If the Emperor’s Surname Is Song, Then I Can Be Emperor Too

Song Jiang, a burned-out office worker who died from overwork, opened his eyes to find himself in the body of Song Jiang, the hapless leader of Liangshan Marsh, known as Timely Rain.

He had barely arrived and hadn't even warmed his seat when Wu Song blocked his way in front of more than a hundred heroes. “Song Jiang, what the hell is wrong with you? You're going to trade our lives for your official hat?”

Song Jiang looked down: a black robe, a jade thumb ring, and a tiger-skin chair. It was over. He'd transmigrated into that hypocrite who spouted loyalty and righteousness while dyeing his robe red with his brothers' blood.

Wu Song's patience was almost gone, and all 107 heroes in the Hall of Loyalty and Righteousness were watching Song Jiang, waiting for his response. Song Jiang took a deep breath and tore the original Song Jiang's script to shreds.

“Amnesty? What the hell do we need amnesty for?” He smashed his wine bowl on the ground. “The emperor's surname is Zhao, and mine is Song. If he can sit on the throne, why can't I? From today on, Liangshan will neither seek amnesty nor surrender. Brothers, follow me to conquer the realm. Once we've won it, we'll rule it ourselves!”

The hall erupted.

Wu Yong's feather fan fell to the floor, and he forgot to pick it up. Lu Junyi spilled wine all over himself without noticing. Tears and snot streaked Li Kui's dark face as he clung to Song Jiang's leg and bawled, “Brother! I've waited eight years to hear you say that!”

From Liangshan Marsh to Bianliang, from 108 heroes to an army of a hundred thousand. They seized Shandong, pacified Tian Hu, crushed Wang Qing, and brought Fang La to heel. These people, whom the court had branded as bandits, carved out an imperial path through sheer force.