As chief minister of the Court of Judicial Review, Lord Zeng held considerable power and prestige, yet his own son had performed onstage behind his back and been treated as a plaything in other people's filthy fantasies.
How was he supposed to show his face now?
He deeply regretted being able to hear Jiang Shuyue's thoughts. If he could not hear them, he would not have ended up in such an embarrassing position.
Zeng Fan was even more mortified. Had he known he would suffer such social death, he would never have come today.
Jiang Shuyue: These old fossils have no idea how important it is to pass down cultural traditions. A thousand years from now, who will remember who held power or what offices they occupied? Won't all of that be passed down through the very people they look down on?
Huahua: Exactly. The venerable Heavenly Dao sometimes listens to songs and opera, too, and enjoys watching performances to pass the time. Yet these people turn their noses up at all of it.
Jiang Shuyue: In the future, even a skewer of candied hawthorn or a little sugar figurine will matter more than their official posts.
She did not mention that, as the times changed, those official posts would cease to exist.
But everyone fell silent after hearing her words. On reflection, she was right.
Jiang Shuyue: Besides, performing opera isn't a bad thing. The ones at fault are those with filthy minds. Poor Zeng Fan.
It was the first time Zeng Fan had ever heard anyone say such things, and he felt as though someone had shone a ray of light into his life.
A trace of guilt also arose in Lord Zeng's heart.
Thinking it over carefully, his son seemed to have done nothing wrong. Yet he