Wen Tian hadn’t expected to run into Wen Zeming here—let alone that the boy would dare show his face in Sifang Town.
In his past life, Wen Tian had always assumed that Wen Zeming and his mother had hidden away in some monastery, only returning after Wen Boli’s promotion made it safe.
Turns out he had overthought things.
The boy had been out and about all along.
Wen Tian had just never run into him before, likely because he hadn’t attended the blossom-viewing banquet in his previous life, nor had he gone out with Li Qingnian much.
So the encounter had simply never happened.
Now, as Wen Tian’s cold gaze fell on Wen Zeming, he found it difficult to hide his disgust.
Wen Zeming was only two months older than him, but with his height and the refined features he’d inherited from Wen Boli, he looked several years older—more poised, more mature.
Noticing the stare, Wen Zeming looked up and met Wen Tian’s eyes. He froze, then offered a polite bow and a gentle smile.
Wen Tian narrowed his eyes, gave him a disgusted once-over, and turned away without even the courtesy of a nod.
Wen Zeming’s smile stiffened. He quickly lowered his head and sipped his tea to cover the awkwardness. He’d come here with one of the young masters hosting the banquet.
Currently studying at a private academy in Lehe Town, Wen Zeming had been invited along by an old classmate he’d run into by chance—an invitation to mingle, network, and gain exposure.
Naturally, he’d accepted. His father had always taught him that connections were power. He took that to heart, emulating his father’s smooth diplomacy and public grace. It was a skill he worked hard to perfect.
And besides—Wen Tian was in Sifang Town.
He had always been curious about this younger brother of his, the one raised in wealth and luxury.
After spending years in a nameless corner of a temple with his mother—shunned, snubbed, and looked down on for his illegitimate birth—how could he not feel resentment?
Of course he did. But he was good at hiding it. He studied hard, dreamed big.
He wanted nothing more than for his mother to enter the Wen household with her head held high—and for himself to be acknowledged as the Wen family’s legitimate eldest son, not just some bastard left to fend for himself.
His gaze swept the guests, trying to identify which one was Wen Tian. There were over a dozen people at the gathering, and he couldn’t be sure yet. So he waited.
From the moment Wen Tian spotted Wen Zeming, his mood soured. Li Qingnian noticed the shift in his expression and leaned over.
“You okay, Youling?”
Wen Tian sat ramrod straight, a scowl etched on his face.
“Just saw someone I can’t stand.”
“Who?” Li Qingnian glanced around, frowning.
“Want me to kick them out?” This whole banquet had been his idea—throwing someone out would be easy.
“No need.” Wen Tian’s eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a thin line.
“I’ll handle it myself.”
Li Qingnian nodded obediently. Seeing Wen Tian’s small frame, he added, “If you’re gonna fight, call me. I’ll help you beat him up.”
He might not be good at everything, but when it came to throwing punches, he’d never lost a match. His sheer weight alone could crush someone flat.
Wen Tian couldn’t help but chuckle, his expression easing a little. This wasn’t the past life. Wen Boli wasn’t an official yet, and Wen Zeming was just another brat his age.
He’d lived one lifetime more—what was there to be afraid of?
With his head clear, Wen Tian lounged back lazily and started picking at the fruit.
The low tables were arranged in a circle, the center covered with scattered peach blossom petals. Li Qingnian had even hired dancers to liven things up.
The sultry songs and sinuous dancing were far more decadent than anything Wen Tian had experienced before.
Sipping slowly from his cup, Wen Tian paid no mind to the performance. His thoughts were occupied with how best to deal with Wen Zeming.
In his past life, after Wen Zeming and his mother had been brought back into the household, his own mother had entered a cold war with Wen Boli.
It ended in divorce. During that tense period, Wen Boli had housed them in the manor. Bai Ruihe, the mother, always played the delicate, demure type.
Wen Zeming followed her lead—always courteous, always smiling softly.
After the divorce, whispers spread through the gentry: that Wen Tian’s mother had been too narrow-minded, too jealous, unable to tolerate even the most obedient concubine and her mild-mannered son.
But they’d all conveniently forgotten that this manor originally belonged to the Fu family. Wen Boli was the son-in-law, a guest under the roof.
Without the Fu family’s backing, he’d still be a penniless scholar who couldn’t even afford an exam fee.
Wen Tian downed his drink in one go and sat up straight.
Since he’d already been unfairly painted as the villain in his past life, he figured—why not embrace it this time and play the spoiled, unreasonable brat to the hilt?
The dance ended. The women passed through the crowd offering snacks and wine. One particularly flirtatious dancer winked at Wen Tian as she passed.
He returned a polite smile and promptly looked away, continuing to drink.
Li Qingnian stood and raised his cup.
“Alright, next up—the game!”
It was a flower-viewing party, after all. Something floral-themed was only fitting. Most of the guests were idle young masters, but even they fancied themselves a bit of poetic flair.
Li Qingnian suggested a game of “passing the blossom.” The rules were simple: as the drumbeat played, the peach branch would be passed around.
When the music stopped, whoever held the branch had to recite a poem with the word “flower” in it. If they couldn’t compose one, quoting the classics was allowed.
If they still failed, they had to drink.
Everyone clapped in approval. A large drum was brought out.
The most alluring dancer entered barefoot, holding twin drumsticks, her every movement graceful and mesmerizing.
Li Qingnian held the freshly broken peach blossom branch and passed it to Wen Tian when the drum began to beat.
Wen Tian passed it to Zhou Chuanqing, and the game began in earnest. The music thudded and stopped—Zhang family’s young master ended up holding the branch.
He cobbled together a rough poem. Not elegant, but it met the rules. The dancer’s eyes shimmered, and the game resumed.
After two rounds, the blossom landed in Wen Tian’s hands again. Not being one for poetry, he quoted a line from an old verse:
“Thousand-petal peach blooms outshine all flowers, A lonely beauty that holds spring still in her years.”
Wen Zeming, watching from across the circle, finally realized the boy he’d noticed earlier was Wen Tian. His expression soured. A pretty face, but not even capable of writing a poem himself? What a joke.
Sensing the gaze, Wen Tian turned and spotted Wen Zeming. His brows immediately furrowed. Then, as if he’d just seen something filthy, he turned away in open contempt.
“You’ve offended Wen gongzi before?” a friend whispered to Wen Zeming.
Wen Zeming shook his head bitterly, taking a sip of wine.
“This is the first time we’ve met. Maybe I offended his noble eyes just by existing as a commoner.”
His self-deprecating tone drew sympathy. His classmate knew Wen Zeming came from humble beginnings but also knew the boy’s talent was genuine—even praised by their teacher.
He wanted to help him network. This was the perfect chance.
When Wen Zeming finally received the flower branch, he composed an original line on the spot and won applause. Seizing the moment, his friend stood and introduced him:
“This is my classmate, Wen Zeming—our academy’s top candidate for the imperial exams!”
“You flatter me,” Wen Zeming said humbly, rising and offering a toast.
“I merely study a little harder than most.”
Most of the guests were typical idle youths, not particularly bookish. So a true scholar among them was rare—and welcome.
After making the rounds, Wen Zeming was nudged toward Wen Tian.
Wen Tian swirled his wine lazily, clearly disinterested.
“Hey, you’re both surnamed Wen,” Zheng Bosheng joked, “Maybe you’re family.”
The lazy indifference drained from Wen Tian’s face, replaced by scorn.
He glanced at Wen Zeming and said coldly, “There’s no one like him in the Wen family.”
Awkward silence fell. Wen Zeming clenched his cup and forced a smile.
“Did I offend you somehow, gongzi? Or is it just that someone of humble birth offends your eyes?”
He had used this line many times. Since hiding his background was impossible, he’d turned it into a weapon—presenting himself as a proud, self-made man.
Most nobles hated being called out, so they’d back off when he took the high road.
He expected Wen Tian to follow that pattern.
Instead, Wen Tian lifted his chin and said with icy clarity:
“It’s not that I look down on the poor. I just look down on you.”
Wen Zeming’s face flushed crimson.
“You—!”
Wen Tian cut him off. “Isn’t it exhausting, all this fake humility? We both know you’re here to climb the social ladder.”
“Why pretend to be noble? If you’d just admitted it and asked for help, I might’ve actually respected you.”
Zheng Bosheng opened his mouth to intervene, but Li Qingnian grabbed him and whispered sharply, “Don’t be someone’s scapegoat.”
Li Qingnian might’ve looked dopey, but he wasn’t stupid.
He’d seen plenty of wolves in silk robes, and Wen Zeming fit the mold—except he wasn’t very good at hiding it. One jab from Wen Tian, and the mask cracked.
Watching Wen Zeming’s pale, mottled face, Wen Tian felt a little better. He took a long sip of wine, then raised a brow.
“You’re still here? What, actually hoping I’ll help you?”
Lounging back, he casually dropped his cup onto the dusty ground and pointed at it. His voice was all lazy mockery.
“Pick it up. Do that, and maybe I’ll let you be my page boy.”