Chapter 3: Obsessive Compulsion

Making money is the priority. The little brother quickly offered a handshake, saying, "Nice to meet you, Second Brother-in-law, and Second-Junior Brother-in-law. My father is away on official business in Raozhou, so I, Song Ji, am currently receiving the dowries on his behalf. Seven strings of cash for the primary husband, and three strings for the secondary."

These two numbers felt like sharp, jagged edges rolling around in his chest, pricking and itching unbearably. The older man gritted his teeth and rejected them: "These numbers won't do."

The demand was indeed a bit steep, but fortune favors the bold. Young Song’s eyes gleamed with determination: "If you want to redeem yourselves like before, it’ll be thirty strings of cash—and this time, there are three of you to pay for."

It felt as if he had been run over by a cart; his internal organs were in shreds, and he could barely stand it! He suppressed his inner rage and growled, "Seven and three—change them."

Young Song looked puzzled: "Six and four, then?"

"Six and six."

The answer was equally baffling.

"Fantastic! It's a deal!"

Exceeding expectations, Young Song was absolutely thrilled.

Song Ruozhao wondered aloud, "Why not five and five?"

He replied with indifference, "That’s not an even number."

"Then why not six and four?"

"The two numbers are different."

"..."

After settling the price, Young Song snatched up the little "Dirty Bundle" (a nickname for a child). Seeing the exquisite pattern on the Lantian jade pendant hanging from the Second-Junior Brother-in-law’s waist, he helped himself to it: "I’m taking my little nephew to get some food; consider this payment for the meal."

The Second-Junior Brother-in-law looked furious and prepared to step forward to reclaim it, but the "primary husband" wrapped an arm around him, signaling that it was a blessing to suffer a small loss.

Seeing this, Song Ruozhao thought to herself: *If he is the Emperor, then this young hunk beside him must at least be an imperial guard.* Her identity was transparent, yet the system was so dim-witted it couldn't even identify her.

She would have to rely on herself to read his memories and crack his identity.

Her gaze shifted, and the young hunk happened to look back. She decided to probe this mysterious figure...

Upon reading, the other party’s sea of consciousness was as blank as snow.

*How can I not read his memories? Such an exception is rare in a century.*

*I’ll just have to trace the vine to find the melon.* Song Ruozhao hurriedly accessed the Emperor’s memory bank, rummaging through everything to find this man.

She even unearthed the embarrassing fact that the Emperor had stolen her water flask years ago to make a pair of urinals, yet there wasn't a single memory of the guard standing right beside him.

She didn't find the melon; instead, she got pricked by the vine.

"My two husbands, may I ask your honorable names?" Thinking about how this time-travel journey had led her to marry an old Emperor and take on one of his subordinates, Song Ruozhao’s politeness was a mix of gloating and playing innocent.

The older husband ignored her, sitting cross-legged with his eyes closed, looking every bit like a god of wealth. The younger husband stood guard beside the primary spouse, eyes fixed straight ahead, looking like a guardian of treasures.

"Not talking, are we? Fine... then you, you’ll be called ‘Leg-Hair Wang.’ And you, wearing that blue robe that makes your fair face look so seductive, you’ll be ‘Blue Enchantress.’"

Victim number one—Leg-Hair Wang—his long legs twitched, and he replied hesitantly: "My surname is Shen. Shen Dalang."

She felt a sudden urge to force-feed him medicine. As their eyes met, her gaze acted like a lie detector: "You’re lying. You’re just using your mother’s surname to brush me off!"

As if his feet had been scorched by a brazier, the man jumped up, looking ready to fight.

Song Ruozhao quickly snapped her fingers to diffuse the tension: "Heroes in novels who travel the world always use their mother’s surname to hide their true identity. I’ve heard enough stories to guess that. If you like it, then I’ll just call you Master Shen."

She turned to the "younger husband": "Are you going to make up some ‘Master So-and-so’ to brush me off too?"

Victim number two replied decisively: "Sifu. Simply Sifu."

Listening to all this from under the window, the fifth sister scurried away, eager to share the story.

She was truly a genius who could compose a poem in five steps. By the time she traveled between the two courtyards, a long epic had already been born: *The Infatuated Brother-in-law Raises the Dowry for Love; The Mentally Challenged Second Sister is Starved for Affection; One Woman, Two Husbands, and the Playful Nicknames...*

With such grand drama, the fifth sister almost put the local storyteller out of business.

After hearing it, the third sister put down her half-solved nine-link puzzle, bewildered: "That Master Shen actually raised his own price just to stay?"

"Exactly! For the sake of a good omen, even the gift money had to be in pairs!"

"As for our second sister," the fourth sister chimed in while grinding ink and selecting paper, determined to perfect her clerical script before their father returned, "as the old saying goes, every cracked pot has a broken lid; a simpleton deserves a fool, so it’s not that surprising."

The third sister covered her mouth, laughing: "Indeed, willing to pay a dowry to share a wife—it truly is a case of a fool matching a simpleton."

"But," the fifth sister recalled their father’s parting words and felt it was absurd, "Father said that if the second sister married, she’d be bullied, and that she should stay at home to take in a live-in son-in-law..."

The third sister, with her silver tongue, was always the one to make the final decision: "Well, hasn't she taken them in? They seem happy enough—bringing both dowries and their whole entourage!"

"Since she has set up her own household, she must manage her own kitchen. From today on, they shall cook for themselves and receive no rations from the main pantry. All menial servants are to be withdrawn. There is only one condition: as long as the monthly allowance from the accounting office is paid on time, that is all that matters."

"Also, tell Song Ji that this dowry must be recorded in the public ledger. Always running around in those bizarre clothes, cockfighting and dog-racing—the older he gets, the less serious he becomes."

Young Song, who was outside collecting "dues," sneezed. He was in the middle of a heated argument: "How many times do I have to say it? What I’m wearing isn't chicken feathers; it’s crane down! Crane down!"

"..."

"Even if you were wearing a dragon robe, you can't just collect dues like this!" Aunt Song protested. "Your simpleton sister’s husband is from a wandering tribe—every few years she drags another man home!"

Young Song put his hands on his hips: "Your old sow has had ten litters, and you still collect dues for every one of them!"

Aunt Song was furious: "Collecting is fine, but why are you collecting four portions?"

Young Song grabbed the little "Dirty Bundle" and argued triumphantly: "Marriage, the birth of a child, the first birthday, and my brother-in-law’s fortieth birthday!"

"..." The old woman felt her heart ache.

After succeeding, he flounced away in his chicken feathers—no, his crane down. After taking two steps, he turned back sneakily, his smile incredibly greedy: "Oh, and one more thing, we’re still missing one portion."

"What now? Is your brother-in-law heading for the coffin right after his birthday?"

"Not at all. It’s because my second sister just took in a handsome secondary husband—"

The woman fainted from rage, stumbling and collapsing.

Poor "Dirty Bundle" had been borrowed while hungry and returned just as hungry.

The family of four sat in a row. The "older husband," Master Shen, was calm and composed; though he claimed he wasn't hungry, his stomach betrayed him.

The "younger husband," Sifu, exuded a cold, aloof aura. His meticulously carved face was like it had been frozen in frost, devoid of any expression.

Song Ruozhao tried to read his memories several times, but it was all in vain.

Only the little "Dirty Bundle" was hungry enough to have a rich variety of facial expressions.

Song Ruozhao, the hope of the family, was tasked with finding food. She looked around the courtyard—the space enclosed by a fence, containing one room, one kitchen, and one bathroom—the barren territory belonging to the "mentally challenged" Song.

Although the house was destitute, it counted as a private suite.

Once they set up their own stove, the family gathered to eat.

They were having pancakes and noodles.

The charred crust of the pancake, pointlessly garnished with black sesame seeds, looked ridiculous. Sifu finally showed a hint of emotion: "This? Is this a pancake?"

"Yes, it’s a ‘burnt cake’ (Hu-bing)."

"..."

She was answering nonsense.

The "Dirty Bundle" set his sights on the bowl of cold noodles with locust tree leaves. He lifted the bowl, which was bigger than his own face. By the time he was done, he had licked the bowl clean, but his face was stained a watery green.

The older husband still hadn't touched his chopsticks. He commanded imperiously: "Get me a new pair of bowls and chopsticks."

Song Ruozhao replied nonchalantly: "Even if the Jade Emperor himself came to this humble abode, he’d have to make do. There are countless chips in the bowls here; yours only has one, and I even gave you the newest pair of chopsticks I could find. Be good, let’s just be content."

No sooner had she finished speaking than, with a "clack," the tip of the longest chopstick struck the rim of the bowl. Porcelain shards flew like snow, and the wooden chopstick did a somersault in the air before landing steadily back in the man's hand.

Both the bowl and the chopsticks had suffered damage.

Song Ruozhao looked closely. The tip of the chopstick was broken, but it was now exactly the same length as the other one.

A new chip had been added to the rim of the bowl, but it was now perfectly symmetrical with the chip on the opposite side.