Chapter 2: Lost Orphan

This was a morning in the third month of the fourth year of the Zhenguan era under Emperor Taizong of Tang. A belated heavy snow that had fallen for three days had just ceased. The sun poked out sluggishly from the mist, casting thin, lazy light upon Chang'an City after the snowfall.

The residence of Duke of Lai, Du Ruhui, located in the Eastern Market of Chang'an, was usually a bustling place with carriages and horses crowding its gate. Today, it was even more lively, yet the visiting guests appeared somewhat hurried, their brows knitted with sorrow. Their attire had also shed its usual splendor; as if by prior agreement, they had all changed into plain dark mourning robes.

The vermilion main gate had been painted blue today. A length of white silk ten zhang long hung high above it, and a death notice was pasted on the door—"Forgive us for not informing everyone personally."

The few servants guarding the gate also wore heavy mourning garb. While receiving and seeing off guests, they secretly wiped away tears. Some commoners watching the commotion at the entrance pointed and whispered among themselves.

Inside the main hall, everything was a blaze of white. In the very center sat a coffin. Before it, a spirit tablet read: "The Late Duke of Lai, Minister of War, Right Vice Director of the Department of State Affairs, Lord Du, Personal Name Ruhui."

A group of men in heavy mourning knelt on either side of the coffin, returning the salutes of the condoling guests. The two at the very front were already wailing uncontrollably.

Du Rui was among them, but his position was far back. If one didn't look closely, his presence was almost undetectable. This put him at ease considerably; he could even slack off occasionally without fear of being spotted by some pedantic old scholar and accused of impiety.

Even now, Du Rui's mind was foggy; he simply couldn't figure out how he had transmigrated. Fortunately, an old servant by his side had told him this was Tang's capital, Chang'an, the fourth year of Zhenguan, and he was the third son of the historically famous Du Ruhui, known as "Du the Decisive." His name was also Du Rui, which saved him from being completely in the dark.

However, as he gradually learned his current identity, he realized this "Young Master of the Duke of Lai" was somewhat in name only. The reason was simple: he was a bastard son. His mother had been a palace maid bestowed upon Du Ruhui by Emperor Taizong Li Shimin (then the Prince of Qin). Unfortunately, his cheap mother had died in the chaos of the Xuanwu Gate Incident.

Du Rui had originally thought that even as a bastard, he was still Du Ruhui's own flesh and blood. Even if disliked, his treatment shouldn't be too different. Once grown, he could ride on his father's coattails, live as a silk-pants aristocrat, and enjoy a carefree, dissolute life in the glorious High Tang—making good use of all those years studying classical literature.

But man proposes, God disposes. On the night after his transmigration, that old servant rushed to his chamber to tell him his cheap father was done for too. Only then did he remember: Du Ruhui died in the winter of the fourth year of Zhenguan.

A bastard of his status had no qualification to attend his parents at their deathbed. Holding his supposed biological sister, Xiao Lian, he knelt in the ice and snow at the gate for half the night until he heard wailing from inside. For some reason, he suddenly felt a wave of relief. He touched his knees, numb from kneeling or freezing, and couldn't help but sigh inwardly, "Finally dead." Of course, he dared not show it on his face. If someone saw him looking pleased at a time like this, forget being a silk-pants aristocrat—whether he'd survive was a question.

Having immersed himself in classical literature for years, he knew well that in this accursed old society, a bastard like him had a status barely above a slave—essentially no standing at all.

He muddled along with the servants and menials outside, dry-howling a bit, then came the encoffining, the wake. Once everything was settled, he was just about to return to his small courtyard to rest when someone notified him that today he had to keep vigil for his deceased father. Supposedly, his cheap father's two legitimate sons, Du Gou and Du He, had nearly fainted from excessive grief and were being helped back to their quarters to rest. The heavy duty of keeping vigil naturally fell to him, this bastard who didn't look *too* grief-stricken and still seemed physically functional.

After cursing inwardly for a while, Du Rui still obeyed. He hadn't not thought about fleeing the residence, sword in hand, to live that transcendent, reclusive life of a knight-errant in this accursed feudal society—that was precisely what he had always pursued. But looking at Xiao Lian, connected to him by blood, all those thoughts vanished. He only wanted to figure out how to survive in this Du Residence, which looked utterly devoid of human warmth, cold as ice.

An orphan right after reincarnation. Du Rui recalled his university days, going to internet cafes with classmates to read web novels, and marveled at his own rotten luck. If his cheap father were just an ordinary nobody, fine. But he just had to be Du Ruhui, the famous Prime Minister second only to the Emperor in this Great Tang Empire on the cusp of its golden age.

However, after two days of observation, Du Rui understood a few things. This bastard son indeed had no status in the mansion, and Du Ruhui didn't seem to value him much either—often not seeing him a few times a year, and even when they met, it was just a stiff face asking a few formulaic questions about his studies.

As for Xiao Lian, the barely six-year-old child was essentially a maid serving the Duke's legitimate daughter. Motherless, and with a father who barely remembered her existence, she had zero presence in this vast Du Residence. The only familial affection she could feel probably came from him, this brother. So the moment he woke up, Xiao Lian clung to him, terrified he'd fall asleep for days again, leaving her with no one.

Du Rui had asked the old servant, Du Zhong, but the old man was evasive, as if afraid Du Rui would find something out. Du Rui speculated for a while and felt the root cause of his and his sister's low status was indeed his bastard identity. In the Great Tang, legitimate sons were the foundation of a clan's prosperity—inheriting the estate and bearing the burden of continuing the lineage and glorifying the family. As for bastards like him, they were just extras; unless all legitimate sons died out, he would never have a day to rise.

Collecting his thoughts, Du Rui turned back into a wooden statue beside Du Ruhui's coffin, following the others in constant kowtowing and wailing, as if there was nothing else he could do now.

"Keming! Keming!"

Suddenly, a heart-rending cry came from outside the gate. Hearing this voice, Du Gou and Du He, kneeling at the very front, scrambled up and rushed forward to welcome the guest.

Inside the mourning hall, a buzz of whispered discussion rose. Du Ruhui's nephews, nephews-by-marriage, and clansmen murmured softly.

"Sounds like Minister Fang?"

"Must be. Heard Minister Fang's been unwell these days; didn't expect he'd still come today."

"What's so strange? Minister Fang and our Lord Father were bosom friends. They assisted the current Emperor together years ago; their bond is deep. At a time like this, not to mention illness, no difficulty would keep him away."

Du Rui had no mind for who had arrived. His eyes were glued to the spot where Du Gou and Du He had just been kneeling—two embroidered cushions lay there. Looking at his own empty knees, Du Rui felt a surge of stifled resentment. Truly, comparisons are odious.

Since last night, he had had no food or water and had knelt all night. By dawn, no one cared if he was tired or hungry, as if he had never existed, yet he still had to kneel in the hall playing the filial son.

Just as he was thinking this, Du Gou and Du He entered, supporting a middle-aged man of slightly short and stout build, sporting a three-tufted beard, looking dignified and imposing.

He had just heard someone say the visitor was Minister Fang. Could it be Fang Xuanling? Seeing a historical celebrity for the first time, even with Du Rui's composure, he couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement. This man would rank among the top ten famous ministers in history!

Fang Xuanling entered the hall, saw Du Ruhui's spirit tablet, and grief welled up from within. He wailed loudly, took a few quick steps to the coffin, and leaned his whole body against it.

"Keming! Keming! We were friends for years, confidants to each other. Yet who knew today we'd be separated by life and death? From now on, who in the world is a true friend to Fang Qiao? It truly breaks my heart."

Watching Fang Xuanling's genuine outpouring, the hall filled with weeping again. Even Du Rui, who had no emotional connection to Du Ruhui, felt a pang of sympathy.

Court history was always full of factional strife, scholars delighting in tearing each other down. Who would have thought a pair like Fang Xuanling and Du Ruhui would exist—mutually supporting, single-mindedly serving the country as political partners.

Du Rui felt Fang Xuanling wasn't acting. Thinking of his deceased father, he too was moved to grief and wept loudly.

Fang Xuanling wept for a long while before Du Gou and Du He managed to comfort him into stopping. A servant hurriedly brought over a couch. Fang Xuanling, still recovering from a serious illness and now overcome with grief, looked pale.

Du Gou hurriedly advised: "Father left a dying wish, entrusting us nephews to convey it to you, Uncle. Our Great Tang has just pacified the realm; its foundations are still unstable. Since the fall of the Sui, the population has dwindled, and those fleeing their homes are countless. The Turks harass the north; the Tibetans rebel in the west. It is truly a time of many troubles. Hereafter, before the Holy Emperor, we will have to rely on you, Uncle, even more. Please, Uncle, you must preserve your health, lest the Great Tang lose another pillar of the state."

Before Du Gou finished, Fang Xuanling burst into tears again: "Keming served the country all his life, yet even at his end, he thought so of it. Fang Qiao is inferior, Fang Qiao is inferior."

Kneeling below, Du Rui wept for a bit, then turned to look at Fang Xuanling. He saw a sallow complexion, cold sweat on the forehead, unsteady gait, and a faint flush on the cheeks—clearly in the throes of a serious illness. But history recorded Fang Xuanling living to a ripe old age, not a short-lived man. Thinking this, Du Rui felt this illness was likely a false alarm, so he stopped paying attention.

As the crowd bustled, a sharp voice suddenly shouted from outside: "His Majesty the Emperor arrives!"

Du Rui was startled: "Li Shimin is here!?"