In his previous life, Zhang Cheng was a librarian. He spent every day among yellowing classics and silent bookshelves, and his life was as bland as a glass of water.
A strange bolt of lightning turned him into someone else: the orphaned son of Marshal Zhang of the Great Liang Dynasty, a two-year-old boy abandoned to fend for himself in a corner of the imperial palace. His parents died on the battlefield. Out of gratitude for past favors, the emperor adopted him, but did nothing more than toss him into a remote courtyard with a maid and two taels of silver a month, then forget all about him.
He could put up with all that. The one thing he couldn’t stand was that the food in this world tasted like pig slop.
The millet porridge was sour and stank, and somehow turned out worse than pig feed in the countryside. Iron tools snapped with the slightest bend, and you couldn’t find a decent door latch anywhere. There were no potatoes, no sweet potatoes, no soy sauce, and even the salt was bitter. Civilization here was more backward than anything he’d read about in the history books of his previous life.
Fortunately, he still had a whole library in his head. Hundreds of thousands of books, covering everything from agriculture and metallurgy to cooking and military strategy, were waiting quietly for him to browse.
He’d planned to be a lazy fish in the palace, saving money bit by bit and gradually improving his life, then figuring out what to do once he was grown. But someone just wouldn’t let him have any peace. The aroma of chicken and soybeans simmering in a pot drifted out and drew a crowd of distinguished, unwelcome guests.
They refused to leave Qiwuyuan.
And the bigger trouble was still to come.
Come on, come on, go, go, go, go, go