January, the third year of the Qingli era.
Zhao Xin sat on a small round stool specially made for him, watching the heavy snow fluttering down outside through a crack in the window.
This was his second year in this era, and the second time he had seen such a massive snowfall.
The outside world was a vast expanse of white, where heaven and earth seemed to meet at some distant point.
However, such majestic scenery was fleeting. Before even half a cup of tea’s time had passed, a woman’s scolding voice rang out from within the room: “Huirou, you’re up to your tricks the moment I look away. I told you it’s been freezing lately and Zui Xing Lai is frail; don’t pass the chill onto him.”
Immediately afterward, a young girl, as beautiful as if carved from jade, stuck out her tongue in frustration. With great effort, she used both hands to shut the heavy window tight.
She then waved away the support of the attending eunuch. Clenching her fists in front of her chest, she gave herself a little pep talk before jumping down from her chair with a thud, ignoring the eunuch’s terrified gaze.
Raising her voice, the girl said, “Sister, I didn’t pass any chill to Zui Xing Lai! If you don’t believe me, ask him!”
As she spoke, she reached out her small hands, which were flushed red from the cold, intending to pinch and rub Zhao Xin’s cheeks.
Zhao Xin could only watch helplessly as those wicked hands drew closer. His attempt to dodge was practically non-existent.
Fortunately, his savior arrived just in time, slapping the girl’s hand away and pulling Zhao Xin into her embrace.
Huirou piteously clutched the back of her hand and cried, “Sister, it hurts.”
The newcomer showed no mercy, her willow-leaf brows arching slightly as she scolded, “It serves you right.”
She then felt the layers of Zhao Xin’s clothing and checked the temperature of his face and hands before finally relaxing.
Huirou watched with envy, but there was nothing she could do, so she pouted as hard as she could to show her displeasure.
The newcomer ignored her, adjusting Zhao Xin’s small mink-fur cap and Nagging tirelessly, “Zui Xing Lai, from now on, don’t follow your eldest sister in her wild antics, do you hear? You have a weak constitution.”
Zui Xing Lai was the childhood nickname of the body Zhao Xin now occupied. Only family members who were very close would call him that.
As for those currently addressing him this way, they were his biological mother, Consort Miao, and his elder sister, Princess Fukang Zhao Huirou.
However, according to the etiquette of the time, he—like Huirou—had to call his biological mother, Consort Miao, “Sister,” and then call his actual elder sister, Huirou, “Eldest Sister.”
Every time he thought about the Song Dynasty’s naming conventions, which were completely contrary to his habits, Zhao Xin felt a massive headache coming on.
It had taken him a long time to finally adapt to the local customs.
Indeed, Zhao Xin was not a native of this world.
He was originally a model youth of the new generation, born under the red flag and raised in the spring breeze. After graduating from higher education and surviving the cutthroat competition to enter the civil service, he had squeezed himself into the “fortress” of a stable career.
In the end, before his “iron rice bowl” could even get warm, he had said goodbye to the world during a flood relief operation.
When he opened his eyes again, he found himself a toddler barely three heads tall. His living environment was classic and elegant, clearly that of a wealthy and noble family.
As a young man well-versed in web novels, Zhao Xin quickly processed his thoughts and accepted the fact of his transmigration.
With the mindset of “making the best of where I am,” he intended to start from scratch and begin a brand new life.
After all, the status possessed by this body seemed quite high. Usually, having a massive retinue following his every step was standard procedure—it was a perfect setup for a life of decadent luxury.
By simply letting himself go, he had even successfully awakened the “transmigration starter pack”—the System.
However, nothing in this world is ever perfect…
Consort Miao carefully held Zhao Xin in her arms, but spoke casually to Huirou, who was standing to the side: “Follow us, it’s time to eat.”
A child’s heart is sensitive, especially fearing inequality. Huirou gritted her teeth at Zhao Xin, who sat wooden-faced in Consort Miao’s arms.
Zhao Xin acted as if he hadn’t seen a thing.
He had seen similar expressions many times over the past two years.
Yet this sister of his, let alone bullying him in secret, had never even uttered a harsh word to him.
On the contrary, she often watched the servants attending him, fearing they might neglect him due to his reputation for being “dim-witted.”
Zhao Xin was certainly not stupid. As a temporal stowaway, although he had successfully exploited a loophole to obtain a new identity and live again, the body had experienced a Rejection Reaction, which directly imposed a two-year Sealing Period on him.
During these two years, all his speech and movements suffered from extreme latency.
The phrase “A word in the mind yesterday, reaching the lips only today” was a literal reality for him.
In the eyes of others, he was a bona fide fool.
Had his new identity not been that of a prince, he probably would have been thrown into a river to drown long ago to save the family some food, or kept hidden away in an outer residence.
And his father was that very emperor known to posterity as Emperor Renzong of Song—the man who commanded a “dream team” of literary giants from the textbooks and held a hand full of “SSR-rank” officials, yet managed to play out a muddled conclusion.
For Zhao Xin, however, his imperial father was currently nothing more than impressive data on paper; he couldn’t borrow even a shred of his power.
After all, two years ago, the imperial physicians had judged that his brain had been damaged by high fever. They claimed he had essentially no chance of recovery and could only remain a simpleton for the rest of his life.
The four-word evaluation of “idiotic and simple-minded” was enough to sever his connection to the throne.
In Zhao Xin’s view, the only fatherly affection Zhao Zhen currently showed him was a year ago, when he raised his title from Duke of Shou to Prince of Yu, giving him a much larger annual stipend.
However, as a four-and-a-half-year-old (six by the traditional counting method), he couldn’t get his hands on it. Heaven only knows which storehouse it was locked in.
Tucked in Consort Miao’s arms, Zhao Xin felt incredibly at peace.
He then silently called out to the System in his mind. Instantly, a crystal-blue screen that only he could see floated before his eyes.
At this stage, all functional modules were locked. At the very top was a row of ticking numbers: “Countdown: 000 days: 00 hours: 30 minutes: 21 seconds.”
Zhao Xin withdrew the System with satisfaction. He then laboriously turned his head, shifted his gaze toward Huirou, and twitched the corners of his mouth into a “friendly” smile.
Just you wait. Once the Rejection Reaction ends, I’ll be sure to give you a proper ‘gift,’ Eldest Sister.
Seeing Zhao Xin’s smile, Huirou felt a bad premonition rise in her heart. She was about to complain, but they had already reached the dining table, so she could only sit down and eat obediently.
During the meal, she glanced at Zhao Xin several times. Seeing him still in his usual wooden and dazed state, she finally relaxed.
As usual, Zhao Xin was personally fed by the soft-hearted Consort Miao.
Zhao Xin ate very slowly, but Consort Miao showed no impatience, often offering words of encouragement.
Her eyes curved like crescents, and the small dimples on her cheeks seemed to hold honey; it was very easy to feel fond of her.
However, halfway through the meal, Consort Miao’s personal maid, named Sixi, hurried in and whispered something into Consort Miao’s ear.
Consort Miao’s expression changed slightly. She immediately turned to Huirou, whose eyes were flickering with curiosity, and said, “Eat quickly. The table will be cleared in a moment.”
Huirou was a genuine child and deeply trusted her mother, Consort Miao. Hearing this, she immediately put her curiosity aside and sped up her eating.
Zhao Xin, who had heard everything, began to calculate in his mind.
The news Sixi brought was not very surprising; it was even expected.
His third brother—though according to the customs of the time, he should be called “Third Brother”—Zhao Xi had passed away from illness half an hour ago.
Based on what Zhao Xin had heard from the gossiping palace servants previously, this third brother of his had been intermittently ill since the beginning of winter. The imperial physicians had prescribed many formulas, but none had helped.
Yesterday, he had even been granted the titles of Acting Grand Preceptor, Military Governor of Wuxin, and Concurrent Chancellor, with the peerage of Prince of E.
This was a case of “treating a dead horse as if it were alive,” an attempt to bring good luck and ward off illness.
Even if it couldn’t succeed like Zhao Xin’s case and summon a soul from another world, it would at least raise the specifications of the funeral rites.
Although infant mortality was perfectly normal given the medical technology of the time, the biggest problem was that Zhao Xin’s family actually had an imperial throne to inherit!
Furthermore, having a male heir was a rigid requirement of this era.
With the eldest brother Zhao Yang having died young and Zhao Xin’s reputation for being dim-witted known throughout the court and the commonality, Zhao Xi had been the default heir to the massive empire since the moment he was born.
Now that Zhao Xi had also passed away, his father, Zhao Zhen, was once again stuck in the situation of having “no sons.”
Don’t argue that he still had a son in Zhao Xin, because the ministers of the outer court would not recognize him.
After all, with Emperor Hui of Jin and his “Why don’t they eat meat porridge?” as a historical precedent, no one could bear the risk of letting a prince with a reputation for idiocy like Zhao Xin succeed the throne.
Therefore, it was foreseeable that the ministers of the outer court would inevitably bring up the matter of appointing an adopted heir again.
To the ministers, this was merely insurance for their own careers.
But to an emperor, there was a world of difference between passing the throne to his own son versus an adopted one.
Li Longji had granted grand titles to Wu Zetian, who had nearly wiped out the Li-Tang imperial family.
Yet Emperor Yingzong had stirred up the “Puyi” controversy at the very beginning of his reign, wanting to wipe the slate clean and refuse to recognize his adoptive ties.
Thus, as long as there was a choice, emperors of all dynasties would prefer to pass the throne to their biological sons.
The news Sixi brought also included the fact that his father, Zhao Zhen, had sat dazed by Zhao Xi’s bedside for a long time. Finally, reminded by Empress Cao, he had remembered his “available” son, Zhao Xin, and was preparing to come for a visit.
Zhao Xin knew that his father, Zhao Zhen, was quite obsessed with having his own son inherit the throne.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been so eager to send the adopted heir back the moment he had a biological son. After several such instances, he had nearly driven the adopted heir to a mental breakdown.
As long as Zhao Xin was alive, he was a bargaining chip for the Emperor to use against the ministers.
The reason the news reached Consort Miao so smoothly and quickly was likely due to a hint from the Emperor’s presence or Kunning Palace.
The purpose was to remind Consort Miao to teach Zhao Xin the rules beforehand so he wouldn’t say anything inappropriate. At the very least, she needed to tidy him up to look clean and pleasing, so as not to provoke the Emperor’s displeasure.
Consort Miao stroked her son’s round head and began her usual, repetitive instructions.
It didn’t matter how much Zhao Xin, the “dim-witted prince” in people’s eyes, could understand or do; her humble and submissive attitude was what mattered.
More importantly, she believed that Zhao Xin would likely remain in this muddled state for the rest of his life. How his future days would go would depend entirely on the Emperor’s favor.
Being ignored was always better than being disliked.
Her greatest wish was for her pair of children to be safe and sound.
Zhao Xin, meanwhile, multi-tasked. He called up his System interface and watched the countdown, which had dropped to 06 minutes and 48 seconds, a trace of resentment rising in his heart.
Compared to the brutal struggles for the throne in other dynasties, the basic “talent” of the Song imperial family was the very rare trait of “dying out.”
It could even be said that most of the time, as long as a prince could survive, he could claim that supreme position for himself.
This damn dog of a System must have deliberately chosen today to unseal!
It perfectly stripped away any attempt he might have made to use his “butterfly wings,” firmly nailing him down as the most legitimate heir to the massive empire.
After this, he only needed to appear slightly smarter and live a little longer, and that chair in the Hall of Purple Radiance would definitely be his.
Zhao Xin didn’t have time to grieve for the death of a half-brother he had only met once. Instead, he pondered the most important task at hand: how to clear his reputation for being dim-witted?
According to his estimates, the Humiliation of Jingkang was only about seventy years away.
He did not want to see the divine land sink and the people suffer.
Absorbed in thought, he was completely unaware that the countdown had ended. His body and mind synchronized; his gaze became agile, capable of projecting more emotion.
It wasn’t until Huirou said in great astonishment, “Zui Xing Lai, what kind of look is that? It’s quite scary.”
Huirou didn’t get to the bottom of it, because the sound of chaotic footsteps was already close at hand.