Chapter One: The Dream Messenger

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Fujian Road, Jianzhou.

This land is abundant in mountains and waters, and as it is the fourth or fifth month of the year, the hills are lush and verdant, their greenery almost dripping with life. The mountain streams follow the slopes, cascading down with force, striking rocks and echoing with the sound of water. Once at the foot of the mountain, the streams mingle with others from east and west, all collectively called the Nanpu Stream.

The Nanpu Stream, clear as a mirror, winds its way down, leading directly to the county town of Pucheng. It encircles the county seat, looping past the southern gate of the town. Upstream lies the White Cloud Pool, where the water rushes fiercely, then settles deep and clear, gathering the eastward waters before turning west. Downstream lies the Duck Bath Pool, where the westward waters turn south and converge. The Duck Bath Pool is deep blue, shimmering green, named for the little dots on the water that resemble ducks.

Between these two pools, a long rainbow bridge spans the stream, connecting the county town. This is the Shuinan Bridge, roofed to shelter those who cross, with people coming and going in endless flow.

South of the Shuinan Bridge lies a residential area called Shuinan New Street. The street nestles against mountains to the south and leans upon water to the north. From here, looking westward, one can see a solitary hill rising amidst a cluster of ridges, surrounded entirely by fields. This mountain stands alone and is thus called Solitary Mountain.

During the Six Dynasties, the gifted scholar Jiang Yan served as the county magistrate of Pucheng. Here, he dreamed of a divine being bestowing upon him a five-colored pen. Later, the mountain was renamed Dream Pen Mountain.

At this very moment, in a street-facing building on Shuinan New Street, Dream Pen Mountain is clearly visible from the window.

A twelve-year-old boy named Zhang Yue muttered to himself, “They say this is transmigration, but since I’m here, I must adapt! Yet why don’t I have a system?”

With this, Zhang Yue tilted his head forty-five degrees to the sky, letting out a long sigh.

Such a bleak beginning—I need the support of the System, Father!

Zhang Yue had two elder brothers. The eldest, Zhang Shi, followed in their father’s footsteps, running the family shop. The second, Zhang Xu, was precocious, composing prose at seven and poetry at eight, and at twelve was admitted to the Imperial Academy—the county’s official school—earning the favor of Magistrate Chen Xiang.

Zhang Xu excelled at the academy; when the dean took leave, he would ask Zhang Xu to teach the students in his stead. Zhang Xu’s talent was well known throughout the county, and the family held high hopes for him. Over the years, so many matchmakers visited that the threshold was worn thin. Eventually, this caught the attention of Zhao, the head clerk at the yamen, who offered a dowry of three hundred strings of cash, promising his beloved daughter to the Zhang family.

Such a marriage was highly desirable for the Zhangs, a collateral branch of a great clan. Zhang’s father, before passing, gave his blessing to the match.

For both families, it should have been an excellent union.

But on the wedding night, Zhang Xu disappeared. Though the family searched everywhere, they found no trace of him—only a note in his study.

The letter read: “I, a fine son of the east, should have my name sung in the Eastern Capital. How can I marry the daughter of a mere scribe?”

Zhang Xu vanished without a word. Some said he went to the capital; some claimed he was robbed on the road; others whispered he had fallen for a courtesan and abandoned his bride.

Zhao, the head clerk, was furious. Though his rank seemed minor, his influence spread throughout the county.

Hearing they had offended Zhao, the Zhangs’ loyal servants began to leave, some absconding with valuables. Soon, the staff at their shop, which had operated for decades, quit one after another. One day, the shop mysteriously caught fire, and they were dragged into a lawsuit, forced to pay a hefty sum.

Zhang Yue, who attended a private school, was expelled for secretly keeping erotic paintings.

Now, Zhang Yue was not only out of school but his reputation was ruined, and he spent his days in a haze.

These past few days since transmigrating, Zhang Yue had learned of this disastrous start and wished he could sleep again and transmigrate back. So he lay facing the wall, feigning sleep, listening as footsteps creaked up the stairs, followed by the sound of the curtain being drawn.

Someone sat behind him and said, “Third brother, the sun is already high, yet you’re still in bed.”

Zhang Yue recognized the voice as his eldest brother, Zhang Shi.

Zhang Yue understood how unfortunate it was to have such a second brother. He was their father and eldest brother’s favorite, the center of the family’s attention, and Zhang Yue had always lived in his shadow.

Father and brother poured their resources into Zhang Xu, inviting renowned scholars to guide him. As the youngest, Zhang Yue lacked such educational opportunities, but was still doted upon, spared the hardships of study, and allowed to drift.

He spent his days with idle friends, enjoying food and drink, reasoning that as long as his second brother studied, he could enjoy future blessings.

Let him endure the hardship of studying; I’ll enjoy the rewards later—such was his wishful thinking!

But now...

Zhang Yue could empathize with his elder brother’s mood; the most promising brother had eloped, and the other was utterly useless. The family relied solely on Zhang Shi, and who could he turn to?

Zhang Yue dared not pretend to sleep any longer. He feigned waking, rubbing his eyes, saying, “Brother, you’re back.”

Zhang Shi was only twenty-three. In modern terms, just starting his career, but he had managed the family shop for ten years. The shop had recently burned down, and the Zhangs lost most of their fortune to lawsuits, leaving him worn out.

Bitterness and exhaustion marked his face. “Third brother, don’t sleep any longer.”

“Yes,” Zhang Yue rose.

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“Hungry?” Zhang Shi asked. “I’ll cook something for you. I’ve been busy all morning and haven’t eaten yet.”

Meals were once handled by servants, but both had left—one stealing valuables, the other, reluctant to leave, was sent away by Zhang Shi to avoid trouble. Zhang Shi’s wife and child had gone to her father’s home in Jianyang to wait out the storm.

Zhang Yue shook his head. “Brother, I’m not hungry.”

Zhang Shi replied, “Even if you’re not hungry, you should eat a bit. I bought two mutton oil cakes.”

He went downstairs to fetch them. When he returned, Zhang Yue was dressed in a child’s scholar robe.

Zhang Shi patted the creases from Zhang Yue’s clothes, handing him the oil-paper-wrapped cake.

Each brother took one. Zhang Yue, feeling unexpectedly ravenous, devoured his in a few bites.

Zhang Shi broke his own cake in half and placed it in Zhang Yue’s hand.

“I sent you to private school, not expecting you to excel like your second brother, but hoping you’d at least learn the ways of a scholar. Who knew—” (Zhang Yue supplied silently: “reading erotic books”) “—Eat a bit more, regain your spirit. Don’t lie in bed all day; study if you can. The family relies on you now! I was never fit for study, so I’ve spent these years toiling. But to study single-mindedly like your second brother, and now…”

At this, Zhang Shi’s eyes reddened. He pressed his hand against his face.

Zhang Yue said, “Brother, I was foolish before. Now that things are in such a mess, let’s face it together.”

Zhang Shi nodded, then spoke again of Zhang Xu’s elopement.

“The saying goes, ‘Misfortune may bring blessings.’ There’s truth in it. Your second brother’s studies earned him the magistrate’s favor, and our family benefited much from his reputation. He’s had a smooth path, grew arrogant as a scholar, and looked down on clerks, leading to this scandal.”

“But is Zhao, the head clerk, just any ordinary scribe? He’s a county bigwig. Not just the yamen; even the magistrate treats him with respect.”

“Our family has only a bit of surplus wealth. Zhao wanted to marry into our family because of your second brother’s prospects. Yet after a few years of study, he disregarded others completely.”

Zhang Yue said, “Brother, I was expelled from private school, my reputation damaged, but even so, he shouldn’t have sent people to burn our shop. Zhao is formidable, but the law is clear—how can he act with impunity?”

Zhang Shi shook his head. “Zhao is usually unreasonable, but now he’s justified. Even if he openly burned our shop, no one in the county would speak against him.”

Zhang Yue said, “So what? If the county won’t defend us, I’ll appeal to the prefecture. If they won’t, I’ll go to the judicial office! Is custom really stronger than law?”

Zhang Shi replied, “You don’t understand. Even if we appeal, will they help us? We have no connections. And Zhao has allies here—do you think he has none in the prefecture or the judicial office? You can only talk like this behind closed doors; if word reaches Zhao, our family will be in danger. Even if we win the case, as long as Zhao holds office, our troubles will never end.”

The Song Dynasty indeed looked down on clerks. Scholars, unless absolutely desperate, would not become clerks.

Once a clerk, promotion was nearly impossible. Zhang Yue recalled reading forum posts criticizing this system, saying it made local clerks irresponsible, only seeking to profit, with no ambition to advance, resulting in corruption.

In Water Margin, Song Jiang was a head clerk, seemingly impressive, but still a clerk—a commoner. If he committed a crime, he was tattooed, regardless of the county’s attempts to shield him. Officials, on the other hand, were exempt, as punishment did not extend to the gentry.

On the surface, clerks seemed unimpressive, yet locally, the reality was “weak officials, strong clerks.” Officials dispatched by the court had to manage local clerks, and few avoided being deceived. An old saying went, “An official observes a clerk for three days; a clerk observes an official for ten days.” Officials were transient; clerks were permanent.

If clerks gained promotion, officials were powerless against them in local governance. Thus, the court suppressed them with low status and no advancement.

Zhang Xu only knew to despise clerks, not realizing they could not be offended. Zhao sought marriage, and he flaunted his superiority. Even if Zhao were from an ordinary family, eloping on the wedding night was outrageous.

To run away was one thing; but to leave a letter—this was a slap in Zhao’s face. Zhao was the chief clerk, and if he didn’t retaliate fiercely, he’d lose standing in the county.

Most crucially, the clerk’s position could be inherited.

If you offend the magistrate, a few years will pass and it blows over. Offend the head clerk? He could pass the office to his son.

Zhang Shi said, “Your second brother’s reputation was too high; many are waiting to see our family fall, and some are eager to strike while we’re down. At Zhao’s home, I’ve spoken soft words, humbled myself, begged, and asked others to intercede, but I haven’t even been able to see Zhao. He’s set on not letting us go.”

He rallied himself, saying, “But heaven never seals all exits. Don’t be too discouraged. At worst, we go to Jianyang and rely on my father-in-law. I’ll manage, but you’d be dependent on others. Unless absolutely necessary, I don’t want to leave home. You must stay strong. Father and second brother were respected scholars; if you become one, Zhao won’t dare trouble you!”

At this, Zhang Shi’s words were full of hope and encouragement. As he wasn’t suited for study, he urged his brothers to pursue it.

Zhang Yue felt his heart lighten.

Song Taizong once said, “Prime ministers must be scholars.” Thus, the Song Dynasty revered literature and neglected military affairs.

Though weak in later forums—dubbed “Da Song”—the problem of aristocratic usurpation and warlord division was solved, imperial power less absolute than Ming and Qing, and this was the most glorious era for scholars in five thousand years.

Thus, the civil service exam was the ideal path. Zhang Xu had risen by study, step by step towards marrying wealth and beauty. If not for his elopement, he would have been the model student, admired by neighbors.

As for Zhang Yue, who before transmigrating spent years on forums and message boards, he was broad in knowledge and felt capable of ruling with a single keystroke. Even without the System’s help, he intended to excel—though having the System would be better...

Determined to change his family’s fate, it all depended on today.

Zhang Yue confidently searched the desk for books—those his second brother had studied. He picked up The Mencius, intending to read it seriously, only to discover that, despite his excellent high school language skills, he could not understand classical Chinese.

How tragic!

But no matter!

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Where there is a will, there is a way!

A faint but unyielding smile appeared on Zhang Yue’s lips. “No matter if I don’t understand; I’ll memorize it first.”

Thus, upstairs echoed with the sound of earnest reading.

“Mencius visits King Hui of Liang. The king said, ‘Sir, you have traveled far—have you come to benefit my kingdom?’ Mencius replied, ‘Why speak of profit? There is only benevolence and righteousness.’”

Zhang Yue read and sighed. Though he didn’t grasp the meaning, the words of the sages had such force and vigor that reading them filled him with strength. They were truly worth memorizing and pondering.

He read with increasing concentration…until half an hour later, he lay asleep on the desk.

These days since transmigrating, Zhang Yue often dreamed of a divine five-colored pen spinning above his head.

Suddenly, the pen drew before him, as if a wash of ink cleaved the scene, sending ripples across his vision.

A tableau appeared: an elderly man in ancient dress held the pen, speaking to a young official. “I have a five-colored pen in my possession. Now I lend it to you; someday I will reclaim it.”

“Student Jiang Yan gives thanks for the divine gift. May I ask your honored name?”

The old man smiled. “I am Zhang Jingyang.”

Was this the story of Jiang Yan? Zhang Yue, witnessing this, was startled.

The five-colored pen flew from the elder’s breast to the young official’s hand.

The elder stroked his beard and said, “Writing can guide men to virtue or to vice. The way of writing is manifold; you must choose the good and follow it.”

“Student shall remember.”

The official held the pen, pointed it at several places, and ink appeared in the air with no paper, making flowers bloom on the ground.

He then slashed the pen through the air, vanishing from sight.

Only the elder remained.

He pondered aloud, as if speaking to himself, “Here, there are only you and me. What do you seek?”

Zhang Yue knew he was dreaming, and didn’t understand whom the elder was addressing.

The elder looked at him.

Zhang Yue was startled, as if a character on TV suddenly turned to look at the viewer—utterly uncanny.

The elder smiled lightly. “My pen has been given to Jiang Yan. What do you seek?”

“I—” Zhang Yue found himself unable to speak.

The elder looked up at the sky, where the Milky Way hung inverted, stars dazzling across the heavens.

Night wind rustled the elder’s robes. “Since you and I are both here, let me give you this: Keep these words in your heart—‘The affairs of the world, a young heart, in dreams revealed deeply, point by point.’”

He reached out and pointed at Zhang Yue.

Suddenly, Zhang Yue felt the ground vanish beneath his feet; he was falling from a great height.

He awoke to see stars outside the window, fishing fires along the stream.

He stared wide-eyed at the books on the desk, realizing with terror: Wasn’t I reading? How did I fall asleep again?

Is reading truly…beneficial only for sleep?

How can I study like this? Perhaps it’s best to turn back from this endless sea of learning!

He rose in despair, suddenly stunned by how vivid the recent events felt.

He thought it laughable, but as he wiped his brow and closed his eyes, he realized that everything he’d seen in the dream was clear and precise in his memory, as if a video had been recorded and stored in his brain.

Could it be that what he experienced was not a dream?

ps: New book from a new author—please support with your daily recommendations! This remains a story of self-cultivation, governance, and peace!