Chapter One: Zhu Yang

In the twenty-fourth year of Hongwu, the triennial imperial examination commenced once more, drawing a throng of scholars to the capital of Ying Tian.

As the saying goes, where there are people, there is the world of intrigue. When a group of spirited young scholars gathers, the atmosphere naturally brims with literary flair—reciting poems, composing essays, matching couplets; anything that can be argued with words, they excel at, and none will concede defeat.

In a corner, Zhu Yang ordered a pot of wine and produced a handful of roasted peanuts from his pocket. As he drank, he watched the scholars unleash their verbal assaults with great amusement.

Regardless of their learning, the vigor with which these scholars spat words was genuine. From Zhu Yang’s perspective, most were simultaneously wiping spittle from their faces while flinging more at each other—a sight far more entertaining than the online quarrels he had witnessed in his previous life.

“Are you here for this year’s imperial examination as well?” As Zhu Yang was enjoying the spectacle, an old man, followed by a bodyguard, brazenly took a seat beside him. Making himself at home, the old man picked up a peanut, mimicked Zhu Yang’s actions, cracked it open, and tasted it. Instantly, a sweet, crisp flavor burst in his mouth, leaving a lingering aroma.

“What is this? I’ve never seen it before.” The old man, unfamiliar with peanuts, brightened and grabbed another, paying no heed to Zhu Yang’s wishes.

“It’s a peanut. You’ve never seen it because it’s from overseas and hasn’t made its way here yet,” Zhu Yang replied, glancing at the old man with little patience. “Don’t eat too much—I only have so many!”

The old man shamelessly scooped up a generous pile for himself and continued peeling peanuts as he spoke. “Overseas? There are such good things abroad?”

“Of course. Overseas, besides peanuts, there are potatoes, sweet potatoes, and countless mines of gold, silver, and copper…” Before Zhu Yang could finish, the old man’s sociable nature exploded—he not only ate Zhu Yang’s peanuts but drank his wine as well.

Zhu Yang quickly lost the desire to educate the old man about foreign wonders and buried himself in the peanuts.

The old man was not to be outdone, alternating peanuts and wine at a pace faster than Zhu Yang.

Thus, a peculiar scene unfolded at the Scholar’s Pavilion: on one side, a group of scholars hurling verbal missiles; on the other, an old and a young man with their heads down, competing for food.

The old man’s bodyguard, Jiang Huan, looked on helplessly at his emperor: Weren’t we supposed to be out incognito? Weren’t we here to observe the spirited scholars? What are we doing?

Indeed, the old man was none other than Zhu Yuanzhang, Emperor of Ming. Yet apart from Jiang Huan and himself, no one knew.

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“Let go…”

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“Let go…”

Zhu Yang and Zhu Yuanzhang both had their hands on the last peanut, neither willing to yield.

“Young man, do you know the virtue of respecting the elderly and caring for the young?” Zhu Yuanzhang gripped Zhu Yang’s wrist, smiling warmly.

“I do, but I don’t see you as elderly!” Zhu Yang retorted, struggling with Zhu Yuanzhang. “You want to snatch my food? Not a chance!”

Only now, after wrestling for peanuts, did Zhu Yuanzhang clearly see Zhu Yang’s face. What he saw startled him so much that his expression changed abruptly, and his hand loosened instinctively.

The last peanut naturally ended up in Zhu Yang’s possession.

“So alike… How can it be so alike?” Zhu Yuanzhang murmured, gazing at Zhu Yang’s face.

“Is he having a fit?” Zhu Yang glanced at the suddenly dazed emperor, shook his head, and contentedly peeled the last peanut, removing the red skin…

“Ah… so fragrant!” Zhu Yang washed it down with another sip of wine, savoring the aftertaste—peanuts with wine, the more he drank, the better it became.

Sated, Zhu Yang collapsed in his chair, eyeing the still stupefied Zhu Yuanzhang and teased, “Hey, old man, wake up. Your grandson’s calling you home for dinner.”

“Grandson…” Zhu Yuanzhang snapped back to reality, scrutinized Zhu Yang again, and confirmed he looked exactly like his own son, Zhu Biao. Considering Zhu Yang’s age, a possibility struck him.

“Young man, what is your name?” Zhu Yuanzhang asked, his heart tense, though resurrection seemed fantastical, he hoped it might be true.

“My name is Zhu Yang, from Fuzhou!” Zhu Yang replied, noting the old man’s sudden change. “Old fellow, what’s up? You were pretty lively stealing my peanuts just now.”

Hearing Zhu Yang’s self-introduction, Zhu Yuanzhang’s fervor cooled by half: It was merely a resemblance.

“I’m fine…” Zhu Yuanzhang brushed it off.

Though not the person he hoped for, Zhu Yuanzhang remained curious about Zhu Yang and probed, “Are you here for the imperial examination as well?”

“Yes, at my foster father’s command, I’m to become the top scholar for him!” Zhu Yang pulled out a handful of sunflower seeds and began cracking them, this time offering half to Zhu Yuanzhang—he had plenty of these.

Truth be told, Zhu Yang had crossed into Ming with a system, but it was rather stingy. He checked in once a year and received a box of Qiaqia sunflower seeds, a pound of raw peanut seeds, a box of cefdinir, a bag of spicy strips, a bottle of Lao Gan Ma, five packs of pickled vegetables, six tea eggs, a roasted sweet potato, and ten skewers of lamb.

Nine check-ins later, aside from the antibiotics and peanut seeds, everything else seemed useless. Was the system afraid he couldn’t stomach Ming cuisine? Yet the supplies wouldn’t last a year, and countless times Zhu Yang had wanted to smash the system.

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“Foster father?” Zhu Yuanzhang keenly caught the difference.

“Yes. My foster father rescued me,” Zhu Yang replied, not intending to hide the truth, as everyone in his village knew and a little investigation would reveal it.

“My foster father came to Ying Tian for the imperial examination years ago. Unfortunately, he didn’t pass. While grieving, he encountered two tomb robbers. He turned his sorrow into strength and beat them soundly. It was then that he rescued me from their clutches,” Zhu Yang explained.

“You mean you were dug out by tomb robbers from a burial site?” Zhu Yuanzhang asked.

“Exactly. Luckily for me, otherwise I’d have suffocated!” Zhu Yang recalled the event with lingering dread.

When he first crossed over, he discovered, after some fumbling, that he was in a tomb. The urge to end it all and try again was strong.

An eight-year-old child could never escape a nailed-shut coffin.

Fortunately, those tomb robbers, greedy for burial goods, wondered if there might be more inside the coffin. Thus, Zhu Yang was excavated by them.

Of course, when they found him alive, their intentions were far from kind—they planned to sell him to a brothel as a boy manager.

Had it not been for his adoptive father, Zhu Yang would have made history—a transmigrator turned brothel steward.

“Do you know where that tomb was?” Zhu Yuanzhang asked urgently.

“No. It was pitch dark and I was only eight, nearly suffocated. How could I notice such details?” Zhu Yang shook his head; he truly did not know where his original body was buried, only that it was somewhere in Ying Tian, probably a wealthy family.

But it did not matter to Zhu Yang. He only wanted to become the top scholar, fulfill his foster father’s wish, and then, in the years before the Jingnan Campaign erupted, gather refugees and found his own nation overseas.

Why insist on becoming the top scholar? Simply because his foster father never succeeded, and on his deathbed, still obsessed over the imperial exam, made Zhu Yang swear to win the title for him.

A classic case of “if the father cannot do it, the son must try.”

Though Zhu Yang did not believe in oaths, his foster father had raised him for nine years. With eight years left before the Jingnan Campaign, he came here, taking it as a way to pass the time.

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