SFP - Chapter 8

It all began, as many strange and history-defying events in the palace do, with a sneeze.

Lin Xiao had situated himself in his favorite spot—a shaded nook under a flowering plum tree near the quiet eastern wall of the garden. With a gentle breeze brushing over his cheeks and a plate of candied chestnuts beside him, it was the perfect setting for his favorite activity: doing nothing.

He lay there sprawled on a thin bamboo mat, limbs akimbo, resembling a particularly lazy cat that had just eaten far too much fish. One hand reached lazily toward the plate of chestnuts. It was just out of reach. Stretching an inch more, he finally managed to grab one and pop it into his mouth. Triumph.

Then—

He sneezed.

A sudden, unceremonious, thunderous sneeze. And with it came a sharp jolt of pain down his back.

“Ack!” Lin Xiao hissed, stiffening like a plank. “Oww…”

He blinked at the sky, eyes full of betrayal.

“This is it,” he muttered to the clouds. “This is how I go. Slain by ambition.”

He remained frozen, half-lifted from the mat in a half-crunch position, looking more like a tossed rag doll than a noble prince. He lay back slowly with the posture of someone surrendering to fate.

“Eunuch Zhao,” he called out weakly, as though summoning a priest for last rites.

From behind a screen of bamboo stalks, the ever-faithful Eunuch Zhao appeared, as if he’d been expecting this exact moment. He held a cup of steaming ginger tea as usual, because with Lin Xiao, drama came on a predictable schedule.

“Your Highness,” Eunuch Zhao said calmly, kneeling beside him. “You seem to be in distress. Again.”

“I am dying,” Lin Xiao declared, voice filled with theatrical agony. “I have been betrayed by my lumbar region.”

Eunuch Zhao raised an eyebrow. “Shall I summon the royal physicians?”

“No, no.” Lin Xiao waved his hand faintly. “This isn’t something that can be fixed with needles or medicine. This is a sign from the heavens.”

The eunuch tilted his head. “A sign of…?”

Lin Xiao pushed himself up slightly, winced, then slumped sideways with the grace of a melting snowman.

“A sign that this world is too hard,” he said with exaggerated seriousness. “Literally. I was not made for hard mats and straight-backed chairs. No. I was meant for comfort. Plushness. Support!”

Eunuch Zhao made a neutral humming sound, which in servant-language translated to: “Here we go again.”

The young prince’s eyes lit up. “I need to build a sanctuary. A true haven. A place that understands the sacred art of reclining!”

Eunuch Zhao waited.

“I shall build a private garden,” Lin Xiao whispered, as though the idea had just been delivered to him by divine inspiration. “And in every corner, there shall be… a reclining bed.”

By the next morning, Lin Xiao was a man possessed. Not by spirits or ambition, but by the irresistible urge to nap better.

He summoned the palace garden planner with great ceremony. The poor man was still in his sleep robe and halfway through a bowl of rice porridge when he was pulled into the courtyard.

The southern courtyard had been abandoned for years. Once reserved for senior officials to take tea in the afternoons, it had fallen into disuse, overtaken by tall grasses, dragonflies, and a particularly arrogant squirrel who had claimed the largest rock as his throne.

Lin Xiao stood in the middle of the courtyard, arms crossed dramatically. Behind him fluttered silk banners painted with odd diagrams and dreamy clouds. Eunuch Zhao stood to one side holding a scroll titled “Vision: Recline or Die.”

“We shall build the Garden of Four Reclines,” Lin Xiao declared. His voice rang out with the solemnity of someone announcing the start of a great cultural revolution.

The planner opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again.

“Your Highness, a… garden of reclines?”

“Yes,” Lin Xiao said. “A place to elevate the soul by lowering the spine.”

The planner looked confused.

“In the north,” Lin Xiao continued, pacing like a philosopher in deep thought, “there will be a cedar bed covered in soft velvet. For noble reflection. It will face the rising sun, but at a slanted angle, so I am never blinded.”

“Cedar… velvet… angle…” The planner scribbled notes, bewildered.

“In the east,” Lin Xiao said, raising a hand toward the sun, “a swing bed suspended by silken ropes. For elevated naps. Gentle rocking motion required. If I swing too much, I shall vomit. If I swing too little, it’s not a nap—it’s a torture bed.”

“In the west,” he gestured flamboyantly, “a marble platform lined with embroidered cushions. It must face the koi pond. The fish bring tranquility. Very important for nap harmony.”

“And in the south?” the planner asked, already feeling the budget shudder in his coin pouch.

Lin Xiao smiled with a dangerous kind of serenity.

“A sunken bed,” he said. “Low to the ground. Warm stone base. Heated by the sun during the day. Ideal for deep meditation naps. And perhaps afternoon snack consumption.”

Eunuch Zhao handed over a scroll to the planner with sketched-out designs. They were rough, mostly childlike doodles of beds with smiley faces.

“And plants?” the planner asked weakly.

“Ah yes.” Lin Xiao snapped his fingers. “Only the laziest plants. Ferns that water themselves with dew. Bamboo that grows just enough and then stops. No trimming. I don’t want gardeners traipsing through and disturbing my slumber.”

The planner nodded slowly. “And what shall we call this garden, Your Highness?”

Lin Xiao closed his eyes and whispered with great reverence:

“The Garden of Ultimate Rest.”

Eunuch Zhao coughed. “Or possibly: Prince Lin Xiao’s Resting Realm.”

“I like that too.”

Word of the garden spread like spilled tea in the inner court.

The Minister of Rites nearly choked on his morning melon seeds when he heard.

“A reclining bed… for philosophy? Heresy! Next he’ll ask for silk robes embroidered with clouds to wear while meditating on fish!”

The Minister of Finance turned a peculiar shade of gray.

“Silken ropes? Imported cedar? Velvet?” he gasped. “Does His Highness think the imperial treasury grows from a tree that waters itself?”

Even the Crown Prince got involved.

“He wants to put beds in the courtyard?” Lin Yu asked, expression tight.

“No,” replied Eunuch Zhao politely, “His Highness wants to put four types of beds in four directions, each with unique philosophies of rest.”

Lin Yu stared. “I see. So it’s not just lazy—it’s artistically lazy.”

Despite the uproar, His Majesty the Emperor gave his reluctant approval.

“If the boy wants beds, let him have beds,” the Emperor muttered. “At least he’s not plotting something again.”

And so, construction began.

Carpenters arrived, blinking at strange blueprints covered in clouds and doodles. Weavers cried quietly as they were handed color palettes titled “dream fog,” “moonlit moss,” and “blushing lotus.”

Lin Xiao supervised the process from a chaise lounge beneath a parasol. Occasionally, he pointed with a fan.

“That bed’s angle is one degree too upright. I can feel it judging me.”

A squirrel joined him, offering moral support—and bits of walnut.

By the time the last cushion was fluffed, the garden had transformed into a sanctuary of tranquil laziness, so beautiful even the skeptical officials began to peek in.

On the day of the unveiling, flute players performed a lullaby suite. Lin Xiao entered in robes that resembled a drifting cloud and proclaimed, “Behold! The revolution of repose!”

Cautiously, ministers stepped forward. The velvet bed… soothing. The swing… dangerously fun. The koi-facing platform… oddly reflective.

By dusk, even the Crown Prince was flat on the sunken bed, murmuring, “Why is this so effective?”

Lin Xiao, reclining in the northern cedar quadrant, smiled.

“Eunuch Zhao,” he whispered, “I have saved the nation from chronic tension.”

And thus, the empire rested.

Not with the weighty silence of political treaties or the grand clang of victory drums, but with the sigh of silk robes against velvet cushions and the soft rustle of leaves in a breeze designed by feng shui experts. In every wing of the palace, ministers lay sprawled in elegantly improper angles, muttering vague philosophical thoughts about koi fish and the curvature of clouds. Guards dozed beside their spears, scholars cradled scrolls like body pillows, and even the imperial cats looked more smug than usual.

For the first time in generations, peace didn’t arrive by sword—but by softness. And in the heart of it all, beneath a canopy of plum blossoms, Lin Xiao reclined like a lazy emperor of serenity, smugly victorious in his campaign of comfort.