A gentleman is trapped within palace walls, though his virtue has suffered no stain.
Behind vermilion gates lurk vipers and scorpions; ink-black sleeves are stained by the surging tides.
He seeks to keep his study pure, yet finds himself caught in a game of frost and intrigue.
His music is too lofty to find an audience; alone, he faces yellowed pages.
Lin Chuan was an ordinary librarian until one day he transmigrated into the body of the ninth prince of Dali.
With no military power and no backers, his only support in this treacherous whirlpool of imperial power was his vast store of knowledge and his deep understanding of the art of statecraft.
While his eight brothers fought tooth and nail for the throne, he followed the strategy of “building strong walls, stockpiling grain, and claiming the throne only when the time is right.” He then strengthened the military, steadily expanded his territory, provided relief through public works, and built water conservancy projects, turning thousands of miles of grassland into fertile fields.
Starting with a desolate frontier city of a thousand people, he took only three years to usher in a glorious age that brought all nations to pay tribute. When his brothers tried to claim a share of the spoils, Lin Chuan used cannons to cook them a thick soup of flesh and blood.
I feel so useless, so powerless, being bullied and beaten casually, and written in such a lighthearted way.