manage to wrinkle so completely.

He was, by all accounts, in his natural habitat: reclined, unbothered, and three degrees away from napping again.

“Your Highness....” Eunuch Zhao whispered from behind a stone lantern, his whisper only slightly louder than a drifting breeze. He looked nervous, the way one does when waking a sacred beast or, in this case, a 13-year-old prince known to quote ancient philosophy in defense of skipping bath time.

“Shouldn’t you be at morning rites?” Eunuch Zhao asked again, voice edged with the quiet dread of someone who had tried to reason with a marble statue. Repeatedly.

Lin Xiao didn’t open his eyes. He raised one finger, slowly, deliberately, like a sage preparing to deliver a profound truth.

“Too many syllables in the prayers,” he murmured. “Let Heaven understand my silence instead.”

“But the Crown Prince—”

“Let him pray for two. He enjoys being productive. It’s his spiritual hobby.”

A pause.

Eunuch Zhao opened his mouth, closed it, and sighed—deep and slow, like someone exhaling the remains of a once-promising military career. Somewhere deep within the palace, a ceremonial bell tolled its eighth and final note.

Lin Xiao rolled over, carefully adjusting the plum so it didn’t roll off his chest. “Ah yes. My favorite chime: The One I Shall Ignore.”

Moments later, he tucked his sleeves beneath his cheek and resumed what he called ‘restorative stillness’—what everyone else just called napping.

But fate, as always, had other plans.

Crown Prince Lin Yu had many admirable traits: a memory that never forgot a slight, a sword hand sharper than most imperial blades, and patience cultivated from years of putting up with Lin Xiao.

But even mountains wear down.

“Again,” Lin Yu snapped, pacing before his military tutor, “Again I am told the cooks are now balancing steamers on their heads ‘for inner harmony.’”

The tutor bowed deeply. “It is... the young prince’s influence, Your Highness.”

“Yes,” Lin Yu growled. “It’s always his influence. I should have known something was wrong the moment the war horses started receiving foot massages.”

He stormed out of the strategy room, dragging a scroll of battle formations behind him like an abandoned tail. Aides trailed after him, eyes wide and fearful. One of them tried to suggest tea. He was immediately assigned to latrine detail.

The southern courtyard shimmered in the distance, deceptively peaceful. Lin Yu approached like a general marching on a battlefield.

He expected resistance. He expected evasion. He *did not* expect to find Lin Xiao surrounded by three servants seated cross-legged, their hands in odd positions and their eyes half-closed.

Lin Xiao, the villain of discipline, was calmly saying: “...and if you inhale through your left thumb, you’ll feel your regrets loosen.”

“Brother!” Lin Yu barked, voice sharp as a commander's.

“Ah,” Lin Xiao said, blinking dreamily. “Welcome, Crown Prince. Have you come to center your spleen?”

Lin Yu’s expression resembled that of a man watching someone gently place oranges on the imperial seal.

“Explain. Now.”

“Mindful folding,” Lin Xiao replied. “We fold our regrets into invisible origami. It’s very calming. I’ve named this one the 'folded bureaucrat.'”

“You skipped rites!” Lin Yu snapped. “You insulted General Huo by calling his eyebrows ‘tense.’”

“They *were* tense. Like two angry caterpillars.”

“You’re turning the court into a teahouse!”

Lin Xiao tilted his head. “Isn’t that preferable to a battlefield?”

Lin Yu opened his fan slowly, threateningly. “I will bury you under scrolls.”

Lin Xiao smiled peacefully. “Make sure they’re soft-bound.”

Eunuch Zhao quietly lit incense behind them, just in case.

News of Lin Xiao’s ‘teachings’ spread through the palace like a dropped dumpling rolling downhill—fast, inevitable, and somehow amusing.

In the Hall of Records, scribes began writing while lying on their sides. One claimed it improved the flow of calligraphy; another insisted it reduced wrist fatigue. They invented the term “horizontal documentation.”

The royal kitchens, long a realm of clangs and roars, adopted ten-minute meditation breaks between stir-frying and steaming. A junior cook developed a soup that allegedly aligned your chakras. It tasted like cabbage and possibility.

Even the imperial cat, a notoriously haughty creature named Snowball the Third, adopted a new seated pose resembling a dumpling in mid-thought. The Empress herself mistook it for a sign of divine enlightenment.

Meanwhile, Eunuch Zhao found himself roped into facilitating a new daily ritual: “The Morning Lounging.” Held in the plum garden, it involved cushions, lukewarm tea, gentle flute music, and Lin Xiao reciting absurd metaphors with the confidence of a man inventing wisdom on the spot.

“Life is like steamed buns,” Lin Xiao intoned one morning, eyes closed. “You only appreciate them when they’re gone. Or cold.”

One official nodded so vigorously he pulled a muscle.

“Do we act upon it?” asked another.

“No,” Lin Xiao said. “We sit. And we chew. Slowly.”

Eunuch Zhao wrote that one down. He had a scroll now titled *The Art of Supreme Inactivity.*

The monthly imperial banquet began like all others: with stiff protocol, ceremonial scrolls, and enough standing to cause a rebellion of knees. Ministers stiffened in their robes like overcooked dumplings. The musicians plucked their zithers nervously. The Crown Prince hovered by the entrance, checking his fan for cracks.

Then Lin Xiao arrived.

He wore robes the color of daydreams—soft grey and lavender—and slippers embroidered with yawning clouds. He carried no scroll, no assistant, only a small tray with what he called “philosophy salad.” It appeared to contain lotus petals, tofu cubes, and possibly a single grape. Possibly.

Ignoring the seating chart entirely, he settled himself cross-legged at the very center of the grand hall, beneath the imperial phoenix mural.

“I offer you clarity,” he said, unfolding a napkin with priestly gravitas.

Whispers rippled. A court painter dropped his brush.

Lin Xiao took a sip of lukewarm tea. “All suffering,” he began solemnly, “stems from tight belts, cold feet, and early mornings.”

A low cough. Someone nodded.

“Loosen your robes,” he continued, “warm your toes. Sleep in.”

Someone clapped. The Minister of Agriculture.

“And national defense?” asked General Huo, arms crossed.

Lin Xiao pointed at him. “You look tense. Nap first. Invade later.”

The Emperor laughed.

“Very well, Fifth Son. Clarify us.”

Lin Xiao did.

That evening, the southern courtyard was drenched in lazy moonlight. The koi had ceased yawning and now floated contemplatively. Fireflies blinked in sync. The air smelled of plums, tea, and unfulfilled ambition.

Lin Xiao reclined once again, head resting on Eunuch Zhao’s emergency brocade pillow. He nibbled on candied lotus root with the disinterest of a monk chewing enlightenment.

“Fifth Prince...,” Eunuch Zhao asked softly, watching the breeze flirt with lantern tassels, “do you ever wonder what your legacy will be?”

Lin Xiao thought. Slowly.

“I hope they remember me as a prince who never stood unless absolutely necessary.”

A servant, crouched nearby with ink and brush, nodded fervently.

“And perhaps,” Lin Xiao added, blinking at the stars, “as someone who taught a nation the sacred art of lounging.”

And in the palace archives, someone quietly began a new scroll.