Volume One Chapter One A Family of Beasts—I'm Done Serving You!

“Father, did Qin Bao agree to marry Shen Meng?”

“And you have the nerve to ask? You knew perfectly well you were to wed the daughter of Minister Sun, yet you went and got Shen Meng from the brothel pregnant. Now that news has reached the Sun family, you’ve lost your chance at marriage, and I’ve lost all hope of promotion.”

“As long as Qin Bao marries Shen Meng, the matter is settled. It’s no loss for him either—he already has a son, and someone to care for him in old age.”

Qin Bao was roused from sleep by the voices outside. He looked around at the unfamiliar room, confusion in his eyes.

Where am I?

Suddenly, memories crashed into him, so painful he furrowed his brow. Fortunately, the pain faded as quickly as it came, though his face now bore an odd expression.

He had transmigrated.

He had once been a veteran of a special operations unit in China, just returned from a mission at the border. On his way home, he’d fallen asleep, only to awaken as the legitimate eldest son of Qin Sheng, the Marquis of Changping in Liang.

They shared the same name, but the original’s life had been wretched.

Qin Bao’s mother had died in childbirth. Before the mourning period ended, his father married her maid, Madam Wu, and she bore him two sons and two daughters.

With a stepmother came a stepfather’s heart.

From the moment Qin Bao could remember, he had been bullied relentlessly. His stepmother would pinch him when she was upset. His siblings would beat him when they needed to vent.

Qin Sheng brainwashed him, insisting that as the eldest brother, he must yield the best food to his younger siblings, give his fine clothes to his sisters, and if anyone harmed his brothers, he must protect them with his life. Qin Bao could die—his siblings could not be hurt.

All his life, Qin Bao had given and given, made into the family’s beast of burden.

No, not even that—he was treated worse than livestock.

The Marquisate of Changping was once a title granted to a founding hero, but now only the name remained.

To sustain the family, Qin Sheng arranged for his second son, Qin Youde, to be betrothed to the daughter of Sun Jing, the Minister of Revenue.

Yet at this crucial moment, Qin Youde got the prostitute Shen Meng pregnant. Fearing Sun Jing’s displeasure, Qin Sheng decided to force Qin Bao to marry Shen Meng instead.

The original refused, and after falling gravely ill from malnutrition and fever, Qin Bao transmigrated into his body.

After sorting through these memories, Qin Bao sneered inwardly.

What a fool!

Why fawn over a heartless family that will never be warmed by your affection? If it were up to him, if he couldn’t live well, neither would they—he’d flip the table without a second thought.

The door creaked open. Qin Sheng entered with Qin Youde and Madam Wu.

Qin Sheng fixed his gaze on Qin Bao, his face stern. “Have you decided about marrying Shen Meng?”

Madam Wu spoke softly, “Bao’er, your father and mother would never harm you. Once your brother marries well, you too will have a chance for glory.”

Qin Youde intoned, “Eldest Brother, it’s not a loss for you. Marry Shen Meng, you’ll have a son and someone to care for you in old age. Why not?”

The three took turns persuading him, making Qin Bao laugh in anger.

A family of beasts!

Not a single one of them was decent.

Qin Bao sat up in bed and shook his head. “If I am to marry, it must be the daughter of a prince or a marquis—I will never marry a prostitute.”

Qin Sheng sneered, “A useless wretch like you, without the protection of the marquisate, is no better than a stray dog—yet you dare dream of marrying nobility?”

Madam Wu inwardly scoffed at his delusions but said gently, “We’re all family—let’s talk things through. Don’t worry, husband, as his mother, I’ll make sure Bao’er comes around.”

“I won’t,” Qin Bao replied.

Qin Bao stared at Madam Wu, his words sharp with scorn. “You call yourself a mother, but your heart is as venomous as a snake’s. Just looking at you sickens me.”

Madam Wu did not argue but instead let tears well up and choked out, “Husband, it’s all my fault. I truly am—”

She burst into tears.

Qin Sheng’s fury soared. “Wretch! How dare you defy your mother!”

“And what sort of mother is she?” Qin Bao’s eyes shone, his tone cold. “I am the legitimate eldest son of the Qin family, yet eat nothing but thin porridge and pickled vegetables, wear coarse hemp clothes, while Qin Youde is waited on by a dozen maids and never lacks for a thing.”

“When I studied and learned to write, I used discarded pens and books, while Qin Youde wasted silver for fine pens and ink yet barely learned to read.”

“I fed the horses, washed clothes, cooked meals, while Qin Youde spent his days in brothels.”

“Is there any mother in the world as cruel and partial as this?”

Madam Wu inwardly seethed, fearing Qin Sheng might feel pity, and sobbed, “I treated Bao’er as my own, yet he repays me with nothing but resentment. It’s too much to bear—I might as well be dead.”

With that, she rushed toward the door as if to bash herself against it.

Qin Youde hurried to restrain her, crying, “Mother, don’t!”

She wept, “Don’t stop me! I’ll prove my innocence with my death!”

Seeing his mother’s distress, Qin Youde rolled up his sleeves and roared, “Qin Bao, today I’ll cripple you!”

With that, he threw a punch at Qin Bao’s face.

Qin Sheng watched, approving. If Qin Bao wouldn’t yield, perhaps a beating would set him straight.

Qin Bao’s body was weak, so he didn’t confront Qin Youde head on. As the punch neared, he sidestepped and delivered a sharp uppercut to Qin Youde’s jaw.

Qin Youde howled, blood spurting from his mouth as he collapsed to the ground in a wretched heap.

Qin Sheng was dumbfounded.

How could this wretch, half-dead as he was, strike with such ferocity?

The more defiant Qin Bao became, the more Qin Sheng loathed him. “I raised you for twenty years, and this is how you repay me—with a wolf’s heart and a dog’s lungs. Kneel and apologize to your mother, admit your crimes, or I’ll have you flogged and cast out of the family.”

Qin Bao stood tall, his spine straight as a pine. “You call yourself the head of the family, yet you honor neither ancestors nor descendants. You fail to uphold virtue, fail to protect your children.”

“Instead, you scheme against your own flesh and blood—shameless, inhuman, unworthy of being a father.”

“I, Qin Bao, am deeply ashamed.”

“Today, it is not you casting me out—I am leaving of my own will. I will not serve a family of beasts!”

Qin Sheng’s eyes turned red with rage, his disbelief plain.

Qin Bao had always cowered before him, like a quail—never daring to speak back. Today, he was utterly fearless.

Qin Sheng would not tolerate such defiance. “You want to leave? I’ll see to it you don’t get your wish. You refuse to marry the prostitute? I’ll force you to. You’re no match for me.”

Qin Bao’s tone was icy. “True, I’m no match for you. But spreading a few tales of Qin Youde’s escapades wouldn’t be hard. If the Sun family hears of it, do you think they’ll still want to marry their daughter into this family?”

“I’m leaving, and you can’t stop me.”

His words rang out, and Qin Sheng’s pupils contracted.

This wretch had grown wings.

Still, Qin Sheng did not believe Qin Bao could survive on his own. “Without the marquisate’s shelter, you won’t even out-beg the beggars. Within a day, you’ll come crawling back to me. I’ll be waiting for you to kneel and confess your sins.”

Qin Bao laughed coldly and strode out.

He walked through the gates of the marquisate, watching the bustling crowd on the street. Far from anxious, he felt a joy beyond measure.

Freed from that family of beasts, he was finally free.

Qin Bao pondered how to make a living. At present, he didn’t have a single coin to his name, nor any business he could pursue. Worse, the original’s weak character meant that, despite being the marquis’s eldest son, he had no connections and no one to rely on.

He could only depend on himself.

As he mulled over his options, a thought struck him. Since transmigrating, his memory had become extraordinary. Every book he’d ever read in the library was etched in his mind.

He had neither power nor wealth, but plagiarism was now his best shortcut.

Relying on the original’s memories, Qin Bao made his way to Yuhai Pavilion, the largest bookstore in Xianyang.

Yuhai Pavilion sold not only the Four Books and Five Classics but also published novels, miscellanies, and romances. Backed by a princess of Liang, its wealth was impressive.

Though dressed plainly, Qin Bao carried himself with confidence and an easy bearing. The moment he entered, a shop assistant approached to ask what he wished to buy.

Qin Bao asked where the novels were, then browsed through several volumes—mostly miscellanies, with a few rather ordinary romances.

“Sir, may I help you choose something?” the assistant asked again, never condescending despite Qin Bao’s modest attire, but smiling warmly.

“I’m not here to buy a novel,” Qin Bao replied. “I wish to sell one to Yuhai Pavilion.”

The assistant was taken aback. “I’m not authorized to make such decisions. I must consult with the manager.”

Qin Bao nodded, and the assistant hurried off.

Before long, the manager arrived—a portly man of nearly fifty, whose silk robes only half concealed his bulk. He smiled, “So you’d like to sell a novel, sir?”

“How do you set the price for such works?” Qin Bao asked.

“It depends on the story and the writing style. If you wish to sell, may I see the manuscript?”

“I haven’t written it yet,” Qin Bao replied.

The manager’s smile vanished, his voice turning cold. “Are you here to make sport of me?”

Qin Bao answered with calm dignity, “Please forgive me. Though the manuscript isn’t yet written, the story is fully formed in my mind. If you would provide paper and ink, I will write a chapter here and now. One glance, and you’ll know its worth.”

The manager eyed him coldly.

Yet Qin Bao stood unflinching, composed and at ease, bearing himself with a grace and poise rare among the impoverished.

“Bring paper and ink,” the manager finally ordered. “I hope you won’t disappoint me.”

Qin Bao merely smiled.

Soon, the assistant returned with writing materials.

Qin Bao straightened his clothes, sat down, and unhurriedly spread out the blank paper. Dipping his brush in ink, he wrote the title: “Romance of the Three Kingdoms.”

“Rolling waters of the Yangtze eastward flow, sweeping away heroes of ages past. Right and wrong, success and failure, all turn to emptiness in the blink of an eye. The green hills remain, as many times the sun sets.

“White-haired fishermen and woodcutters, accustomed to autumn moons and spring winds, meet over a jug of poor wine, laughing as they talk of ancient and modern times.

“—‘Riverside Daffodils’”

“It is said that the world, long divided, must unite; long united, must divide…”

Qin Bao wrote swiftly, his hand never faltering.

The manager, who had expected only a farce, watched the majestic opening lines appear on the page. His expression of ridicule was replaced, at last, by utter astonishment.