“You…” Chu Yingao’s face flushed instantly, as if imagining something odd. Her fair hands gripped her skirt tightly, and she said softly, “The sage speaks of a gentleman’s love for beauty, not lust. How dare you twist sacred words? Use your wit wisely.”
“Miss Chu, you’re my academy peer, not my betrothed. Aren’t you overstepping a bit?” Ji Yanqing said, meeting her narrow phoenix eyes calmly.
At his words, the white-skirted girl parted her lips, wanting to retort but staying silent, her hands resting on her slender waist.
“The evening roll call master’s here. I’ll report first,” Ji Yanqing said, rising and strolling toward the master at the door.
Unlike the Martial College, the Civil College’s roll calls were lax. Even if caught, newly appointed Hanlin editors wouldn’t dare whip the palms of noble daughters—it’d ruin their careers.
But Ji Yanqing wasn’t an ordinary student, and his roll call wasn’t checked by a Hanlin editor but by a Spy Agency eunuch.
Earlier, caught skipping classes, Superintendent Wang had shown up that night with shadow guards, turning his residence upside down.
Wang, claiming concern for Ji Yanqing’s safety, stationed six Radiant Sun Realm cultivators across from the Heir’s mansion to “protect” him around the clock—spying, more like.
Ji Yanqing really thanked him (gritting his teeth).
In his past life, he punched a clock at work. Reborn as the Wei King’s Heir, he still had to be checked by the Spy Agency at the academy. Was his rebirth for nothing?
After the evening roll call, Ji Yanqing returned, pondering whether to hit Xiaoxiang Pavilion for wine, lose money at a gambling den, or harass a girl on the street…
Life as a wastrel in Chang’an was always eventful.
The Civil College taught General Strategies, which he’d mastered as a teen. No need to waste time.
The world of Canglan Goddess Chronicles mirrored ancient China: commoners worked sunrise to sunset, with scant entertainment.
For Ji Yanqing, martial cultivation, the only novelty, was thwarted by his abysmal aptitude.
Thus, young Ji Yanqing’s entertainment was reading the Wei King’s library. Though Ji Yang was a thug, to woo Xiao Yao, he carried books even on campaigns, amassing a vast collection.
By Ji Yanqing’s birth, the mansion’s non-martial texts rivaled some Hanlin editors’ libraries. He read them all in three or four years.
His essay skills, while not scholar-level, could pass a county exam, maybe even a provincial one with luck.
Competing with girls just learning General Strategies felt like bullying.
Luckily, his wastrel persona was… rather anti-intellectual. For assessments, he’d pen My Vassal King Father—sure to earn high praise.
As the Hanlin editor’s figure faded, Ji Yanqing stood to leave, but his glance caught a poem on the desk.
A quatrain about a girl’s budding love, with neat rhymes and elegant diction, showing keen talent.
That alone was fine, but the signature read: Su Ningyue, composed for Qi Shu in winter of Gengxu, sent to Imperial Academy student Chu Yingao, with heartfelt sincerity, hoping for her guidance.
Instantly, Ji Yanqing’s mind buzzed, freezing him in place. His current fiancée knew his former fiancée, and they seemed quite close.
In the original story, main or side quests, Su Ningyue and Chu Yingao were mere acquaintances. Besides, Su hadn’t yet visited the academy. How did they meet?
Ji Yanqing racked his brain, baffled.
“What are you looking at?” Chu Yingao asked, frowning, sensing his change.
Snapping back, Ji Yanqing said casually, “Nice poem, full of emotion and sharp wit.”
Even this offhand remark clashed with his usual wastrel image before Chu Yingao.
A crude man spouting filth suddenly waxing poetic, even formulaically, would raise suspicions.
“You know poetry?” she asked, surprised.
“Barely,” Ji Yanqing said quickly. “I picked up a couple lines flirting with courtesans at Xiaoxiang Pavilion—crude, rogue verses, nothing refined.”
He panicked, fearing she’d think he liked poetry, desperate to leave.
Before he took a few steps, Chu Yingao, poised and dignified, called out, “Knowing poetry beats being utterly unlearned.”
Tucking a stray strand of hair, she said softly, “This poem’s from a Ye City friend. She loves a man named Qi Shu but doesn’t know how to confess, so she wrote asking my advice.”
Her voice was like a fairy bathed in snow, clear and cold.
“I see. Wishing your friend a heavenly match and early heirs,” Ji Yanqing said sincerely, his delicate peach-blossom eyes captivating under the lamplight.
“I thank you for her,” Chu Yingao replied softly. She admitted the Heir’s beauty was calamitous, but appearances deceived—some were gilded shells, rotten within.
Still, she’d thank him for Ningyue’s sake.
“When did you meet this Ye City friend?” Ji Yanqing asked, curious.
White Deer Hall fell silent, a pin’s drop audible. Chu Yingao’s expression froze, her phoenix eyes icy. “You’re not my fiancé. It’s none of your business,” she said coldly.
She regretted mentioning Ningyue, fearing this beast would target her delicate friend. With Ningyue’s stunning beauty, Ji Yanqing might commit unspeakable acts.
She’d never let him succeed!