Chapter One: Laying the Trap

The eighth year of the Hongzhi reign in the Ming Dynasty, September.

On this day, the sky was gloomy, a thin layer of bluish mist drifting over the countryside and fields. Outside Baiyue Village, the wide and even farmland was bustling; diligent farmers tirelessly plowed the earth and sowed wheat seeds.

Zhou Zhi had arrived at his family’s eight acres of fields just after dawn, laboriously turning the soil with a shovel. His family was poor and owned no oxen, so all the work had to be done by hand.

In the past, his father was the main force behind such tasks, with Zhou Zhi only assisting. But a few days ago, his father strained his back while transporting rice and was now bedridden. Thus, the heavy burden of preparing and sowing the fields fell entirely on Zhou Zhi, who had just turned fifteen.

By midday, Zhou Zhi was drenched in sweat, his stomach rumbling with hunger. Unable to continue, he wiped his face with his dark arm and surveyed the tilled land—it was barely half an acre. He shook his head, frustrated.

He dropped the shovel, trudged to the edge of the field, and sat heavily by the dirt road. Reaching for a shabby cloth bundle, he opened it gently to reveal two palm-sized cakes, a water pouch, and a book.

With his left hand, he grabbed a cake; with his right, he cradled the book, eating as he read.

“Well, well! Isn’t this something! Since when did a dull-witted farm boy start reading? Zhou family brat, what’s written in that book? How many characters can you recognize? Read it aloud for me! Ha! This is hilarious, absolutely hilarious!” A shrill voice rang out, followed by mocking laughter.

Zhou Zhi turned to see the speaker, who was waving a bamboo folding fan. He had large eyes sunk deep into their sockets, giving him a skeletal look—it was Chen Wenju, the third young master of the Chen family from Baiyue Village. Beside him stood a tall servant, towering over Chen Wenju but hunched awkwardly, his face equally disdainful as he gazed at Zhou Zhi.

The Chen family was wealthy, owning hundreds of acres; many villagers were their tenants. Ever since Chen Wenju’s great-grandfather, Chen Ci, became a scholar in the second year of the Xuande reign, the family had produced learned men. Though none reached the rank of scholar-official since, several had achieved the status of provincial scholar.

Chen Wenju now studied at the academy run by Scholar Cheng in Gaochang Town. Today, after class, he passed by Zhou Zhi’s fields. He had, this year, passed the county and prefectural exams, failing only the final academy test. At fifteen, he was already a student, the pride of the Chen family and its brightest hope.

In the Ming era, scholars enjoyed unmatched status. Chen Wenju, proud and arrogant, looked down on everyone, walking with his chin raised to the sky. In his twisted mind, only the sons of wealthy families deserved to read; peasants were mere riffraff, meant to toil and eat dirt in the fields.

Zhou Zhi had never cared for Chen Wenju, so he ignored him and continued reading.

Chen Wenju felt slighted—after all, Zhou Zhi usually wouldn’t dare look him in the eye, always timid and self-effacing. In his memory, Zhou Zhi had never spent a day in the village school; how could he know any characters? Surely, he was pretending.

Yet Chen Wenju did not know that the Zhou Zhi before him was no longer the same boy. A month ago, a college graduate named Zhou Zhi from the future, who had died suddenly from overwork, found his soul transported into this Ming Dynasty youth, who died chasing birds from the rice fields.

“Zhou Zhi, you wretched brat, didn’t you hear me? I asked how many characters you know!” Chen Wenju barked.

Pressed by Chen Wenju’s repeated questioning, Zhou Zhi had no choice but to reply, expressionless, “Replying to Third Young Master Chen: every day, as I pass the village school, I stop and listen to the teacher for a while. That’s how I learned a few characters.”

Though Zhou Zhi’s words were respectful, his tone was cold, further enraging Chen Wenju.

“Nonsense! How could you learn characters just by listening outside? You think it’s so easy? Who do you think you are—a star descended from heaven? Let me tell you: you’re a farm boy, a wretch, a lowborn! Understand? Go Wang, what are you waiting for? Take his book away! Don’t let him disgrace us scholars—I get angry just looking at him.”

Without a word, the servant Go Wang strode forward to snatch Zhou Zhi’s book. Zhou Zhi, having anticipated trouble, resisted, but sitting on the ground, he was at a disadvantage; eventually, Go Wang seized the book.

With a tear, the book was ripped in two and tossed aside.

“Ha! That feels better—a poor farm brat reading, what a joke. Go Wang, let’s go!” Chen Wenju laughed loudly.

“Chen Wenju, don’t push me too far! What business is it of yours if I read? Why did you tear my book? Compensate me!” Zhou Zhi sprang to his feet, face cold and eyes blazing, confronting Chen Wenju.

Though only fifteen, Zhou Zhi stood taller than Chen Wenju.

Chen Wenju flinched, retreating a few steps, but quickly regained his composure. With a sneer, he said, “Zhou family brat, what did you say? Too much bullying? Hmph! I’m bullying you, so what? I’m the third young master of the Chen family—I can bully whoever I like, especially you peasants. What can you do?”

Indeed, the Chen family was powerful, connected even to county officials. If Zhou Zhi reported this to the magistrate, not only would they ignore him, but if they did intervene, they would surely favor Chen Wenju, and Zhou Zhi might suffer worse.

But was he to let it go so easily?

Zhou Zhi hesitated.

Seeing Zhou Zhi’s troubled look, Chen Wenju grew more smug. “Ha! Poor brat, you’re convinced now, aren’t you? Let me tell you: stick to your work; reading is not for you. Don’t pretend to be a scholar with a shabby book—you disgrace us. From now on, if I see you with a book, I’ll tear it up every time.”

With that, he waved his hand at Go Wang and strode away, ignoring Zhou Zhi.

Zhou Zhi watched Chen Wenju’s swaggering, arrogant figure with a cold gaze. Suddenly, inspiration struck, and he called out, “Third Young Master Chen, you just said a poor farm boy like me can’t read. What if I told you I know a hundred characters, a thousand characters—would you believe it?”

“A thousand characters! Did you just say that? You’ve never been to school, and you know a thousand characters? Lies, utter nonsense! Clearly, I didn’t teach you enough of a lesson. Good, today I’ll teach you properly!” Chen Wenju stopped, turned, and strode back, face twisted in anger.

“Third Young Master Chen, I’m simply asking: do you believe it or not?” Zhou Zhi smiled slightly, the corners of his mouth curling up in mockery.

That smile was clearly a challenge. In the past, no poor farmer dared speak to Chen Wenju like this; his anger flared. “No! No! I’d never believe it, not even in death!”

“Well then, Third Young Master Chen, do you dare wager with this farm boy?” Zhou Zhi’s smile remained, full of provocation.