Chapter 22: Did You Really Think You Were Invincible? (Part Two)

“You’re really asking for it!” Even though Ming Tian hadn’t brought his former physical prowess with him after crossing over, his fighting strength was still far from what ordinary people could match.

Seeing the dagger about to stab his brow, Ming Tian clenched his fist, stuck out his thumb, and jabbed it fiercely at the imposter’s temple!

He vaguely remembered seeing this move in some movie, but had never tried it before. Who would have thought it would save his life today?

A sharp, anguished scream split the silence as the imposter recoiled in pain, rolling to the side.

Such was the force behind Ming Tian’s strike that his thumb throbbed with agony at once. The imposter, clutching his temple, wore an expression twisted in suffering, unable even to stand—he could only thrash helplessly in the straw pile, groaning miserably.

But Ming Tian wasn’t in much better shape.

Having been suffocated under the imposter’s grip, he’d used up his last ounce of strength to break free. Now, his head was spinning, limbs weak, and he simply couldn’t get up.

So the two of them just stared at each other, gasping for breath in the quiet straw hut—a brief, strained silence settling over them.

The other’s eyes brimmed with resentment, as if he wanted nothing more than to devour Ming Tian whole. This only made Ming Tian all the more annoyed.

“What… what are you looking at? Didn’t you think you’d be exposed, pretending to be someone else? And now you blame me?” Ming Tian snapped.

You’re impersonating me and I haven’t even settled the score with you, yet you’re here acting like the victim?

The imposter forced a grim smile, murderous intent undiminished. “Aren’t you also a fraud? What right do you have to accuse me?”

“I have no desire to waste words with you!”

Ming Tian summoned what little strength he had left and lunged at him.

The imposter brandished his dagger, not retreating an inch—clearly determined to succeed this night.

The two of them clashed like starving wolves.

Though the imposter wielded a dagger, Ming Tian wasn’t afraid.

Sidestepping the lethal thrust, Ming Tian’s eyes blazed red. He seized the imposter’s knife hand, flipped over, clamped his legs fiercely around the man’s shoulders, and locked his ankles against his neck, pinning him to the ground.

With a sharp twist of the imposter’s wrist, a sickening crack signaled the dislocation of his arm. The dagger fell immediately to the floor.

“Ah!” The agony of torn muscle and wrenched joint drove the imposter into a frenzy of pain.

That anguished scream, however, drew the attention of nearby soldiers.

“What’s going on? What was that sound?”

“It seemed to come from the straw hut where that thief is staying.”

“Let’s go! Have a look inside!”

The soldiers’ conversation was perfectly clear in the quiet of the night. Ming Tian froze, inwardly cursing his luck. If the soldiers saw the current scene, he’d be immediately branded an assassin.

Just as Ming Tian’s attention wavered, the imposter seized the chance, pushing Ming Tian’s legs away, darting to the small window at the back, and escaping in a flash.

By the time Ming Tian recovered, the man had already vanished into the night.

Damn it! If this were modern times, with cameras and streetlights everywhere, where could you possibly run?

With a loud bang, the straw hut’s door was flung open and four or five soldiers burst in, each eyeing Ming Tian warily. The little hut was instantly crowded.

“What happened here? Why did I hear someone scream?” Leading them was the same soldier Ming Tian had met at the city gate, the one who looked like Zhang Fei.

Telling these junior soldiers the truth would be pointless—no evidence, no identity. He’d only be inviting trouble. Ming Tian was well aware of this.

“Nothing, officers. I’m used to exercising before bed, but I tripped and fell by accident. Sorry for disturbing you.” Ming Tian put on a smile and explained.

The one called Zhang Fei looked deeply suspicious, clearly unconvinced. He prowled around the hut, conducting a cursory search, but found nothing. Annoyed, he hung his sword across Ming Tian’s neck, leaning in close.

So close, in fact, that all Ming Tian could see were those huge, round, ox-like eyes. And the man’s breath reeked so strongly it nearly made Ming Tian gag.

God, how could your mouth smell worse than a latrine? Do you have a wife? Poor woman—how does she stand kissing that mouth?

“Listen, kid. Remember this: if you try anything funny, I’ll kill you. Believe it?” Zhang Fei’s accent was pure Jiankang, and his menacing demeanor would have frightened anyone with less nerve out of their wits.

Trying to scare me, you idiot.

After spending all day with An Luo, how could Ming Tian be fazed by threats like these? He just smiled and nodded, all the while cursing the man for a fool in his heart.

Zhang Fei sized Ming Tian up and down, clearly finding him disagreeable. He snorted, spraying spittle all over Ming Tian’s face before turning away.

“Good grief…” Ming Tian wiped his face in disgust.

I’d sooner be a woman than your wife. I’d rather die than marry you. And is that green snot in your nose? What kind of affliction do you have?

That night, Ming Tian lay in his straw hut, worried about An Luo in the prison.

Though he often berated An Luo, they’d already been through life and death together. Deep down, Ming Tian regarded him as a brother.

As for Yin Chan… Ming Tian wasn’t too concerned. As long as she was alive and could lead him to the Travelers’ League, that was enough.

She didn’t trust him yet—Ming Tian knew this well. After all, he’d been in his thirties in his previous life and wasn’t the sort to consider someone a brother just because they smiled at him a few times.

Even though he’d saved her, he felt no special affection for her; at best, they were partners who needed each other.

If he really had to choose, Ming Tian would abandon Yin Chan without hesitation and pick the loyal, if somewhat slow-witted, An Luo.

The night passed peacefully.

The next day, at the central square of Douhu Prefecture, Ming Tian was escorted by three or four soldiers and was astonished to see nearly all the townsfolk already gathered there.

The crowd was immense—more lively than the Lantern Festival the night he tried to hang himself. The sea of heads was less like ants and more like rolling waves.

In the center, a huge wooden platform had been hastily erected overnight, a banner strung across it.

Prince Consort’s Culinary Exhibition.

At least, that’s what Ming Tian saw. The translation system in his head—which sometimes rendered dialogue in refined literary style, sometimes in plain speech—helpfully turned the ancient characters into something a modern person could understand. It certainly made things easier.

Other people’s systems were golden fingers; his only translated things. What a joke.

Ascending the platform, he saw the Prefect and the imposter already waiting.

The imposter, whose arm Ming Tian had injured the night before, was clearly forcing a calm smile despite the pain.

Below the stage, the crowd erupted into cheers for the imposter, eager to see what marvelous dishes the Prince Consort would prepare.

No one knew that Ming Tian was the real Prince Consort; the man they were cheering for was nothing but a petty fraud!

As the crowd roared, the Prefect stepped forward to give a lengthy speech introducing the Prince Consort’s background. Ming Tian wasn’t interested in the official’s pompous words; he was already itching to get started.

Three days of idleness had left him restless. It was time to really show off.

Meanwhile, in the Jiankang Imperial Palace…

A rotund prince in a robe of crimson and gold was busy with something in a corner of Yongning Palace. Before long, he let out a peal of laughter as he dug out a rat from the wall.

His hands were caked in mud, and his sickly grin was unsettling. Who could imagine a crown prince finding joy in catching rats? And this prince was already sixteen years old.

“Baojuan,” a hoarse, world-weary voice interrupted his game.

Looking up, he saw a man clad in imperial robes. The face was youthful, but its expression carried the exhaustion of an octogenarian.

This was the reigning emperor, Emperor Ming of Qi, Xiao Luan.

“Baojuan, how many times have I told you not to play with rats?” Though Emperor Xiao Luan scolded him, his tone was full of indulgence.

“Yes… yes, F-Father…” Xiao Baojuan had stammered since childhood—even three simple words took him a moment to get out. He twisted the rat’s neck like wringing a towel, then tossed it aside.

The emperor wasn’t the least bit bothered by his son’s behavior. Instead, he said calmly, “Baojuan, you’re not a child anymore. In a few days, I intend to choose a crown princess for you. Is there anyone you’d like?”

“Yes!” To the emperor’s surprise, Baojuan’s eyes lit up at the mention of a crown princess. His chubby cheeks quivered with excitement, and even his stutter grew worse.

“I want Cousin Xinzhu—Princess Jiangmen, Elder Sister Xiao Xinzhu—to be my crown princess!”

…