Wen Tian closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath to steady the violent storm brewing in his chest.
“Come with me,” he said quietly.
In his past life, he had visited Lehe Town several times and was fairly familiar with the area. Carrying the unconscious man over his shoulder, he circled around to the back of Willow Alley.
There, he instructed one of the burly men to fetch the madam of the brothel, and sent the other to a nearby apothecary to buy a vial of “Golden Wind Powder.”
Shops near brothels often sold aphrodisiacs, and Golden Wind Powder was one of the strongest among them.
The man returned quickly with the vial. Wen Tian uncorked it, grabbed Jiao Changxian’s jaw, and poured the entire bottle down his throat.
Then, just to be sure, he forced some wine into the man’s mouth to ensure the drug went down properly.
No sooner had he finished than the madam sashayed over, fanning herself with exaggerated grace.
Her eyes scanned the group, lingering with a smile. “Looking for some company tonight, gentlemen?”
Wen Tian nodded and slipped a silver ingot into her hand. “We’ll need a room. And bring a few girls.”
“Right this way,” she purred, eyes darting to the slumped figure of Jiao Changxian.
The man’s face was hidden by the way he was propped up, and the madam, catching sight of the silver, offered no questions—just an oily smile as she led them upstairs.
On the second floor, a private room was prepared. The madam returned with a row of decent-looking girls and had them line up for Wen Tian to choose.
He casually pointed at four. “You stay. The rest can go.”
Jiao Changxian had already been thrown onto the bed. The drug was clearly taking effect—there were already muffled sounds behind the red curtains.
Wen Tian placed two more silver ingots on the table. “Take care of him.”
The girls stepped forward, pocketed the reward, and answered sweetly before gliding into the inner room.
“Master Jiao?” one of them exclaimed, startled. They clearly recognized him—he must’ve been a regular.
After a few flustered gasps came the sound of shuffling, bodies colliding, and eventually the heavy thud of someone falling onto the bed.
Wen Tian remained outside, still and watchful. It wasn’t long before lewd noises began to rise from the room.
The three strongmen swallowed hard, eyes darting toward the door. Wen Tian waited just a little longer, ensuring everything was going according to plan, then slipped away quietly with the others.
A full vial of Golden Wind Powder would keep Jiao Changxian entangled for a whole day and night.
By the time the Jiao family noticed he was missing, and found him in a brothel of all places, the marriage would be completely ruined.
Back at the pier, the old fisherman was indeed waiting. They boarded the boat and, under the veil of moonlight, silently returned to Sifang Town.
As agreed, Wen Tian paid the remaining silver to the three men—and then, after a moment’s thought, added another ten taels. “Tonight’s events—less said, the better. Do this well, and I’ll call on you again.”
Thirty taels in one night—split three ways, that was still ten each. More than enough for a stretch of good living.
The leader took the silver with newfound respect. “Don’t worry, sir. We won’t breathe a word.”
Wen Tian nodded. Like when he came, he hunched his shoulders slightly, stuffed his hands into his sleeves, and disappeared slowly into the shadows.
It was deep into the night when he reached the Wen household’s side gate, only to find it already locked.
He glanced at the wall, tossed aside his conical hat, and found a foothold to climb.
The wall wasn’t tall, but the uneven tiles dug into his soft palms. Wen Tian had been pampered since birth, his skin far more delicate than most.
Even years of hardship in his previous life hadn’t completely stripped away his fragility—he’d only learned to endure it better.
This current body hadn’t suffered a day. One slip of the hand on a jagged tile edge, and a deep gash split across his palm.
Crimson blood welled up instantly, the pain sharp and biting.
Gritting his teeth, Wen Tian jumped down from the wall, tore the cloth from around his neck, and quickly wrapped his bleeding hand before dashing back to his courtyard.
Daifu, the servant, was dozing by the door. Wen Tian softened his steps, quietly slipping past and into his room.
There was no time to treat the wound properly. He rushed to change out of his clothes, removed the long-life charm from his neck, and tied up his hair in front of the mirror.
Aside from his reddened eyes—which looked like he’d been crying—everything else was as it had been before he left.
He exhaled slightly in relief. Only then did he sit down to deal with the cloth around his hand.
It had soaked through with blood and stuck to the wound. Peeling it off made his eyes water.
Biting his lip to stifle the pain, he wiped the blood away, then called out in a shaky voice, “Daifu, come in.”
The half-asleep Daifu jumped up, startled. Seeing Wen Tian’s hand, his voice cracked with worry.
“Young Master! What happened to your hand!?”
Wen Tian winced. “Go get me a basin of hot water—and don’t wake anyone else.”
Daifu instantly clamped a hand over his own mouth and nodded, then bolted toward the kitchen like a rabbit. Luckily, there was still hot water on the stove.
Wen Tian cleaned the wound, gritting his teeth the entire time, and had Daifu bandage it properly.
Only then did he sniffle, compose himself, and ask, “Mother and…” He paused. “…and Father—have they gone to bed?”
Daifu gently blew on his injured hand before suddenly remembering something.
His face paled. “Sir! The Master and Madam are still waiting for you! They said once you return, you’re to report to the main hall!”
Wen Tian had expected that. He splashed cold water on his face to reduce the redness in his eyes, picked up the blood-stained long-life charm to clean it—only to find it spotless, without a trace of blood.
Startled, he stared, turning the charm over and over in his palm.
Including his past life, he’d worn this charm for thirty years. It was strange—of all the treasures in the Fu family, it was this unassuming trinket that was passed down only to the firstborn son.
With no male heirs in his mother’s generation, it had come to him.
Puzzled, Wen Tian set the thought aside and headed to the main hall with Daifu.
The lights were still blazing when he arrived. Through the paper windows, he could faintly see two silhouettes inside.
He lowered his gaze, composed himself, and stepped inside.
Madam Fu had been anxious all evening. She thought he would be home by dinner, but even after the gates were locked for the night, he was nowhere to be seen.
Frantic, she’d sent servants to look, but no one had any idea where Wen Tian had gone.
The moment she saw him, she rushed over and gave him a light slap on the arm, half-angry and half-relieved.
“Where have you been? Why are you only just getting back?”
Then she noticed the bandage on his hand and immediately grabbed it. “What happened!?”
Wen Tian flinched and pulled his hand back, hiding it behind him. “I tripped and scraped my hand. It’s nothing serious.”
“Tomorrow is your sister’s wedding,” came the stern voice of Wen Boli, sitting at the head of the room.
“You’re out carousing this late? What will people think if word gets out?”
Wen Tian’s body trembled slightly. He lifted his eyes slowly, fixing them on his father.
Wen Boli, in his simple robes and jade crown, always looked the picture of a refined gentleman. Even now, scolding his son, he didn’t seem the least bit intimidating.
To the people of Sifang Town, he was a paragon of virtue—modest, gentle, a man of letters.
But to Wen Tian, who had lived a whole lifetime, the image was laughably fake.
He stared straight into his father’s eyes and asked softly, “Are you worried about me… or about the Wen family’s reputation?”
Wen Boli was stunned. He stared in disbelief. Wen Tian had always been obedient and gentle, trusting and respectful toward his father. Never had he expected a question like that.
His face twisted in disbelief and fury. “What nonsense! Is that how you see your father?!”
Madam Fu quickly stepped in. “Enough from you.”
She pulled Wen Tian aside and touched his pale face and red eyes, her heart aching. “Your father’s just worried about you. If you’re ever late again, at least send word.”
She patted his back and urged him toward the door. “Get some rest. Daifu, bring the lantern.”
Wen Tian followed quietly. As he turned back at the door, he caught Wen Boli frowning deeply, his face tight with displeasure as he stared at his wife’s back.
Sensing Wen Tian’s gaze, the man’s face froze. He forced a strained smile, putting on the act of a caring father. “Get some sleep.”
Wen Tian dug his nails into his injured palm to hold back his anger. Now wasn’t the time. Straightening his spine, he walked away step by step.
Back in his room, Daifu helped him wash up and change. Wen Tian curled up under the blankets, and Daifu blew out the candles, retreating to the outer room.
Once the footsteps faded, a soft whimper broke the darkness. Wen Tian bit the edge of his blanket, tears soaking his face.
Memories from his previous life flashed through his mind like a spinning lantern—loss, helplessness, the bitter joy of having another chance.
He’d kept his composure during the day, but now, alone in the silence, the grief came crashing down.
Especially after seeing the man he hated most.
He had never understood how someone could wear a mask for so long.
He still remembered the twisted anger on his father’s face when they finally confronted each other in his last life—so at odds with his usual gentleness, like a monster hiding behind a cultured mask.
The memory still made his skin crawl.
He cried for a long time. And as the emotion ebbed, Wen Tian began carefully laying out his plans.
He had no special talents—only the advantage of a second life. If he wanted to change his fate, he had to be cautious, calculated.
He mentally reviewed his plans again, checking every detail, then finally drifted into uneasy sleep.
The next day, even before dawn, the courtyard buzzed with activity.
Daifu brought in water and called him to wake up. As the bride’s maternal uncle, Wen Tian had to attend the wedding procession, dressed in formal attire.
After washing, Daifu helped him into ceremonial robes: deep red silk embroidered with golden patterns, black brocade trim—festive yet dignified.
He fixed Wen Tian’s hair with a red coral crown and smiled. “You look amazing, Young Master. If you walk through town, the young ladies will be throwing flowers at your feet.”
Wen Tian stood before the mirror, expression unreadable.
In Great Chu, beauty was admired by all, regardless of gender. A handsome face drew endless adoration.
But water that carried a boat could also drown it—what brought praise in prosperity could bring disaster in hardship.
In his last life, his looks nearly led to ruin. It was only because his mother had the heart to scar his face that he survived at all.
“Let’s go,” he said, turning away.
Wen Shuyue’s courtyard was a bustle of activity. Madam Fu and the steward were tallying up the dowry, checking and loading trunk after trunk onto carts.
Spotting Wen Tian, she handed the ledger to the steward and pulled him aside to check his hand.
The wound stretched across his palm, deep but clean. It had stopped bleeding overnight, and Daifu had wrapped it with red cloth to blend in with his sleeves.
Satisfied, Madam Fu turned to the next task—preparing for the bride escort.
Lehe Town was adjacent to Sifang, but with the full procession of carriages and horses, it would still take over two hours.
The groom’s party was due at dawn—but with only moments left until then, no word had come.
Madam Fu looked uneasy. “Could something have gone wrong on the road?”
Wen Tian pressed his lips together to hide a smirk. Whether the Jiao family had even found their missing groom was still a question.
But aloud, he said gently, “Maybe they were just late setting off. Let’s wait a bit longer.”
Madam Fu nodded, rubbing her right eye nervously. Her eyelid had been twitching all morning.