“Zhiyang, the thing I regret least in my life is resolutely setting out on the path of cultivation.” Wang Moran lay in his hospital bed. By now, his illness was terminal, and there was no cure.
Wang Zhiyang had been an orphan since childhood, so he felt little affection for this adoptive father he had after transmigrating. He knew a little about his family’s circumstances: by ordinary standards, they were very well-off, with enough wealth for an ordinary person to live extravagantly for several lifetimes. Yet Wang Moran had quietly spent through generations’ worth of savings.
Wang Zhiyang had always resented the sudden change in the family’s fortunes. But he wasn’t really Wang Moran’s son to begin with. Though he could no longer inherit a vast fortune, he had transmigrated, and with his modern knowledge, he figured he could make a good life for himself in ancient times. Thinking this over, Wang Zhiyang immediately felt much more at ease. Just then, his adoptive father spoke up: “Zhiyang, come here. Your father has something good for you.”
