I Was a Tyrant in the Late Tang Dynasty

The first year of Guangqi, March. Xizong's chariot was driving back from Chengdu, and when it reached Fengxiang Road, the shaft of the chariot broke. Li Ye woke up at the eighteenth age of this body. One second he was a person on a mission in another world, and the next second he was holding half a piece of green-gray jade in his hand, and the sound of a knife cutting into the shaft of the car could be heard in his ears. He remembered a few things: Zhu Wen's name, a severe drought, and a capital move. He couldn't remember other things: the year, the person, the way of death. What's even more terrible is that he remembered that the book he read in his previous life said: This man was killed when he was thirty-eight years old. So he started settling accounts from an empty shell. Eighty-seven people, nineteen days of food, and three cows. A piece of wasteland that no one wanted, behind it was a collapsed kiln. He exchanged a bowl of porridge for a soldier, a canal for the hearts of a county, and a false waistband to fish out the first nail in the palace. He didn't shout slogans or make any gestures. He just wrote down every transaction and paid it back together one day. This world is too rotten: the eunuchs hold the roster of the imperial army, the feudal lords hold the swords, and the officials hold the mouths. He had to separate these three hands one by one first. What he was most afraid of was never not being able to defeat them. It was that one day he looked in the mirror and saw that he looked like them.