Chapter 1: The Omen of Misfortune (Please Collect.)

On the twentieth day of the twelfth month, in the Rongguo Mansion, Jude Lane, West City of the Divine Capital.

The sky was gloomy; snow had fallen all day, coating the window lattices of the western chamber in white flakes.

The dry window paper could not keep out the cold; the room was icy through and through.

The room held only a desk with a chipped corner and an old wooden bed.

Before the bed stood a zelkova wood sleeping platform; opposite it, on a bare wall, hung an ancient qin.

All the furniture was worn and broken; nothing else remained in the room—like a snow cave, steeped in poverty and plainness.

At the desk by the window, a thin boy sat writing with a brush, occasionally lifting his hand to his mouth to blow warm breath on his fingers.

A few dried sticks of charcoal smoldered in the brazier on the floor, their dim red glow mingling with wisps of gray smoke that made one dizzy.

The boy rose, leaned on the desk, and cracked the window open a sliver; a gust of cold wind slipped in, making him shiver.

Yet he left the gap open—inhaling charcoal fumes was no joke.

Wang Shanbao’s wife, ever watchful of her masters’ moods, dared not deny Jia Cong charcoal; if he froze to death, she could not cover it up.

Aunt Zhao had no reply; though sharp-tongued, she knew Zhi Shao had good intentions—this was said for her own good.

After the eastern wing was built, this small courtyard was slightly repaired and turned into a storage shed for the eastern wing’s clutter.

She wore a light green silk padded jacket, over which hung a faded blue satin vest, and a gray-green sweat-cloth tied at her slender waist.

The wet nurse Aunt Zhao gritted her teeth: “Wang Shanbao’s wife has dog’s eyes—our Third Master is a proper master.”

“Zhi Shao, do you still have any bamboo charcoal left from a few days ago? This firewood charcoal stinks.”

“We used up the last of it yesterday. I went to Wang Shanbao’s wife for more, but she said the cold weather meant all the good charcoal was gone—only firewood charcoal remained.”

Zhi Shao pouted: “Mama, grumble all you want in the courtyard, but don’t go gossiping outside—don’t bring trouble on Third Master.”

Fortunately, whoever lived here knew how to keep things tidy; inside and out, it was clean and plain.

The maid Zhi Shao hurried forward to help the boy sit down; she was a few years older, and her slender, youthful beauty was beginning to show.

No silver frost charcoal, not even inferior bamboo charcoal—just kitchen firewood charcoal to mock us. What a heartless old hag.”

He had grown up all his life in this cramped courtyard, which had only three side rooms, two of them piled high with years-old clutter.

But I heard the western mansion just received a thousand jin of silver frost charcoal and two thousand jin of bamboo charcoal—Lady Lian even sent many to Grand Master Jia. How could it be gone in just a day or two?”

The Divine Capital lies in the north; winter is bitterly cold. Charcoal for warmth and food in bowls are equally vital for surviving the season.

Jia Cong knew Wang Shanbao’s wife was Lady Xing’s personal attendant, as sharp and cruel as her mistress.

Seeing Jia Cong’s stiff body, Zhi Shao frowned and placed a soft cloth pad on the chair.

In the opulent Rongguo Mansion, no place was more decrepit than this.

The eastern wing, where General Jia She resided, had been built by partitioning off a section of the Rongguo Mansion’s rear garden.

But giving low-grade firewood charcoal to smoke this whore-born brat half to death? That suited Lady Xing’s wishes—she’d be pleased.

It had once been a resting spot for laborers hauling earth and building walls.

This small courtyard was the first structure built during the eastern wing’s construction, used to store bricks, tiles, and tools.

I nursed a young master, yet ended up living like this—how can there be any justice in this household?

Zhi Shao murmured reproachfully: “Third Master, your wounds aren’t fully healed—why aren’t you resting on the kang? Why force yourself to write now? You’ll give yourself a lasting illness.”

Jia Cong smiled bitterly inside—he had been a researcher at a provincial museum just twenty-some days ago, working late one night, when a car ran a red light and flung him into the air.

When he woke, he was Jia She’s illegitimate son, Jia Cong, in the Rongguo Mansion.

According to the maid Zhi Shao, that day had been Jia She’s birthday; Jia Cong had gone to his father’s courtyard to kowtow, somehow knocked over and shattered Jia She’s purple jade scepter inlaid with seven treasures.

The purple jade scepter was a recent acquisition, said to be worth a fortune, and the couple treasured it dearly—now Jia Cong had broken it.

Lady Xing, who prized wealth above all, trembled with grief, screaming she wanted to beat the ill-omened brat to death.

Jia She had despised this son since the day he was born.

Now that he’d destroyed his treasure, and his wife’s wailing stirred his wrath, his hatred flared.

He summoned the servants outside the second gate, had them pin Jia Cong down, and ordered a beating.

Jia Cong had always been despised in the mansion—no servant, not even a cat or dog, held him in regard.

Jia She cursed nonstop, shouting to beat him to death—better if he died.

The servants who administered the beating held back somewhat, but dared not go too far—he was still a direct heir; killing him would cost their lives.

Finally, Jia She, still furious, snatched the paddle himself and delivered several brutal blows.

He beat Jia Cong until skin split and blood sprayed everywhere.

When Aunt Zhao in Jia Cong’s room heard the news and rushed over, she found him lifeless; they carried him back and worked frantically to revive him.

He was a hardy soul—he lived. But no one knew this Jia Cong was no longer the same Jia Cong.

…

In his past life, due to his profession and interests, he had studied Dream of the Red Chamber closely.

Jia Cong appeared only a few times in the novel—briefly mentioned, nothing more than a background figure.

But he was still a legitimate grandson of the Rongguo Mansion. Though Jia She was a vile man, the old saying went: even tigers don’t eat their young. He never imagined Jia She could be so cruel to his own son.

He had spent half a month recovering in his room, and fragments of the original Jia Cong’s memories slowly returned.

From Zhi Shao and Aunt Zhao, he learned many old stories, and pieced together the truth.

Jia Cong’s mother was a courtesan from Jin Yun Pavilion in the Divine Capital; famed for her beauty, she was forcibly bought by Jia She before she even took a client.

In the Rong and Ning mansions, concubines were either from humble families or household servants elevated for their looks.

A woman of Jia Cong’s mother’s background was utterly disgraceful—only Jia She’s lust and folly could have brought such a woman into the Jia household.

Later, the woman gave birth to Jia Cong, only to find the child was a hardy soul.

She was well when she delivered him, but died suddenly the next day—the doctor said she had been constitutionally weak, lost her vital essence, and bled out; she was simply unlucky.

But stranger things followed: the maid who assisted the midwife slipped and fell in the garden, hitting her head on a rock and dying instantly.

Finally, the midwife herself, after collecting her reward, happily headed home—only to be kicked to death by a startled horse on the road.

What strange fate—those who helped bring Jia Cong into the world all died one after another. The household was terrified; everyone knew Third Master Jia was an ill-omened, hardy soul.

Finally, the old lady of the western mansion issued a stern order: any servant or attendant who spread such talk would be bound and beaten to death.

The strangest coincidence: Jia Cong had not yet reached his first week when Rongguo Duke Jia Daishan died of illness. Though unrelated, suspicion arose—he seemed to have cursed even his own grandfather.

The old lady had always disliked her eldest son for his lust and recklessness, favoring her second son, who was serious and studious.

Now her eldest son had taken a courtesan as a concubine and sired such a cursed, ill-omened brat—killing many, turning the Jia family into a laughingstock among the noble houses of the Divine Capital, bringing great shame upon them.

The old lady, who cherished face above all, was furious, compounded by the grief of her husband’s death. Her eldest son’s debauchery and baseness were unbearable; had it not been for the iron law of primogeniture and Jia Daishan’s final petition,

She might well have given the title to her second son instead.

In the end, she gritted her teeth and let Jia She inherit the title of First-Rank General, banished him to the eastern wing to live alone, so she wouldn’t have to see him.

…

Jia She was a lecher; any woman in the mansion with even a hint of beauty, good or foul, he dragged into his bed—what affection could such a man have?

He had only coveted the courtesan’s beauty; once the novelty faded, he lost interest.

He never expected she’d bear him such a cursed, ill-omened son—not only shaming him but turning his mother against him, driving him out of the Rongguo Mansion in all but name.

He felt no guilt himself—he saw this son as a jinx, a curse on his life, and wished him dead.

Lady Xing came from a petty family; she fawned on her husband, craved wealth, and spent every thought on money—how to pinch, how to steal, how to hoard.

She cared nothing for human relations; this son of a courtesan was beneath contempt—less than the mud on the second gate’s threshold.

The old lady did favor good-looking grandchildren, but Jia Cong’s birth brought such ill fortune, and his mother was so base—she could not help but despise him.

Besides, she was wealthy, long-lived, the pillar holding up both mansions; no one dared bring this ill-omened child near her, lest it shorten her life.

Thus, from childhood, Jia Cong had rarely appeared before the old lady; she could not even recall his face.

Where the top leads, the bottom follows. The servants and maids knew how to read the wind; behind his back, they mocked the motherless boy—this true master lived worse than the maids by Lady Xing’s side.

Jia She and Lady Xing cursed and beat this vile jinx every three days, every five days—everyone in the eastern wing knew it, but kept quiet, avoiding any word reaching the western mansion.

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