Chapter One: Rather than starve to death, it would be better to take one’s own life first.

The Lantern Festival had arrived, and Su Men Town was awash in a sea of vibrant red. The crackling of firecrackers rang out clearly through the unpolluted air of this era, so sharp that even a distant hill could not muffle the sound. Yet within the grand residence of the Zhuge family, the air was thick with the wailing of servants and attendants.

“Young Master! Young Master! You mustn’t! The Zhuge family has only you left; you are the sole heir!” cried a scrawny maid, her sunken cheeks betraying years of malnutrition, her voice trembling with sobs, making her already plain face seem even more pitiful. Though she was only sixteen, she looked every bit the part of a forty-year-old matron.

“Young Master, if there’s something troubling you, please just say it. There’s no need for such despair!” wailed another attendant, so thin he was little more than skin and bones. He clung desperately to Zhuge Buliang’s trouser leg, sobbing like a woman.

“Damn it, let go of me! How is a man supposed to live like this?!” Zhuge Buliang paid them no mind, stretching his neck toward the noose, intent on ending his life.

The Zhuge family owned the most prestigious bank in Su Men Town—Wanfu Bank. Zhuge Buliang was the only son of this illustrious house, handsome and impeccably dressed, his features the envy of young gentlemen across neighboring towns. No one could fathom why he would choose to take his own life.

This was no small matter for the Zhuge family, and the county magistrate himself was galloping over at breakneck speed upon hearing it. Word had it that the Princess of Jiangmen was arriving the day after tomorrow, having traveled from afar just to catch a glimpse of Zhuge Buliang. If he died tonight, it would be a calamity for all of Su Men Town.

But Zhuge Buliang himself saw things rather differently.

Novels were nothing but lies! The authors of these so-called historical novels all deserved to die!

He had been trapped in this place for four days now, and in that time, he hadn’t managed to eat a proper meal.

First of all, what kind of name was this? Zhuge Buliang—Zhuge the Dim-Witted? Did his parents never learn to read? How could someone with a name like that possibly become the richest man in the region? Why not just call me Zhuge Peacock while you’re at it?

And then, most crucially: novels and movies never mentioned this—how dreadful the food in ancient times actually was.

Tomatoes? Not yet introduced.

Pork? The wealthy didn’t eat it, and the poor couldn’t afford it; it simply didn’t exist.

Beef? Cattle were sacred for plowing, not for slaughter; killing one could easily earn you a death sentence.

There was only mutton—and it wasn’t even properly prepared, so every bite was thick with the stench of lanolin.

Fruit? Apples, plums, and oranges were just barely acceptable. But to call pickled ginger a delicacy, claiming it was an exotic fruit newly imported—what madness was this?

As for vegetables, there was hardly anything worth mentioning.

Eggs were all halfway to becoming chicks, and with no soy sauce, they could only be dipped in salt. Yet even then, his father scolded him for extravagance, since government salt was expensive and hard to come by.

Even the water drawn from the well floated with silt—what kind of wealthy heir lived like this?

It felt more like being thrown into a survival show with Bear Grylls!

“Dear, please talk some sense into our child… Buliang, I beg you, don’t do anything foolish!” His mother—well, the mother of this body—was weeping on the ground, her face streaked with tears, but Zhuge Buliang felt nothing in his heart.

“Buliang, listen to your father.” At that moment, his father, Zhuge Fang, pushed through the crowd of servants, grabbing his arm and pleading, “If we’ve ever wronged you, say the word. As long as it’s within my power—even if you ask for the moon—I’ll fetch it for you. Will you stay with us, Buliang?”

His father was so fat he verged on corpulent, yet now, in his forties, he was beside himself with grief, tears streaming down his face.

Zhuge Buliang’s brow twitched slightly.

Buliang—what a ridiculous childhood name! And with such bland food, how had his father managed to become so fat?

Annoyance simmered within Zhuge Buliang.

He had expected that, after transmigrating, he would reach the pinnacle of life. In a way, he had: he was a rich young master. But something was very wrong.

What kind of wealthy heir ate nothing but boiled cabbage? What kind of family chef only knew how to cook with salt and lard?

And where was his “golden finger”? What about legendary martial arts? None of that existed.

All he’d gained upon crossing over was a translation system in his mind.

But this system was nothing like the ones described in the novels he’d read. It had only one function: translation.

Everyone spoke in archaic, classical language, thick with dialect. Without this system, he wouldn’t even be able to hold a simple conversation.

For a modern person, traveling to ancient times was hardly different from being dropped into a remote Indonesian tribe.

The most infuriating thing was that the system did nothing but translate—no powers, no secret techniques, not even a basic buff.

Worst of all, the women were ugly.

Novels always claimed ancient beauties could shame the birds and outshine the flowers, but reality was cruel—every girl, even in her teens or twenties, had rough, swarthy skin and features like misshapen gourds.

Even the county magistrate’s daughter, touted as the town’s number one beauty and introduced by the matchmaker yesterday, turned out to look like a factory worker who’d spent a decade on the assembly line—her face caked with makeup like an opera performer.

How could there be beauties in such harsh conditions?

And as for clothing—there wasn’t even underwear in this era!

Sanitation was abysmal; the air always carried a faint stench of waste.

Sometimes, while trying to sleep, a stray wheat awn from the pillow would jab him awake.

Cloth shoes twisted his ankles with every other step.

Entertainment consisted of staring at birds in cages all day.

Bathing was a five-day affair, using nothing but rice water. The television scenes of wooden tubs with floating petals were utter nonsense—no one washed like that, and it wasn’t clean anyway. Just yesterday, he’d found a grain beetle in his hair! And to top it all off, shaving one’s head could get you exiled as a convict!

“Father, let go of me. I can’t go on like this. I can’t eat, I can’t dress properly… Just let me… let Buliang die,” he finally choked out, mortified to utter such a shameful childhood name in this world.

“You can’t eat or dress properly?” Zhuge Fang froze for a moment, then his face flushed with anger as something dawned on him.

He turned to the servants, waving his ornate robe with authority, and roared, “Where are the cooks? Where’s the tailor? Drag them out and behead them!”

In this era, it seemed the head of a household had the right to execute his servants outright.

The servants blanched, their already homely faces contorting in terror as they scrambled toward the kitchen, legs trembling.

Having barked his orders, Zhuge Fang turned back to Buliang, forcing a smile. “Don’t worry, Buliang. Tomorrow I’ll find you better cooks and tailors. Just don’t do anything reckless—you’re the only heir to the Zhuge family.”

Zhuge Buliang was unexpectedly moved—not because his father was about to kill the cook and the tailor for his sake, but out of a fundamental sympathy for these parents.

Indeed, what parent could bear to see their child hang himself?

Parental love is universal, and Zhuge Buliang wasn’t so heartless as to go through with it—even if having the cook and tailor put to death was cruel enough.

“Master, have mercy!”

“Please, Master, give us another chance!”

The pitiful pleas of the forty-something cook and tailor, being dragged away by eight attendants, jolted Zhuge Buliang back to reality.

Looking at these two old craftsmen about to be executed, Zhuge Buliang’s heart softened.

He resigned himself to his fate.

At that moment, for reasons unknown, a strange voice echoed in Zhuge Buliang’s mind.

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