Chapter 3
Chapter 3
I had sincerely loved Song Ziming. There was nothing shameful about admitting it. What young girl had never encountered a scoundrel or two?
I had lived in the imperial palace ever since I first became sentient. Back then, Song Ziming was only a half-grown boy of fourteen.
The Dowager Empress ruled from behind a curtain, and his maternal clan had been exterminated. He was a poor, abandoned child with neither family nor companions, forced to share his meals with a single fish—me.
He treated me well. Whatever he ate, I ate. The imperial kitchens spoiled my palate so thoroughly that if he did not come feed me, I preferred to starve.
Later, a fish keeper told him that koi liked running water. Song Ziming opened his private treasury and rebuilt my pond to channel in a living current. Swimming through flowing water was bliss.
He was always taciturn with others, but alone with me he could talk from today’s overly greasy soup to some hateful minister who preyed on the people.
Most of all, he talked about his ideals and ambitions. He wanted to become the wisest ruler Great Zhao had ever seen and ensure that every commoner under heaven had enough food and warm clothes.
I loved listening. Though confined to one tiny pool, through his words I seemed to possess the whole world.
For three years, I watched him grow from an awkward boy into a young man and witnessed his joy, his sorrow, and his occasional despair.
He fed me, housed me, and kept me company. What was wrong with an inexperienced fish falling a little in love?
So on the day fright shocked me into human form, I deliberately lingered beside the pond until his usual feeding time.
I was lucky that day. I had not known a transforming koi would emerge without clothes. As an innocent fish, I was not embarrassed, though a few scales still remained on my legs.
But Song Ziming was too happy to notice. His stepmother had fallen ill—gravely ill. He assumed that finding me was a reward for his good deeds and brought me into his personal service.
I could not explain where I came from, and the palace found no record of my origins. In his delight, he forged a palace registration for me and gave me the lovely name Feng Chuchu.
Serving him was true happiness. I was no longer a fish. When I helped him dress, I could touch him; when I answered, he could hear my voice. Our conversations were no longer monologues.
The only sadness was that his fish had disappeared. He sometimes sat alone beside the water, lost in thought.
Fish could not live without water. Even a spirit had to soak on the fifteenth of each month. I hid carefully every time so he would not discover that I was still there.
Then one night, I heard an elderly voice say, “What a pity that koi vanished. By my calculations, she may have awakened her mind. If she transformed and cultivated together with Your Majesty, she could greatly strengthen your fortune and help you assume personal rule sooner.”
I no longer remembered Song Ziming’s reply. My ears and heart were filled with a single thought: intimate cultivation could increase his fortune.
What foolish thing would a woman in love not do?
That very night, I wrapped myself in sheer gauze and hid beneath his quilt. The books in the palace library said no man could resist such a sight.
Sure enough, he could not. The instant he lifted the quilt and saw me, his eyes turned red.
“Feng Chuchu, how dare you!”
His voice was so stern that my eyes trembled and tears rolled down my cheeks.
Heaven was my witness: I was a hardy fish. Perhaps too many romantic tales on shore had taught me that offering oneself to a man’s bed was shameful, making me coy for once.
Still, it worked remarkably well.
After a long silence, he pulled me close and wiped my tears. With a soft sigh against my ear, he murmured, “Kin beneath one roof in life, dust within one grave in death. Chuchu, I will treat you well.”
Tender affection dissolved into spring rain, and every scale on my body quivered. No wonder people spoke of the pleasures of fish and water. This fish was very pleased indeed.