"Master, Madam." Lu Shuo stood before them, swallowing nervously.
"What is it? Is something the matter?" Helan Zong asked with a kind smile.
"I..." Lu Shuo took a deep breath, gathering his courage. "I ate a lot of meat tonight, but I didn't mean to... I... I didn't know about the rule of observing a vegetarian diet during mourning... No one ever told me..."
Helan Zong and Zhang Yizhu were taken aback.
They had just been discussing this very matter, and now Lu Shuo himself had brought it up.
Helan Zong frowned. "Since you didn't know, who told you about this rule?"
"It was Tianqing..." Lu Shuo answered honestly, stealing a glance at Duke Xuan's expression, then hesitantly added, "But he meant well in reminding me. Thanks to him, I realized that if this got out, it might harm the reputation of the Duke Mansion..."
"There's no need to be so frightened," Zhang Yizhu said with a sigh. "It is indeed a custom, but not everyone has to follow it. Rules are dead; people are alive. If one truly has filial piety, why must it be proven through eating meat or vegetables? Besides, you're still growing. There's no need to force yourself like this. If your parents knew, they would surely feel distressed."
"The Duchess is right," Helan Zong nodded. "Since your parents are gone, you should live well, eating, using, and seeing things for them too. Growing up healthy is the greatest filial piety you can show them."
Lu Shuo stammered, unable to speak.
Zhang Yizhu thought for a moment, then said, "Don't worry about implicating the mansion. Not only are the household tight-lipped and won't gossip, but even if it gets out, it won't matter. No matter how weak the Duke Mansion may be, it won't be brought down by a twelve-year-old child."
"Eat whatever you want from now on. Don't worry too much. If anything happens, the adults will handle it. It's not for you to worry about." Helan Zong waved his hand. "Alright, go back and get some rest. Call Tianqing in; I have a few words for him."
But Zhang Yizhu interrupted, "No need to call Tianqing. It's not a big deal. Both of you go back together."
Helan Zong glanced at his wife and remained silent.
After Lu Shuo left, Helan Zong couldn't help but say, "Why didn't you let me call Tianqing in? Why did he have to say those things to Lu Shuo? Was he trying to scare the child?"
Zhang Yizhu said, "He wasn't wrong to say that. Allowing something is one thing, but Lu Shuo not knowing is another. I chose Tianqing because he's thorough and dependable. If you scold him today, he might think he's meddling and dare not speak up in front of Lu Shuo in the future. Then if no one warns Lu Shuo, it would be bad if he accidentally offends someone outside."
Helan Zong sighed deeply, raised his cup, and drank the wine.
On the other side, Lu Shuo walked out of the dining hall with his head down. Tianqing, who had been waiting outside, immediately followed and asked, "Young master, what did the master and madam say?"
Lu Shuo said quietly, "They told me not to stick rigidly to the rules."
Hearing this, Tianqing pursed his lips and tentatively asked, "Did the master and madam have any other instructions for me?"
Lu Shuo gave him a quick glance. "No."
Tianqing let out a soft breath and said no more.
Lu Shuo walked silently toward his courtyard.
He knew that Tianqing had originally served the Eldest Young Master and had been reassigned to care for him. Perhaps Tianqing felt resentful, but no matter what he thought, so far he had been diligent in his duties, offering reminders where needed, ensuring that nothing happened that would make Lu Shuo a laughingstock while he remained oblivious.
Living in the Duke Mansion, he really had nothing to complain about.
Yet why did his eyes still burn and feel hot, blurring the neat lines of the gray bricks before him?
Before he had requested an audience with the duke and duchess, he had already sensed that they would comfort him and tell him to continue eating well.
Not only because Tianqing had predicted it—saying that since the master and madam had tacitly allowed it, they would handle everything—but also because he could feel that the duke and duchess were not strict people. They might even be more lenient with him because of his status as the son of their benefactor.
But Lu Shuo had come anyway.
Because he needed to have this matter out in the open.
Was the meat delicious?
Yes.
Did he want to continue eating it?
Yes.
If mourning required a vegetarian diet, and violating it meant punishment, could he obey?
Yes.
But if he didn't have to obey, would he still willingly do so?
...No.
He had never eaten such delicious, sumptuous meals. He had gone from frugality to luxury and couldn't bear to give it up.
But he couldn't let the people of the Duke Mansion think he was playing dumb. He had to first show his panic and unease to earn their tolerance and understanding.
Now his goal was achieved, but why didn't he feel the slightest bit happy? Instead, he felt even more pained.
Two voices argued repeatedly in his mind.
One said that the desire for food was the basest desire. If he hadn't known the rule, it was one thing, but now that he knew that sincere mourning meant abstaining from meat, how could he still covet such a small advantage? Were his parents less important than a plate of meat in his heart?
The other said that his parents had always treated him well, often saving meat for him. Duke Xuan was right: if they knew he had good food but didn't eat it, they would surely scold him for being foolish.
The two voices quarreled endlessly, eventually merging into one that echoed in his mind: Lu Shuo, you're just making excuses for yourself.
If you insisted on a vegetarian diet for mourning, could the Duke Mansion force you to eat meat?
You just know your parents won't blame you, the duke and duchess won't blame you, and you're not hurting anyone, so you want to enjoy this windfall with a clear conscience.
Lu Shuo, they said your father died for you, allowing you to take this advantage. They weren't wrong.
Today, for the sake of your appetite, you're unwilling to observe a vegetarian diet for your parents. Tomorrow, what else might you be unwilling to do for them—like visiting their graves?
You remember them today, but what about next year, the year after, ten years from now?