It was the third month of spring in the twenty-fourth year of the Jianping reign, in the Great Qi dynasty.
On the top floor of Taibai Tower, the capital's most prestigious and extravagant establishment, a young man reclined on a couch beside the window with one leg crossed over the other. His robe shimmered with subtly patterned cloud brocade; a priceless pendant of creamy white jade hung at his waist. He waved a gilded folding fan, utterly at ease.
This was Su Mian, the youngest son born late in life to the Duke Who Guards the Realm.
At that moment, a thoroughly subversive modern maxim—every word a pearl of wisdom—floated through his mind.
“Instead of pushing yourself harder, try cutting yourself some slack.”
Yes, Su Mian was a transmigrator.
In his previous life, he had been a top investor and financial titan renowned on both Wall Street and in Lujiazui. Every morning brought market data, KPIs, and valuation-adjustment agreements. He had gambled his life against capital, grinding away until four in the morning, kept barely alive by espresso and fast-acting heart pills.
Then, on the rainy night he finally took his company public, his heart had begun racing as he sat at his desk. And then... there was no then.
Sudden death at thirty.
When he opened his eyes again, he was a newborn in the household of Great Qi's Duke Who Guards the Realm.
Once he worked out who he was, Su Mian lay in his solid-gold cradle, sipping premium bird's-nest soup and gazing at the “supergroup of wealthy women” fussing over him: his mother, who controlled the economic lifelines of Jiangnan's sixteen provinces; his godmother, the Grand Princess, whose influence reached throughout the court; and his maternal aunt, the Empress Dowager, who showered the ducal household with rare treasures every few days.
At that moment, Su Mian, traumatized by a lifetime of relentless competition, shed tears of gratitude and made a lifelong vow.
Fuck investing. Fuck KPIs. Every hour of sleep I lost last time, I'm getting back with interest! There's only one universal truth: being good at investing is nothing compared to being good at getting born.
“You little menace, why are you still here playing with birds?”
The household's elderly steward stumbled upstairs, sweating with panic. “His Grace is coming from the training grounds with a great big club! Today is the last day to register for the spring examinations. Every promising young gentleman in the capital is lined up at the Ministry of Rites except you! His Grace says he'll tie you up and drag you there himself if that's what it takes to bring home a top scholar!”
Su Mian couldn't even be bothered to lift his eyelids. Still languidly fanning himself, he popped a peeled, translucent grape into his mouth.
“Top scholar? That Secretariat job looks exhausting. Up before the roosters, asleep after the dogs, working nonstop for a few measly taels of salary. What's the point? Are the country estates Auntie Grand Princess gave me too small, or is my mother's pocket money not enough?”
“Oh, my young master!” The steward stamped his feet in distress. “You are so gifted! Reading at three, writing poetry at five. Every great figure in the capital is waiting for you to apply yourself and carry on the ducal legacy!”
Su Mian rolled over into a more comfortable position, a devil-may-care smile curling his lips.
“Tell them to stop waiting. Tell the old man that as long as I have absolutely no ambition, the schemes of the entire court and the royal succession struggle can't land on my head. This is called... wisdom disguised as foolishness. Fasting the mind.”
As he spoke, a sudden clatter of hooves and angry shouts rose from the street outside.
Su Mian glanced down through the window.
On the main thoroughfare below stood a young man in a blue cotton robe washed nearly white, a heavy bamboo book box strapped to his back. He clutched a well-thumbed copy of the Commentary on the Qi Code, its pages frayed at the edges.
The man was exceptionally handsome, aloof and clear-cut as a solitary pine. Yet his face was frighteningly pale, the dark circles beneath his eyes so heavy they seemed ready to sag to his chin. Several richly dressed aristocratic sons on fine horses surrounded him, jeering maliciously. Still, his spine never bent. His expression remained cold, his gaze fixed on the Ministry of Rites.
Su Mian raised an eyebrow.
Well, well. The capital's one true grind addict: Xie Wei, that impoverished genius who supposedly slept only four hours a day and was determined to work himself to death over the examinations, even though his family could barely afford food.
Spitting out a grape seed, Su Mian waved his fan and sighed in sympathy. “Those dark circles... Born to toil, that one. Take some advice from me: keep grinding like that and you'll end up like I did last time—an asset in a coffin before your time.”
And so the curtain slowly rose on the spring examinations of Great Qi's twenty-fourth Jianping year, with one man reclining and the other standing as their eyes met.