Damn it, I've ended up inside the very novel I wrote.

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Dressed in a plain blue robe, a small hat, and hemp shoes, having lived in the trash novel he wrote himself for three years, Xia Lin still hadn’t fully adapted to his identity. Every day felt unbearably difficult.

“Why are you spacing out again? Something on your mind?”

The speaker resembled Kong Yiji from Mr. Lu Xun’s stories—a man who insisted on wearing a long gown even while standing and drinking. Officially, Xia Lin was his book attendant, but in reality, they were colleagues. The two were currently helping wash dishes at a banquet held by Madam Wang Er’s family in town.

“Why do you care if I have something on my mind? You’re supposed to be a scholar, aren’t you? Must you drag me here to wash dishes? Won’t you be embarrassed if someone sees us?”

Xia Lin’s tone was sharp, but the young master wasn’t bothered. Instead, he spoke gently to soothe him: “Daosheng, look, we only have three wen left now. That’s not even enough for three buns. Working a day for someone else here can earn five hundred wen, and we can take home some of the leftover food. Why wouldn’t we do such a good thing?”

“If you want to do it, then go ahead. Why drag me along?”

Xia Lin threw the rag into the basin, set aside the cleaned bowls and chopsticks, and the young master rinsed them again with well water. They had been washing dishes here for three days. This wealthy family’s banquet was truly lavish; even Xia Lin, who came from the modern world, found it excessively wasteful. But money talks.

“The Wang family’s young master and I studied at the same academy back then,” the young master sighed lightly. “He’s better off now, with many distinguished guests around him. Me? I’m stuck here in the muck.”

“What are you complaining about?” Xia Lin brought over a basin of dirty plates. “Isn’t this your own doing? Who else can you blame?”

He was right. The young master’s name was Zhang Shuo, courtesy name Zhongchun. Though not from a wealthy family, his talent and skill in painting—especially his peony paintings—were highly admired, even by the imperial consort herself.

But as the saying goes, pride invites disaster. This young man, famous from a young age, didn’t know his limits. At a banquet, after drinking a few cups of horse urine wine, he wrote a poem on his peony painting.

His poetic talent was mediocre at best. Yet one line—“Yesterday in the capital, spring filled every hall, yet none matched the red of Luoyang’s peonies”—was a boastful claim that no flower painters in the capital could rival Zhang Zhongchun of Luoyang.

How did this turn into a literary inquisition? Someone exaggerated the matter. When the poem and painting reached the capital, local scholars took offense at this provincial upstart’s bragging and stirred trouble. The case eventually landed in the hands of the prime minister.

The prime minister thought it trivial, but his faction of students and allies felt provoked. With a wave of his hand, Zhang Zhongchun was dragged into the year’s popular cheating scandal in the imperial examination.

Did he cheat? Of course not. But did that matter? No. The cheating case was a political weapon used by the prime minister against opponents. It involved over 5,800 people, including 3,150 examinees. Zhang Zhongchun was just one among many.

He was stripped of his rank and forever barred from official service. The consequences were tragic: his father died of a heart attack from the disgrace, and his mother, unable to bear it, passed away in the night. The biggest victim, however, was our time-traveling Xia Lin.

Xia Lin had actually crossed into the historical fantasy novel he wrote, but not as the protagonist; instead, he became the book attendant of a destitute scholar with no real connection to the hero, not even a proper name. He was called Zhang Daosheng—‘Zhang’ from Zhang Zhongchun, and ‘Daosheng’ because he was abandoned as a newborn on the roadside during the southward flight of the imperial court.

Daosheng—born on the roadside.

He knew all the future plot developments but after three years here, he deeply understood what helplessness meant. The protagonist of this novel was Ye Liangchen—a name so common that it appeared with a 30% repetition rate on novel websites. That alone showed the nature of this story: fast food literature, garbage even by those standards, and never even signed by a publisher.

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The protagonist Ye Liangchen’s ‘golden finger’ was designed by Xia Lin himself—an ancient trope: he found a cellphone at a pawnshop in Jiangdu, then used its search engine to reach the peak of life, becoming a bona fide "cellphone hero."

If Xia Lin could obtain the cellphone just one step earlier, he could steal the protagonist’s luck and gain titles like "Saint of Chess," "Saint of Music," "Saint of Poetry," "Saint of Lyrics," "Saint of Medicine," and "Saint of Pharmacy"—the ultimate all-rounder.

But Zhang Zhongchun was truly cursed. Though not killed outright, he lost everything and, like his attendant, was dragged down with him. No money was minor; the critical issue was the loss of their good citizen certificates, forbidding them from leaving or entering the city.

Zhang Zhongchun was truly damned!

But now, the situation was dire. Xia Lin was helpless with rage. He knew the protagonist would get the golden finger in less than two months because the imperial examination would reopen then. Ye Liangchen would board a boat in Jiangdu heading north, and at that moment, he would obtain the cheat that would change his life.

The problem was, without money or travel permits, Xia Lin couldn’t reach Jiangdu even if he started walking now. The 1,500-li journey that takes three hours by high-speed train in the future was now an insurmountable gap for many.

Zhang Zhongchun was truly damned!

“Alright, that’s enough for today. Remember to come early tomorrow,” said the Wang family steward, satisfied that the kitchen work was nearly done. He pulled out a bundle of cash and handed it to Zhang Zhongchun. “Your wage is 100 wen a day. This extra is a reward from our madam. Remember to speak well of her when you leave.”

“Yes, yes, we’ll praise her kindness and virtue to everyone we meet.”

The steward didn’t understand the flowery language but was pleased to hear ‘virtue’ repeated often. He smiled and turned to leave, then glanced back at the door. “Check if there’s any leftover food up front. Take some back. Our madam hates waste.”

“Alright, we’ll go now. Many thanks to Madam.”

Zhang Zhongchun smiled and nudged Xia Lin. “Come on, Daosheng. If we’re late, all the good stuff will be gone.”

“You’re supposed to be a scholar—have some dignity,” Xia Lin said with a wry smile. “Don’t look like starving ghosts.”

“Fine, you want dignity. But you didn’t save me any roast duck or lion’s head meat last night.”

“Enough, enough! Let’s go.”

The two, still young and vigorous, rushed ahead when grabbing the dishes. A whole table of reserved food was barely touched; they filled two large basins to take back.

Back at their place, they arranged the food on the table. Zhang Zhongchun propped one foot on the chair, eyes wide in candlelight, stretching his neck to find a chicken leg in the basin.

“Strange, I just saw my chicken leg here.”

“That’s this,” Xia Lin spat out a bone. “Does this look like your chicken leg?”

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“Ugh!” Zhang Zhongchun rolled up his sleeve. “You little servant, how shameless! The young master was eyeing that piece, and now it’s in your mouth.”

Xia Lin took a sip from his cup. “Old Zhang, seriously, do you plan to stay like this forever? Doing odd jobs, eating scraps? You studied for sixteen years.”

That sudden remark broke Zhang Zhongchun’s defenses. He sat quietly, clutching his chopsticks, eyes flickering with emotion. When Xia Lin reached for a lion’s head meatball, Zhang even tried to block him with his chopsticks.

“What else can I do? Do you know what ‘permanently barred from service’ means? I can’t take exams, hold office, or even farm except as a tenant.”

“Hmm, neither can you become a monk or a priest. Those need good citizen certificates, too.”

“You’re got a sharp tongue,” Zhang said with a sigh.

Xia Lin pushed his chopsticks aside and put a meatball into his own bowl. “Just because you can’t, doesn’t mean I can’t. The Huaiyang exams start in two months. Get me a travel permit, and I’ll take the exam.”

“You? You won’t eat my leftovers?”

“I don’t have a case file. If they investigate, we’ll make up a story.” Xia Lin bit the meatball and burned his tongue badly, rolling his eyes as he swallowed. Then he wiped his nose. “Would you rather eat scraps all your life or climb to prime minister and erase that permanent ban? Which sounds easier to you?”

Zhang Zhongchun thought for a moment. “I think I’d rather eat scraps. If you become prime minister, I’d be emperor.”

“Zhang Shuo, don’t forget how you got here. Can’t keep that foul mouth shut, huh?” Xia Lin exploded, pointing at him. “I’m thinking about your future, and you’re playing ‘nine clans elimination’ or whatever. I’ll go burn some tongs to shut your mouth. When you jumped into the river, I shouldn’t have saved you. Let you drown and be done with it.”

“Hey, why get so angry? It’s just us two in this room.” Zhang rubbed his chin, frowning thoughtfully, then suddenly slapped the table. “I’ve got an idea to get us travel permits.”

“What idea?”

Zhang Zhongchun smiled wryly, a rare hint of embarrassment crossing his face. “Go see my father-in-law.”

“Last time he nearly locked you up with the dogs, and you want to go back?” Xia Lin waved a hand. “No way.”

Zhang stood up. “Times have changed. I had pride then; today, I’ll show them the shameless Zhang Zhongchun.”