Chapter 117: Replacement

Chapter 117: Replacement

Wang An left after receiving the order, while Jiang Xun spaced out for a second before rising from the bed.

His head throbbed with pain as memories from two lifetimes surged through his mind. Letting out a hiss, he pressed a hand to his temple.

66 popped up: "Host, you have a wound on your forehead."

Jiang Xun glanced at the bronze mirror—his head was wrapped in a bandage, blood slowly soaking through.

He peeled off the bandage, revealing a patch of bruised skin with a wound the size of a coin at the center, the flesh torn and pink.

66 gasped: "Such a severe injury—will it leave a scar?"

It snuck a look at Jiang Xun’s face. Though this host was eccentric, he was quite handsome. The wound on his temple didn’t appear gruesome but rather added a weird kind of charm. A scar would be a shame.

Jiang Xun yanked the bandage back on tight, pulling so hard it made the wound bleed fresh, seeping through the fabric: "It won’t."

With this injury, he realized exactly what point in time this was.

—It was when he fell from his horse during the autumn hunt and blacked out.

Jiang Xun wasn't great at riding or archery. During the hunt, he lost control of his horse and fell. That poor bastard, Xue Jin, happened to be nearby. The crazy emperor, in a fit of rage, accused him unjustly and threw him into prison, where he remained locked up now.

Back then, his offhand accusation had landed on no small fry—Xue Jin was the heir of the Pingnan Prince, the most outstanding young general of the dynasty. But in history, he went down in history as the Founding Emperor of Liang.

The Founding Emperor, the ruler who established a new dynasty. Jiang Xun partied the empire into ruin, leading to its collapse. The Northern Di invaded, and the Central Plains fell.

Yet the nomadic cavalry could never cross the natural barrier of the Yangtze River. Xue Jin held power over the south, squaring off against the Northern Di across the river. Later, when the time was ripe, he crossed the river, reclaimed the Central Plains, and ascended the throne as emperor, founding the state of Liang.

Jiang Xun had read all this in history books—he knew it well.

Shen Que kneeling outside was likely here to plead for Xue Jin’s release.

As soon as Jiang Xun got out of bed, 66 dumped the plot in his lap.

The little system swayed: "Host, 85 points, 85 points! You’re a straight-A student—you know what 85 means, right?"

For some reason, 66 had this nagging feeling of impending failure when looking at Jiang Xun. This time, it decided to start from the very beginning, guarding every detail to ensure nothing went wrong.

"Don’t forget, if you don’t score 85, this era might revert to its original fate. Please keep this in mind, host."

After saying this, the system sheepishly turned down its glow.

There was no such thing as "reverting"—it was all a bluff to pressure the host.

But if it didn’t pressure him and he failed again, 66 would cry.

The young man on the bed lowered his lashes and gave a quiet "Mm."

Jiang Xun was still ill, his face as pale as paper, only his eyes starkly dark and bright. The silk robe hung loosely on his skinny, sick-looking body.

The next part of the plot was simple. The crazy emperor, injured from a fall, naturally needed a scapegoat. Prince Xue had the misfortune of being nearby when the emperor fell.

Since he was there, he had to bear the emperor’s wrath. If Jiang Xun didn’t throw him in prison and give him a beating, it would be unworthy of his reputation as a cruel tyrant.

Now that Shen Que dared to plead for mercy, it was like adding fuel to the fire. In his fury, the emperor did something fucked up.

He told Shen Que: "Release Xue Jin? Fine. But you’ll take his place—with your flesh."

Jiang Xun's voice dripped with sarcasm. The young Emperor hadn't actually thought that far ahead, nor was he particularly interested in men. He just wanted to hassle his former teacher, to make him back down.

Yet Shen Que agreed.

The moment this crossed his mind, Jiang Xun closed his eyes slightly.

Earlier, when Old Li had asked him to evaluate Jiang Xun, there was one point he hadn’t mentioned. Besides being brutal and savage, the Deposed Emperor of Wei had another descriptor in the history books—preposterous.

—Confining his teacher in the inner palace, turning a scholar-official into a male concubine, spitting on morality, putting him through every humiliation imaginable, and even openly mocking tradition by naming a man his imperial consort—wasn’t that outrageous?

And here, it was the beginning of all that preposterousness.

To this day, Jiang Xun still remembered his first impression of Shen Que.

Handsome yet loathsome.

Shen Que was Jiang Xun’s teacher, but not his alone. He was a celebrated scholar of their era, with disciples spread across the realm. Xue Jin, the Pingnan Prince’s heir, was Shen Que’s cousin. When he came to the capital in his youth to study, Shen Que had also taught him.

Back then, Shen Que lectured on the classics at the Hongwen Academy, where Jiang Xun was the most inconspicuous of the imperial sons. The late Emperor had dozens of princes, each born to noble mothers—except Jiang Xun, who was born to a maid, conceived during a drunken imperial favor. A nobody, ripe for abuse, he would never have ascended the throne had his brothers not fought so viciously that they either died or were crippled.

During his years at the Hongwen Academy, Jiang Xun often sat in the corner. His mother was illiterate and couldn’t teach him anything. He had never received any proper education and couldn’t read either. His brushstrokes wobbled like a toddler’s, his handwriting worse than a dog’s scrawl.

When Shen Que lectured on the classics above, droning classical pomp, Jiang Xun couldn’t understand a word. Sometimes, when Shen Que assigned homework and graded Jiang Xun’s, his brows would always furrow.

Shen Que said, "Hopeless case."

A young man’s pride is delicate and sensitive, especially for someone like Jiang Xun, born so lowly. He had spent years among the palace servants, only being recognized as a prince when he grew too tall to hide among the maids. Hearing Shen Que’s words, he crumpled his assignment in his fist, thinking, *That aloof, arrogant face is utterly detestable. It deserves to be ripped off and ground into the dirt.*

Now that Shen Que had come to plead for Xue Jin, seeing how anxious he was for his cousin, Jiang Xun was reminded of those years at the Hongwen Academy—while the other students earned praise, he had only earned the label of "hopeless case." Instantly, rage boiled over, and only one thought remained: *He would take revenge.*

He wondered, *What could be more humiliating than turning a scholar into a plaything, a teacher into a toy, confining him in the depths of the palace to be defiled?*

And so, he summoned Shen Que.

Jiang Xun remembered that night—the flicker of red candles, Shen Que suppressing his voice, restrained and controlled. Those eyes looked at him first with disbelief, then humiliation, despair, and finally, a stagnant pool.

Like ink bleeding across rice paper.

At the time, Jiang Xun thought, *He had truly shattered this man.*

Seeing him lost in thought, [System 66] grew even more hopeful and cheered, "Host, recall your initial hatred for him! You can do this!"

Jiang Xun said nothing.

After his death and after so many years, his emotions had long blurred. What hatred was left to cling to?

After his death, his soul had not immediately reincarnated. Instead, it lingered nearby for seven full days before departing.

In those seven days, he saw the Northern Di’s iron hooves trample the imperial city. A great fire broke out in the capital—in the north, a mother cradled her starved child; in the west, a wife held her burned husband. Charred beams collapsed, crushing the elderly who couldn’t move fast enough.

Dark clouds hung over the entire capital. As a spirit, he felt every agony tenfold. Trapped at the center of the vortex, he found no release.

Even now, remembering those scenes made him nauseous. The loves and hates, humiliations, and resentments of his youth—he had forgotten them all.

Besides, if anyone should hate, it ought to be Shen Que hating him.

At this moment, Jiang Xun had only one thought: *"Shen Que must not become crippled."*

Shen Que’s legs had been ruined from kneeling in the palace.

Back in the Hongwen Academy, Jiang Xun always had to look up at him. Shen Que held the scrolls, gazing down at the assembled princes with a condescending arrogance that was utterly detestable. Later, when Jiang Xun had him brought to the palace, he rarely permitted him to rise again.

Later, as Great Wei's power waned, Shen Que took advantage of the turmoil to flee, crossing the river to assist Xue Jin, becoming the founding chancellor of Liang.

Indeed, he was a once-in-a-generation genius. Without him, Xue Jin's expulsion of Northern Di would have been delayed by a decade.

In various major battles, Shen Que's crippled leg caused significant delays. Historians often speculated—what if Shen Que's legs were whole? How differently might those battles have unfolded?

For the sake of the nation, Shen Que could not be allowed to go lame.

Jiang Xun dragged the cursor, carefully reading the system's description word by word. Then he took a scrap of paper and listed the key points one by one.

So, how he suffered didn’t matter—what mattered was that Shen Que must not go lame.

Jiang Xun drew a circle with his brush: "First, I have to make him kneel for another two hours, correct?"

66 nodded.

Jiang Xun: "Second, I must have intimate contact with him—degrade him, right?"

66 nodded again.

Jiang Xun: "Then, I must make the demand—if he wants to save Xue Jin, he must stay and become my kept companion." He underlined the sentence for emphasis. "This line is essential."

66 kept nodding.

Jiang Xun started a new draft: "The loopholes are: kneeling for two hours—location unrestricted; intimate contact—bathing chamber, but details unrestricted; degradation—any physical contact, method unrestricted. These modifications won’t affect my score, correct?"

66 nodded frantically. "Yes, yes, exactly!"

It was practically weeping.

A straight-A scholar was a straight-A scholar—what an incredible host! He could even analyze the text like a reading comprehension exercise! Look at that clear logic, that meticulous analysis of the torment triggers—nothing like the previous ones at all!

And he actually listened to its advice! 66 hadn’t felt this valued in ages!

This attempt's definitely scoring 85!

Jiang Xun: "Good, I understand."

Just then, three knocks sounded at the door. Wang An's voice came through: "Your Majesty, he has been brought."

Jiang Xun tossed the paper into the brazier. "Have him brought."

*

When Shen Que entered, Jiang Xun’s gaze first went to his legs.

The capital had been drenched in rain. In the heart of winter, the downpour was scarcely above freezing. Shen Que had knelt alone on the stone pavement, his indigo court robes soaked through, water pooling around his knees. His legs had long since gone numb from the cold. Now, as he moved abruptly, blood rushed back, bringing with it a wave of searing pins-and-needles—so intense he nearly stumbled.

Wang An stepped over the threshold with him. Shen Que’s movements were stiff. The moment he crossed inside, he clutched the doorjamb and knelt again.

His knees, barely recovered, struck the ground once more. The pain was worse now—knife-sharp, as if countless ants were gnawing at his skin.

Shen Que endured it silently, bowing his head. "Your Majesty."

He didn’t know why Jiang Xun had summoned him, nor how much longer he would have to kneel.

Jiang Xun appraised him. Though decades had passed, Shen Que looked no different from memory—dressed in his indigo court robes, the winged official headdress perched atop his head, refined and scholarly as if stepped out of an ancient painting.

Jiang Xun’s gaze lingered on Shen Que’s knees. These legs were not yet accustomed to prolonged kneeling; the knees hadn't yet deformed. Beneath the robes, the lines of his calves remained perfectly shaped.

He remembered how those legs felt.

Slender, delicate, weakened from kneeling too long, they could only hang limply, unable to even close together.

Under the Emperor’s unreadable stare, Shen Que raised his hands level above his brows. "Your Majesty, I have a petition to submit."

Jiang Xun said nothing.

In the silence, Shen Que’s legs quivered faintly, but he straightened his kneeling posture without a sound. He still held his hands aloft, and as time passed, his arms began to shake as well—yet he did not lower them.

Summoned but ignored, Shen Que more or less understood Jiang Xun's intent. Kneeling too far made it hard to read his face; he had to be placed right under the Emperor’s eyes for proper observation.

Meanwhile, Jiang Xun was checking System 66’s display.

The minimum score was 85, and the plot required Shen Que to kneel for another two hours. He couldn’t let Shen Que rise, but he also couldn’t leave him kneeling like that.

Jiang Xun rolled off the bed. Barefoot, his feet hit the cold floor. In this era, there was no underfloor heating—warmth relied solely on charcoal braziers. The palace was paved with stone tiles, no warmer than the outdoors.

A chill crawled up from his feet, and Jiang Xun frowned.

Wang An rushed to kneel and help him into his shoes, but Jiang Xun kicked him lightly on the shoulder with his bare foot, scolding, "It’s freezing—do I really need shoes to walk in my own room? Why is the padding here so thin? Go fetch more layers of carpet."

The Emperor, still recovering from a horse fall, was in a foul mood.

Wang An stammered, "Right away, Your Majesty!"

Bare feet were indecent—especially in front of a teacher. But Jiang Xun was a tyrant, and no one dared say a word.

Out of the corner of his eye, Shen Que barely glimpsed the color of the Emperor’s toenails before lowering his gaze to avoid further sight.

Jiang Xun’s toes curled on reflex.

In the 20th century, open-toed sandals and flip-flops were commonplace, but here in the palace, where everyone was fully clothed, his bare feet stood out oddly.

Soon, servants came lugging thick rugs, carefully laying them down. They hoisted chairs and tables to smooth out the rugs, then hesitated at the sight of Lord Shen kneeling in the middle.

Chairs and tables could be moved, but this kneeling Lord Shen... should they move him too?

Wang An glanced at the Emperor. Jiang Xun was half-reclined on the bed, idly tapping his bare foot against the floor, paying no attention. Wang An whispered, “Lord Shen, could you… uh, scoot over a bit?”

"..."

Shen Que grudgingly shuffled aside.

Once the first layer was laid, Jiang Xun stretched a leg from the bed canopy and tested it with his bare foot. "Still too hard. Add two more."

Wang An wiped the sweat from his nose and directed the attendants to add two more layers.

They hoisted the furniture again, and Shen Que, still kneeling in the center, shifted once more.

Jiang Xun tested the new padding and nodded in satisfaction.

Four layers of carpet now padded the floor, plush as a cushion. Kneeling for two hours on this would do no harm to the knees.

With a wave, Jiang Xun dismissed Wang An. In just his underrobe, barefoot, he circled the room, pointedly ignoring Shen Que, then plucked a book from the shelf and began reading intently.

It was a travelogue of the dynasty’s landscapes, chronicling the author’s journeys across the north and south, documenting lakes and rivers—a Great Wei version of *Commentary on the Water Classic*.

If Jiang Xun remembered right, he was about to face the greatest famine in Great Wei’s history, and the culprit would be drought.

While appearing to read leisurely, Jiang Xun mentally reviewed future water conservancy projects. When the two-hour period elapsed, he tossed the book aside: "Minister Shen, speak. What matter do you wish to present?"

Shen Que replied hoarsely, "I bring forth the matter of Zhenbei Marquis Heir Apparent Xue Jin disrupting the imperial carriage."

Having said this, he bowed deeply, pressing his forehead to the ground. His arms and knees ached with soreness as he bit the tip of his tongue and repeated, "I bring forth the matter of Zhenbei Marquis Heir Apparent Xue Jin disrupting the imperial carriage."

At these words, Jiang Xun had a moment of disorientation.

The scene before him was identical to that of his past life. He had thought that after all he had endured, he would have long forgotten the beginning. Yet with his homeland and its people reappearing before his eyes, he realized that memories were more vivid than he'd imagined.

After a silence, the young Emperor glanced at the prompting notes and sneered, echoing his past self’s lines: "Does my teacher understand the consequences of bringing this up?"

Shen Que pressed his forehead to the floor. "...Your Majesty, this subject understands."

The consequences of speaking these words—Shen Que knew them well. The Emperor, having fallen from his horse, was in a black mood and would inevitably seek someone to vent his anger upon. That this matter would not end peacefully—Shen Que knew that too.

But that person could not be Xue Jin.

Xue Jin was the heir apparent of Marquis Zhenbei. This year, the grasslands suffered a severe drought, and the Northern Di had lost countless livestock, making their southward raids inevitable. Marquis Zhenbei was one of the principal commanders defending the northern border, having long consolidated his forces. If his only son, raised with utmost care, were punished without cause, the Zhenbei Army might revolt.

And the Zhenbei Army was the main force in the north. Should they rebel, the other armies would lack sufficient reinforcements, leaving the northern borders completely undefended and allowing the Northern Di to march deep into our territory unchecked—the consequences would be unimaginable.

If Jiang Xun insisted on finding someone to vent his fury upon, Shen Que was willing to offer himself as substitute.