Zhang Chengling’s lips tightened as he squeezed out a laborious smile. His father was the true humanitarian, who the heavens had protected for a lifetime. Except for that one night, the gods had gotten drunk, didn’t keep watch, and his father had died.

The good had to rely on the heavens for protection, but the evil could live on viciously. Wasn’t this too laughable?

He sat on the steps, and of his own accord, started reciting the things Zhou Zishu taught him, but was still befuddled about a great many things. As he recited on like a little monk reciting scriptures, his mind wandered, his gaze drifting somewhere far away, his heart wondering why his shifu was not back yet. The first thing his shifu would do upon returning would be to scold him, why did he have to be this stupid?

As a child half-matured, his bones were growing furiously; the clothes that Zhao Jing had ordered tailors to make for him a few months ago, when they had just reached the Zhao Family Manor, were small on him now. The legs of his pants were a good few inches shorter, the hems hanging laughably above his ankles.

Zhang Chengling dipped his head, reached out his fingers to pinch the hem of his trousers, rolled them up and unrolled them again--thinking, I’m not this stupid on purpose, who doesn’t want to be a bit smarter, so that they can master abilities a little earlier, to seek revenge for their family a little sooner?

He recalled that time in childhood, when the shifu teaching him martial arts had complained about him to his father. His father had only patted his head, and said to that shifu with an apologetic smile, “Please be more forgiving on him. It’s like how the five fingers on a hand do not grow to be the same length--this boy of mine had a bout of fever when he was younger, and is slower than others. But he’s a good kid, I don’t expect him to become something great in the future. As long as he can take good care of himself, that’s good enough.”

In this world, if there were emperors and rulers that accomplished great things, there also had to be peddlers and messengers dealing with insignificant affairs, otherwise, could the world even function?

Zhang Chengling felt that he was probably born to be a peddler or a messenger, yet the heavens didn’t let him lead a peaceful life, forcing him to grow in the mold of his shifu, of Uncle Zhao. Wasn’t this depriving him of a livelihood?