Chapter Six: The Creditor Comes Knocking

The man in the bronze mirror had an utterly unremarkable face. His fair complexion was a touch gaunt, his lips somewhat thin; the nose, at least, was decently high-bridged. He was a far cry from the legendary beauty of Pan An, but not without a certain delicate handsomeness—one of those faces that, the more you looked, the more their quiet charm emerged.

Feng Jingzhe ran his fingers over his current visage, and found himself, on the whole, rather satisfied.

He slipped off his thin robe.

“Well… a skinny mutt, confirmed…”

He pinched his arms and legs. Thankfully, beneath the soft skin, there was still the faint outline of muscle.

Facing the bronze mirror, Feng Jingzhe tried throwing a few punches. Unluckily, his foot landed on a shard of broken porcelain he had knocked over earlier. He slipped.

He lost his balance and, reaching out with his right hand to steady himself, sliced his palm at the web between thumb and forefinger on the jagged porcelain.

“Ow… Young Master, are you all right? Let me help you up…”

Li Changsheng happened to come in just then, carrying a fresh kettle. At a glance, he saw blood welling from Feng Jingzhe’s hand.

“It’s nothing, nothing… Just a scratch, don’t make a fuss…”

Feng Jingzhe hadn’t even found his footing before Li Changsheng had already produced a handkerchief from his bosom and bound up the wound.

“My god, what kind of man carries a handkerchief everywhere…”

A chill ran down Feng Jingzhe’s spine.

He’d read enough web novels in his previous life to know that some young masters in ancient times liked to “cross swords” with their personal attendants or page boys.

With this thought, Feng Jingzhe instinctively shoved Li Changsheng away in fright.

What happened next surprised him even more. Admittedly, his current strength was nowhere near his previous life’s peak, but the fellow before him—with his thick brows and wide eyes, looking for all the world like a cartoon character—should have stumbled back more than two steps.

“Young Master, why did you push me?”

“Uh… It’s nothing. Your Young Master hasn’t had so much as a drop of water since this morning. Shouldn’t it be time for a meal…?”

In those few seconds, Feng Jingzhe frantically searched his memories. Thankfully, nothing too embarrassing surfaced, and he let out a silent sigh of relief.

He glanced at the “Shinnosuke” in front of him. Even if the body’s previous owner had questionable preferences, surely his taste hadn’t been that abysmal.

“Young Master, we’re out of rice…”

“Then go buy some. I’m not in the business of selling rice…”

Feng Jingzhe finished bandaging his hand and drained half the kettle in one long gulp.

“Young Master, the money…”

Li Changsheng’s damned hand reappeared, palm up.

Setting the kettle down, Feng Jingzhe suddenly remembered—hadn’t he been gambling last night?

His mind flashed with scattered images: silver notes flung onto the table, a well-dressed old man, and a document he’d signed.

No matter how hard he tried, the memories stayed fragmented.

“Young Master, I remember we still had eighty taels left. Don’t tell me you lost it all last night…”

Seeing Feng Jingzhe’s shifting expression, Li Changsheng was pretty sure he’d guessed the truth—only lacking proof.

“Young man, you’d better have evidence before you speak. Careful, or I’ll sue you for slander.”

Feng Jingzhe took another swig from the kettle, suddenly feeling a bit guilty.

“No way, Young Master—those eighty taels were all we had left! If you lost them, what will become of us?”

“Impossible, absolutely impossible! I’ve never touched gambling, drinking, or drugs. If I had, would I only have lost a measly eighty taels?”

This, Feng Jingzhe declared with full confidence. He’d been a soldier for over a decade in his previous life—upright and with unimpeachable character.

Seeing his Young Master speak so righteously, Li Changsheng’s certainty wavered. Perhaps he’d misjudged; maybe the money was tucked under the bedside after all.

Just as he wondered if he ought to apologize for his suspicions, a knock came at the door.

“Anyone home? Young Master Feng… Third Young Master Feng…”

Seizing the chance for a reprieve, Feng Jingzhe quickly jogged out. As he stepped into the front courtyard, he saw a little old man at the gate, rapping the door-ring with a sharp clang.

“This face is familiar… but I can’t quite recall where I’ve seen him…”

The newcomer lit up at the sight of Feng Jingzhe, disheveled and hastily dressed.

“Ah, Third Young Master Feng, you finally appear! Any later, and I’d have thought you’d run off…”

Did this old man have nothing better to do than foul the air at dawn? Why was his mouth so foul?

“Who are you looking for?”

“Third Young Master Feng, you’re truly forgetful. You borrowed money from me just last night—don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten by morning!”

With that, the old man pulled a sheet of paper from his sleeve and spread it out.

“Even if you don’t recognize me, you should recognize this promissory note. Your name is right there in black and white. Look at the handprint—does it jog your memory?”

Feng Jingzhe peered at the document.

Damn it. Not only had his body’s former owner lost more than eighty taels last night—he’d wagered the entire estate.

Marvelous. Wonderful! Fifteen hundred taels! An estate with five successive courtyards mortgaged for a mere fifteen hundred taels.

So much for lying low and enjoying the life of a second-generation layabout—you saddle me with debt right from the start!

Feng Jingzhe nearly spat blood. The bravado from earlier faded, and he forced a smile more pitiful than a sob. He cupped his hands to the old man.

“So it’s Steward Wang in person. Please, do come in for some tea…”

“Tea is unnecessary. I’m here on my master’s orders to collect the deed.”

Steward Wang glanced over the overgrown courtyard, thinking: In this ruin, they’d be lucky to brew grass, let alone tea.

Just then, Li Changsheng emerged from the back, and the moment he heard the words “collect the deed,” his heart clenched as if gripped by an iron hand. Cold sweat drenched his back.

“Young Master! Who is this man? What’s this about the deed?”

“Trust me, you misheard. This fellow is talking nonsense…”

Feng Jingzhe gave Li Changsheng a swift kick, trying to send him back inside.

“Very well, so I’m talking nonsense! Fine, then—produce the fifteen hundred taels and I’ll leave at once.”

Steward Wang had no intention of indulging this pair. His master was set on acquiring this estate.

“What? Fifteen hundred taels! The grand residence of the Nation-Guarding General’s household, mortgaged for a pittance! Young Master, are you tired of living? If the young miss finds out, she’ll bury you alive…”

Li Changsheng clung desperately to Feng Jingzhe’s sleeve, his face ashen with terror.

“Look at you, falling apart over a mere fifteen hundred taels.”

Feng Jingzhe turned to Steward Wang, his forced smile vanishing.

“If I’m not mistaken, the document states the estate is only forfeit if the debt isn’t repaid in a month. Isn’t it a bit irregular for you to collect the deed now, Steward Wang?”

“There’s no need for such formalities! Even if I gave you six months—a year, even—do you expect a crop of silver to grow in this weed-ridden yard?”

Steward Wang sneered coldly. It wasn’t that he looked down on a fourth-rank viscount, but this wastrel named Feng was truly beyond hope.

But just then, this hopeless Third Young Master drew a bright yellow scroll from his waistband, unfurled it, and thrust it directly beneath Steward Wang’s nose…