On the first day I transmigrated into the body of cannon fodder under Zhu Wen, they shoved me onto the city wall to serve as a human ladder.
As boiling oil poured down from the battlements, I used The Art of War to shield half my face, only to hear the squad leader sneer, “You bookworm, do you think a book can stop a blade?”
Seven years later, with Zhu Wen surrounded beneath Bianliang's walls, I saved the whole army by proposing a strategy of retreating to advance.
He clapped me on my bloodstained shoulder. “Kid, you're devious! You're ruthless! Come into my tent!”
Over the next ten years, I slaughtered cities, offered up poisonous schemes, and climbed to power over the corpses of my benefactors.
At my coronation, envoys from every nation knelt before me. I ran my fingers over the scar on my face, burned there by a page of a book.
“In this chaotic age, benevolence and righteousness are a death warrant. Ruthlessness is the ladder to heaven.”
--- (The main story is written in third person.)
