However, the moment the so-called "talents" noticed Lin Wanrong's shabby attire, their arrogance returned in full force. Their bruised egos were instantly soothed, and any insecurities they had moments ago vanished. They completely ignored his striking features and confident demeanor, choosing instead to latch onto the easiest target—his clothes.
Dressed in worn-out blue robes and ragged shoes, Lin Wanrong became an easy subject for ridicule. A smug sense of superiority spread among the scholars, and they seized the opportunity to throw veiled jabs and ironic remarks in his direction.
Fools.
Before Lin Wanrong had found himself in this unfamiliar world, he had been a marketing manager in a mid-sized company. Graduating from university at 21, he had worked tirelessly for four years, earning himself the title of the youngest department head at 25. He had met plenty of people like these so-called scholars—men who clung desperately to fleeting advantages to maintain their self-worth.
Seeing their condescending gazes, he couldn't help but sneer inwardly. So, the divide between rich and poor is an age-old tradition, huh? Some things really never change.
By now, Young Master Hou's three extravagant painting boats had drifted away, and the crowd of onlookers slowly dispersed. The women who had sneaked curious glances at Lin Wanrong blushed and hurried off, as if embarrassed by their momentary distraction.
Lin Wanrong chuckled to himself. The lake remained unchanged, its surface rippling gently under the evening glow, as if nothing had happened.
How ridiculous.
Back in college, he had witnessed far too many grand, over-the-top confessions. Compared to those, this Young Master Hou's little display was downright childish.
A faint nostalgia crept into his heart. Memories of his university days resurfaced—the late-night talks in the dormitory, the brotherhood, the camaraderie. And then, there was her—his first love.
He could still picture the pain in her eyes that night.
She had left for America, but Lin Wanrong had known, deep down, how much she had cared for him. She had asked him countless times to go with her, had even prepared his visa and plane ticket. But he had refused—steadfast, unwavering.
For students from Peking University and Tsinghua, studying abroad was a prestigious path, almost a rite of passage. But Lin Wanrong had never been like the rest. Even when top-tier companies came calling, he had deliberately chosen a mid-sized firm instead.
Because for him, home mattered.
He still remembered his words to her on the night she had asked him one last time:
"The world I don't want to see with my own black eyes will always appear blue in theirs."
When she boarded the plane, he hadn't gone to the airport to see her off. Not because he was cold-hearted, but because he had nothing left to say. This was her choice. And if she had made the decision to leave, then she had to be strong enough to bear the consequences.
Lin Wanrong exhaled slowly, shaking off the lingering thoughts.
That was a different life, a different world.
And yet, the past had a way of haunting him.
Lin Wanrong had heard that she cried so hard she nearly couldn't board the plane.
A part of him felt a twinge of heartache. But another part—a darker part—felt a twisted sense of revenge.
Who said men couldn't be petty?
For the next four years, Lin Wanrong had thrown himself into work, climbing the corporate ladder with relentless ambition. His career flourished, and his love life? A revolving door. He never lacked for female company, though none of them ever stayed for long. He was not, by nature, a devoted man. And whenever friends teased him about it, he would always respond with the same easy smile:
"I was never one for sentimental nonsense."
His life had been comfortable—free, unburdened. Until she came along.
That woman.
She waltzed into his company like she owned the place. Because she did. The newly appointed deputy general manager, and—unfortunately—his direct superior. For some inexplicable reason, she seemed to have it out for him, targeting him at every opportunity, treating him with outright hostility.
If it weren't for her father, Lin Wanrong would have gladly strangled her first, then—no, actually, he'd rather not think about it.
Oh, and speaking of her father?
The chairman of the company.
Lin Wanrong's teeth clenched instinctively at the memory. If not for that hateful woman, he wouldn't have ended up in this godforsaken place. He thought back to that moment—standing atop Mount Tai, slipping, falling. He had been so sure that she was happy to see him plummet.
And yet…
There was something off about her expression in that instant. Pain? Fear? Panic?
Through the haze of his memories, he vaguely recalled her reaching for him—her fingers brushing his wrist, as if trying to pull him back. Or perhaps… she had fallen with him?
But that was impossible.
She would have been overjoyed to see me dead.
Lin Wanrong shook off the thought. He refused to dwell on that woman any longer. She didn't matter.
The present was all that mattered now.
His gaze swept across Xuanwu Lake, where scholars and noblewomen engaged in their delicate, flirtatious dances of wit and admiration. The scenery of Jinling was breathtaking, truly worthy of the Qinhuai River's famed beauty.
Yet while poetry and romance flourished here, war raged in the north. And these so-called talents and beauties carried on, utterly indifferent to the world beyond their little bubble. It was no wonder people sneered at the saying:
"Northern jackals, Southern scholars."
Lin Wanrong scoffed. A fitting insult.
Still, what was done was done. He was here now, and no amount of bitterness would change that. He might as well embrace this new life.
"The tourists, drunk with the warm wind, mistake Hangzhou for Bianzhou," he murmured, letting the words roll off his tongue. It was a perfect fit for this moment. The poetry might not be his own, but here, spoken in this world—it might as well be.
Shameless? Maybe.
But shamelessness was a survival skill.
Years spent in marketing had taught him that. He had seen real shamelessness—backroom deals, under-the-table exchanges, corporate betrayals. Compared to those, a little poetic theft was downright innocent.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of yet another scholar being invited onto a noblewoman's boat for a "private discussion."
Lin Wanrong sneered. What a joke.
He spat into the lake.
Bah. Drown in it, you pretentious bastards.
Just as he was about to turn away, a crisp voice called out behind him.
"'The tourists, drunk with the warm wind, mistake Hangzhou for Bianzhou'—what a brilliant verse! Truly remarkable!"
A slow, deliberate clapping followed, punctuated by the rhythmic tapping of a small fan against a palm.
For a moment, Lin Wanrong blinked in surprise.
Finally, someone with taste.
A smug grin tugged at his lips. Sure, the poem wasn't mine, but it takes talent to deliver it well.
He turned to face his admirer—only to freeze slightly.
Standing before him was a stunning young man.
The word stunning wasn't an exaggeration.
Fine, arched eyebrows, bright phoenix eyes, lips tinged with natural crimson, and skin as smooth as porcelain. He held a delicate white fan, dressed in an elegant light-yellow robe, his figure slender yet graceful, like a willow bending in the breeze.
Lin Wanrong had never seen the legendary Song Yu or Pan An, but he was fairly certain that neither could compare to this ethereal beauty.
Even with all the confidence in the world, Lin Wanrong had to admit—he had met his match.
And standing just behind this exquisite young man was an equally handsome servant.
Lin Wanrong narrowed his eyes slightly.
Who the hell were these two?