The eleventh year of the Hongzhi reign, early October.
Snow drifted in the cold wind, coating the rooftops and narrow alleys of Beiping in a thin layer of white. By the banks of the Tongji River, a modest courtyard stood in silence, its wooden door swaying slightly with each passing gust. Inside, a young man sat on a low stool, his red lips and pale complexion standing in stark contrast against the dim candlelight.
Perhaps such words were ill-fitting for a man, but for him, they were almost inevitable. His features were too delicate, his presence too quiet—like a painting of an immortal untouched by the world.
Seventeen, perhaps eighteen, no more.
Chen Ce's gaze lingered on the first snowfall of the season, his expression unreadable. A faint cough escaped his lips—one, then another—before he picked up the bowl of medicine beside him. The thick, brownish liquid swirled sluggishly, carrying a bitterness he had long since grown accustomed to. Without hesitation, he downed it in one breath.
Two years. It had been two years since he awoke in this world, bound to a frail body riddled with sickness. The original Chen Ce had been a merchant's son, born into wealth yet cursed with misfortune. Tuberculosis had plagued him since childhood, and his desperate parents had scoured the empire for a cure, spending fortunes, chasing miracles.
In the end, neither medicine nor gods could save them. Their wealth was drained, their business stolen by scheming relatives, and they themselves had faded into dust.
The boy they left behind?
Discarded. Given two taels of silver—a final, meaningless act of 'kindness'—before being cast aside like an unwanted burden.
Beiping had been his last hope. A father's old promise, an arranged marriage to a scholar's daughter—ties from a past that should have led him somewhere, anywhere. But hope was a fickle thing.
Instead of a reunion, he had found nothing but an empty address. Instead of family, he had found himself starving in a ruined temple on the outskirts of the capital.
That winter should have been his last.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
A passing nobleman—his face now blurred in memory—had, with casual indifference, tossed five taels of silver his way. A mere flick of the wrist, a trivial act of generosity. Yet, in that moment, it had meant survival.
With what little he had, Chen Ce secured this rundown courtyard, eking out a living through ink and paper. Writing, predicting examination questions—small tricks to stay afloat. His fiancée, his supposed lifeline in this world, remained a shadow. If she still existed, she had long since walked a path he could not follow.
Yet the tides had shifted again.
A year ago, as if in mockery of his misfortune, he had been granted a gift—an ability, a system. In the barren patch of earth behind his courtyard, he had planted seeds, only to reap more than just food. From the soil, he pulled knowledge—history, imperial examination papers, forgotten texts. And from that knowledge, he carved out a meager existence, selling insights, scraping together silver where he could.
Not enough for ambition, but enough to survive.
Outside, the wind howled. Chen Ce pulled his robe tighter, eyes scanning the pages of an old book, absorbing its contents with an intensity that came only from necessity.
Then—
A knock.
No. Not a knock. A pounding. Forceful. Unyielding.
His fingers stilled on the page. Slowly, he placed the book down, pushing himself to his feet.
He never reached the door.
The frail wood splintered, crashing inward as heavy boots stormed inside. Shadows filled the room—figures clad in dark blue cotton armor, curved blades resting at their waists. Their movements were precise, rehearsed.
Not all Jinyiwei wore the infamous Flying Fish Robes. But the lack of embroidery did not lessen their presence.
Cold air rushed in, mingling with the scent of damp wood and stale medicine.
Chen Ce's gaze flickered between them, his expression calm. Confused, but calm.
Jinyiwei. Here. For him?
Ridiculous. He was a nameless scholar, an ordinary citizen of Shuntian Prefecture. He stole nothing, plotted nothing. What crime could possibly warrant the presence of imperial enforcers?
Even if he were guilty, should it not be the county magistrate's men knocking on his door? How had it come to this?
Chen Ce exhaled slowly, meeting their sharp gazes without flinching. Then, with a voice steady and unshaken, he asked—
"Gentlemen, have you made a mistake?"
Outside, the snow continued to fall, indifferent to the storm now brewing within.
Death was merely a matter of sooner or later. His parents had spent over a decade seeking a cure, yet nothing had changed. What difference did it make whether it was the Jinyiwei or even the Emperor himself standing before him?
The room remained eerily silent as the group of enforcers parted. From their midst emerged a young man clad in the unmistakable Flying Fish Robe, his posture relaxed, hands clasped behind his back.
A high-ranking officer. At least third rank or above.
Chen Ce had studied Ming history. A Jinyiwei official of such status—so young—was unheard of.
Yet, there he stood, exuding an almost theatrical arrogance, one hand resting on his embroidered Spring Sabre, chin lifted as if the very air around him was beneath him. His gaze remained skyward, refusing to acknowledge the man before him.
"So, you're the one who leaked the exam questions for the Shuntian Prefecture trials?" His voice carried the lazy disdain of someone used to getting what they wanted without question.
"Impudent and reckless!" The official's voice sharpened, the accusation falling like a blade. "The imperial court seeks talent through examinations, and yet before the first round even began, the topics of Confucian Analects had already spread! Upon investigation, all signs point to you!"
"Do you confess?"
Chen Ce studied the young official carefully. The man's eyes never once met his own, still trained on the heavens as if even glancing downward would dirty him.
After a moment, he sighed.
"My lord… are you ill?"
The room tensed.
"Bold!"
Chen Ce remained unshaken. "Can you not lower your head?"
"Of course I can!"
"Then why aren't you?"
"I—Pah! Don't change the subject!" The official's irritation flared. "I ask again—do you confess?"
Chen Ce shook his head. "Naturally, I do not. My lord, if you think carefully, you will see the flaw in this accusation. I am neither an official nor of noble birth. How could I possibly know the examination topics in advance, let alone have the means to leak them?"
The young official hesitated. "That… does make some sense." Then, just as quickly, he scoffed. "But you are clearly a cunning and deceitful man! Do you take me for a fool?"
A pause. His tone shifted slightly, revealing the true intent behind the interrogation.
"I see it now! You may not hold status, but you must have connections! Tell me—who among the examination officials are in league with you?"
Chen Ce's brows furrowed.
This... this wasn't about him.
It was about the examination officials.
He was merely a convenient excuse.
Suppressing a sigh, he gestured around the room. "My lord, if I may make a suggestion—lower your head for a moment and take a look at my surroundings."
Still unwilling, the young official huffed but finally relented. His gaze shifted downward, taking in the state of the cramped, poorly furnished room.
Then, he froze.
A flicker of recognition flashed in his eyes.
"...Eh?"
The arrogant demeanor cracked.
"You?"
A realization dawned, an old memory stirring. The young official's posture stiffened, his grip on the sabre loosening slightly.
Two years ago. A bitter winter night. A starving, sickly figure curled up near the temple ruins.
Jinyiwei never wasted time on the dying. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, he had spared a handful of silver that night. It had been a fleeting act, barely worth remembering.
And yet, he did remember.
Because in that moment, the sickly figure had reminded him of someone—his younger brother, the one who had died too soon.
And now, here he was again.
Still alive. Still frail. Still bearing that same quiet resilience.
The arrogance in his expression wavered. His grip tightened, then released.
A heartbeat later, he turned sharply on his heel, flicking a dismissive hand at the Jinyiwei behind him.
"Enough. Leave."
The men hesitated. "My lord, but—"
"I said leave!"
They scattered without another word.
The young official took one last glance at Chen Ce, a hint of something unreadable in his gaze.
"He's innocent," he muttered. "You can tell just by looking at him. An honest man."
Then, with a final flick of his sleeve, he strode out into the snow, disappearing as suddenly as he had arrived.
Leaving behind nothing but the broken door and the unanswered question—
Who, exactly, had Chen Ce encountered that night two years ago?