Chapter One: Stealing Your Daughter-in-Law—Is That So Unreasonable?

Year 13 of the Xiaokang era, in the state of Xu.

It was September, the heart of autumn.

On the seventh day, in the city of Dingxing.

Three days prior, a major event had shaken Dingxing.

A young man in plain attire, clutching a marriage contract, knocked on the gates of the Duke of Sui’s residence, seeking to wed the duke’s eldest daughter—Qin Zhaoning.

And who was Qin Zhaoning? Setting aside her status as the eldest daughter of a noble house, she was an exceptional woman in her own right.

Beauty? She possessed it in abundance, lauded as one of Dingxing’s three renowned beauties, her allure rivaling any in the capital.

Ability? She had that as well—her mastery of the Soaring Dragon Spear was legendary, making her untouchable even among elite soldiers. She had earned great merit repelling the Tennur raiders at the border, and at the age of eighteen, she served as General of the Left Feathered Forest Guard.

Some called her the Jade-Faced Rakshasa, others the Brow-Sweeping General.

Such a woman, embodying both beauty and martial prowess, naturally attracted countless admirers—so many, they were as numerous as fish in the river.

By all accounts, a woman of eighteen who remained unmarried would be seen as a spinster. Yet Qin Zhaoning had never paid heed to any eligible young men, nor did she care for gossip or rumor, devoting herself wholly to military affairs and martial training.

Perhaps therein lay the flaw of loving armor over rouge.

Many, after failing to win her heart, gave up—not for lack of desire, but because they could not withstand her.

To pursue her affection demanded a price. For her suitors, the cost was simple: approach her, and if you said the wrong thing, or if she was in a foul mood—

Well, brace yourself.

For some, those days were filled with no joy, only pain.

In time, all the talented young men of the capital kept their distance from Qin Zhaoning, even avoiding mention of her name. The shadow she cast on their hearts was unimaginable.

Even those who once flocked to propose marriage dwindled away to none.

Should some wayward young noble need a lesson, it was enough to threaten him with a proposal to the Duke of Sui’s family—he would become as docile as a lamb.

A fearsome reputation—Qin Zhaoning!

And yet, against all odds, someone had come to her gate with a marriage contract.

Alas, Qin Zhaoning was on duty that day and not at home.

Those who had gathered in front of the Duke’s residence for the spectacle cried disappointment at the anticlimax.

No one knew what transpired inside after the young man entered.

When he emerged, someone caught a glimpse of his relaxed countenance, idly tossing three copper coins in his hand.

Other than that, all was shrouded in mystery.

Speculation ran rampant throughout taverns, teahouses, and bustling streets.

“That boy’s nothing but a commoner. Why would the Jade-Faced Rakshasa stoop to marry him?”

“True, but there is a marriage contract. Would the Qin family really break their word and risk a reputation for faithlessness?”

“What of it? The Qin family has been noble for generations. Even with a tarnished name, they could recover. Besides... that boy is hardly a match for her.”

“What happened in the Qin residence that day?”

“No one knows, but judging by his calm demeanor when he left, perhaps he was the one who sought to end the engagement.”

“If so, he has at least the sense to know his place.”

Yesterday, as debate raged on, the Qin family issued a statement.

Just as some had guessed, the young man, realizing the chasm between their families, had voluntarily annulled the engagement.

The Qin family, claiming upright values and a refusal to force anyone, reluctantly agreed to his request and declared they would look after him in future.

Most believed this account, though a few suspected the Qin family had coerced the youth into accepting reality.

To such rumors, the Qin family responded with outrage, likening accusers to a woman in labor—spewing nonsense with reckless abandon.

The affair became the talk of the city, not only among commoners but also within the noble circles of the capital, causing a considerable stir.

But even this heated topic was soon overshadowed by another.

Today, the Assistant Minister of Revenue and hereditary Duke of Pei, Zhou Xinyi, set up a literary contest before his residence to seek a husband for his niece, Baili Mingsu.

And who was Baili Mingsu?

Also one of Dingxing’s three beauties, her looks were said to rival Qin Zhaoning, yet her bearing was entirely different.

If Qin Zhaoning was the valiant general who decided the fate of battles on horseback, Baili Mingsu was the cunning strategist in the tent, manipulating the chessboard behind the scenes.

She was a woman of wisdom, not simply of talent—a subtle difference, yet unmistakable to all who met her.

No one ever questioned her intelligence, for her aura was something that could never be feigned.

Moreover, she did not strike people.

Upon hearing of the contest for her hand, promising young men flocked to Zhou’s residence in droves.

A contest of letters was a test of wit, not martial prowess.

Before the Zhou residence, the broad street teemed with hopefuls, their eyes shining as they prepared to show off their literary skills.

Whether they would win her in the end hardly mattered. Who could say what the future held?

Because of this, the matter of the Qin family’s broken engagement was soon forgotten, and talk shifted from the Qin family to the Zhou family, from Qin Zhaoning to Baili Mingsu.

No one cared anymore what humiliation Han Fu might have suffered at the Qin residence three days earlier.

Outside the crowd at Zhou’s gate, Han Fu watched the contest unfold—talented scholars and pretenders alike taking the stage in turn, creating a scene of lively competition.

Yet his mind replayed the events at the Qin residence three days before.

Qin Ping, then an Inner Palace Supervisor of the fourth rank and hereditary Duke of Sui, had sat in silence, sipping tea, never once glancing his way.

The marriage contract had been signed between Qin Ping and Han Fu’s late father—a token of gratitude for a life once saved in desperate circumstances.

And why refer to his father as “so-called”? That required some explanation.

Han Fu was a transmigrator, hailing from the twenty-first century, once a civilian official in the army, who died suddenly during an arduous training exercise. Thus, he found himself in this ancient land, foreign to the civilization of China.

At first, he struggled to adapt, but with time, he came to understand this realm called the Xu Dynasty and accepted his fate.

Unlike many transmigrators, Han Fu had no “golden finger,” no miraculous talents or family background. He was not, as in so many tales, a lost prince or even the simple-minded son of a landlord blessed with a mysterious system.

He had nothing but an empty house, and the marriage contract—his only inheritance from a father he’d never met.

From hazy memory, it seemed that Qin Ping, in a moment of peril, had promised his daughter’s hand in marriage in exchange for Han Fu’s father’s selfless protection.

The world was vast, yet Han Fu had nowhere to call his own.

After much thought, he took the contract and came to Dingxing.

The Qin family’s annulment came as no surprise. As a transmigrator, Han Fu harbored no illusions that the Qin family would treat him as an honored guest or wed their daughter to him.

He’d merely come to try his luck—what if, by some stroke of fate, it worked out?

His real aim in Dingxing was to make a name for himself, to truly earn the title of “transmigrator.”

Besides, the Xu Dynasty was a glittering shell with rot within. If possible, Han Fu even hoped to seize the great tides of history for himself.

As for affairs of the heart?

To hell with them.

It was not Qin Zhaoning’s beauty he valued in the marriage contract.

If it had succeeded, it would have been the greatest springboard for Han Fu, the transmigrator.

But it was not to be.

Three days ago, Qin Weizhong, the eldest son, had torn up the contract before Han Fu’s eyes, his disdain undisguised.

“A mere commoner dares covet the pearl of the Qin family? Have you looked in a mirror? What makes you think you’re worthy?”

“No self-awareness, yet you show up with a marriage contract.”

“Do you imagine that this slip of paper would let you marry my sister and climb to the top? How naïve.”

“Don’t say we’re bullying you. Here’s a thousand strings of copper coins—enough to live in comfort for life. Take the money, take a carriage, and go. Never speak of this engagement again.”

Qin Ping sat unmoved, eyes downcast and silent.

How could Han Fu not be angered? Yet he was powerless.

If he’d had any background, if he were not an ant the nobles could crush at will, he would have shouted back: “Thirty years the river flows east, thirty years west—never despise the young and poor!”

If he’d had a system, with the power of undying flesh or the strength of three Lü Bus at his disposal, he’d have drawn his sword and left his enemies in ruin, perhaps reciting: “In ten steps, slay a man; travel a thousand miles without pause…”

But he had nothing.

In the end, Han Fu took only three copper coins.

He did not let anger cloud his judgment—he recognized reality, understood that in their eyes, he was not even an ant, but something to be crushed without effort.

This was no time for recklessness; every step must be carefully plotted if he was to avoid dying a worthless death—the most pitiful transmigrator in history.

He rejected the thousand strings of coins, preserving a shred of dignity.

Yet he took the three coins as a small gesture of defiance.

“A mere marriage contract—three coins are enough.”

With that, Han Fu turned and strode away, tossing the coins in his hand as he left the gates.

Even now, those three coins lay against his chest, a constant reminder to himself as a transmigrator.

With two lifetimes behind him, Han Fu had learned one lesson well.

No matter the time or place, a man must steel himself.

By the time he reached Dingxing, word of the Zhou family’s contest for a husband was everywhere—Han Fu had heard of it, of course.

After the humiliation at the Qin residence, he saw this contest as his next springboard to enter this world.

Everything was according to plan.

But…

Standing outside the crowd, Han Fu watched the poised, unruffled figure on the stage—a man who, he learned from those around him, was none other than Qin Weiren, the second son of the Qin family.

The contest’s rules were peculiar: only poetry would be judged, with Zhou family officials posing the questions and the participants vying to compose verses, the best advancing.

From the start, many talented young men withdrew in defeat, but Qin Weiren alone continued to produce masterful lines, drawing waves of applause.

Something was amiss—it seemed almost rehearsed, as if he had been given the topics in advance and could answer with ease.

Or perhaps… he was colluding with the Zhou family?

On the viewing platform, Qin Ping and Zhou Xinyi sat together, conversing and laughing as if today’s outcome was already decided.

It became clear that this contest was but a pretext; the chosen groom, Qin Weiren, had been decided from the outset.

All of this was mere pageantry—but to what end?

Han Fu could not fathom it, and chose not to dwell on the matter.

Glancing at Qin Ping, who stroked his beard and laughed, Han Fu’s lips curled into a faint smile. Then, pushing through the crowd, he made his way toward the stage.

If anything was a mistake, it was the Zhou family’s decision to hold a poetry contest in front of the masses.

“Qin Ping, three days ago your son humiliated and insulted me, and you would not even look me in the eye. Today I…”

“I intend to steal a daughter-in-law from you. Surely, that’s not too much to ask?”