Chapter 1: Log

[Please submit your daily work log.]

Mu Qi rolled his eyes at the floating screen hovering mid-air, his face cycling from anger to a blank expression of numbness.

But the damned system was relentless, persistently popping up the window:

[Current mission progress: 0.1%. Please accelerate your progress.]

Mu Qi took a deep breath, flopped face-first onto the bed, and refused to look at the endless barrage of prompts.

“Let it all collapse. I’m done.”

As a shut-in who had only invested in a “trash-talking” talent, Mu Qi would likely regret signing that shady contract for the rest of his life.

Back when the historical live-streaming platform staff persuaded him to sign, they spun tales of endless benefits—promising that upon transmigrating, he would become the heir of a noble Prince in a unified, prosperous dynasty, sitting at the peak of wealth and power, with a golden rice bowl encrusted with diamonds. The live-streaming platform would provide him with comprehensive support, including access to historical records and technical resources, and even allow external assistance—doing everything possible to ensure his success as the protagonist.

Faced with such tempting benefits, who wouldn’t sign? In his dazed state, Mu Qi didn’t have time to scrutinize the fine print and hastily put down his name.

But when the dust settled and there was no turning back after transmigrating, the conniving platform finally revealed the hidden clauses of the contract, showcasing the “minor challenges” attached to his task.

According to the system’s explanation, the mission requirements were actually quite straightforward. The time period Mu Qi had transmigrated into was the late stage of a unified dynasty. The emperor was obsessed with alchemy, corruption plagued the court, governance was in shambles, the treasury was depleted, and signs of decline were becoming increasingly evident. With ongoing factional strife, political apathy, and absurd mismanagement, the entire dynasty—and the civilization of the Central Plains—was destined to face a devastating catastrophe within a century, plunging into a prolonged and painful dark age.

As for the esteemed transmigrator, the chosen agent of the live-streaming platform, his mission was to rescue this collapsing world, reverse the course of civilization, and, as a bonus, secure his name in the annals of history for immortal.

What a grand setting, such an epic mission—thrilling enough, isn’t it?

It’s hard not to feel like Ben Bo Erba being sent to destroy Tang Monk and his disciples.

Mu Qi stared at the briefing, finally understanding why this mission had remained on the live-streaming platform for years.

History isn’t a game; you can’t just solve everything by turning on cheats. After a few days of being brutally pummeled by political bureaucracy, Mu Qi, battered and dazed, repeatedly submitted requests to withdraw from the mission. Of course, the shameless system wouldn’t let such a golden target of its schemes off the hook, dismissing him with various excuses. After hundreds of attempts with no response, Mu Qi’s mental state finally shattered, and he decided to fully embrace apathy.

A mission? Fine, let’s slack off.

Unable to contact the live-streaming platform’s staff to vent his frustration, Mu Qi had a spark of inspiration after some contemplation. Instead of direct confrontation, he unleashed his fury in his daily work logs, mandated for regular review by contract. While pouring out his grievances, he liberally “greeted” the entire platform’s family tree. Customer service could dodge his questions, but how could the audit department ignore such “affectionate” remarks?

Why emo alone when I can drag others into the swamp? Even Ben Bo Erba deserves to share the burden of my emotional garbage!

As usual, today was no exception. After lying in bed for a while and recalling the absurdities of today’s court duties, Mu Qi’s anger boiled over, giving him enough material to rant for a whole month.

He sprang up, fingers flying over the keyboard:

[March 2nd, Daily Question: When will this lousy system ascend to heaven? When will the old wall lamp on the dragon throne finally come over?]

[Today, I was summoned for duty again. Damn it—the sky was dark, I was hungry, and I was sleep-deprived. I can’t take another day in this wretched court. That old wall lamp still looked somewhat human a few years ago, but now, with all the drugs he’s been taking, his skin’s stretched tight, and he’s as insufferable as someone fresh off placenta injections. To top it off, he’s developed the habit of operating nocturnally—court duty starts at 3 a.m.! What kind of gutter-trash system is this? I refuse to coexist with this etiquette!

The process today was as dull as ever. First came Xia Shoufu’s (prime minister Xia) speech, reporting work while throwing in praise for the emperor. Then Yan Ge Lao from the conservative faction followed, mainly praising the Emperor while sprinkling in work updates. Finally, Xu Ge Lao from the reformist faction spoke, mostly quoting scriptures to roast Yan Ge Lao—particularly taking aim at Yan’s son, Yan Donglou, accusing him of being a shameless debauchee and tarnishing the emperor’s virtues. This was the only part of the entire session that kept me awake.

I hear that the infamous “X Bottle Plum” of later generations is based on this Xiao Ge Lao. Is he truly this debauched? I was dozing off a bit on the side, but I was still shocked.]

Mu Qi paused, opened a holographic interface, and glanced at “X Bottle Plum”—because while the system was a disgrace to humanity, it was impeccable in providing resources, even obscure ones like this—then continued typing:

[Anyway, the three old coots licked the emperor’s boots from every conceivable angle while managing to handle a smidge of state affairs. After that, we entered the main event, the part that truly left me flabbergasted: all court officials in attendance were required to assist the emperor in “participating in mystical cultivation,” which is essentially a euphemism for performing spiritual dances.

First, five wrinkled elders whose combined ages probably exceeded the dynasty’s lifespan chanted poems, critiqued each other’s verses, and then donned special headdresses crafted by eunuchs. They burned the poems before celestial idols and performed ritual dances to demonstrate their sincerity.

Yes, you read that right—a bunch of elderly men, too old for square dancing, doing ritual dances to thank the Heavenly Emperor. Were they hoping to fall and extort divine compensation on the spot?

But the worst part was the smoke from burning the poems. The Emperor, in his obsession with grandeur, insisted on using gold-infused cinnabar ink. When burned, it emitted fumes of red, purple, blue, and green—a dazzling yet horrifying display of biochemical monstrosity. And let me remind you, cinnabar releases mercury vapor when burned! If you lot enjoy your heavy metal feast, fine, but must you drag me into it?

Fine, I’ll ask the steward to add an extra jug of milk to dinner tonight—at least it’ll help flush out the heavy metals.]

At this point, Mu Qi’s expression shifted several times before settling into a dark glare directed at the can of milk on his desk. Ever since he witnessed his first ritual burning of cinnabar and copper compounds during court duty, milk and soy milk had become his daily staples. Now, he reeked faintly of dairy, and his stomach occasionally rebelled.

Damn lactose intolerance!

In truth, the Cinnabar was just the tip of the iceberg. Alchemical practices revered metals far beyond lead and mercury. Over the past year, Mu Qi had witnessed countless bizarre substances burned in the Qingliang Hall—silver, tin, antimony, and unidentifiable minerals—all emitting colorful smoke.

What is this? Burning half the periodic table? Is the royal family on a personal vendetta against chemistry? The founding emperor contributed to naming the elements, and now the current one is conducting live experiments with them?

So…

[So, Daily Question: Why hasn’t the old wall lamp turned into a pile of gold coins yet?

This alchemist emperor has been experimenting with lead and mercury for years. Records suggest the Xi Yuan alone uses hundreds of pounds annually. At this dosage, even elephants wouldn’t survive—yet he’s still prancing about, acting like a deranged princess.

Could it be that the Taoists really achieved immortality? Is this some kind of miracle of life? 

Your Majesty, you’re truly the superhero of the chemical and medical fields!

Who knows, if I stay here a few more years, collect enough data, and write an “Observational Report on the Emperor’s Medication,” I might even get published in top journals!

Though I’m not sure if this aligns with medical ethics… Technically, subjecting even lab monkeys to this dosage would be grounds for animal cruelty lawsuits.]

I wonder if Gaozu Taizong would be so angry that they’d roll in their graves.

…Forget it; why waste my time worrying about this? Does it affect my ability to lay back and relax? However, since the court politics are so disgusting, let me share a big joke from Da’an as usual:

One day, Yan Ge Lao and Xu Ge Lao made a bet. Yan Ge Lao claimed that his hometown had strong youths who could run a thousand miles in a day, while Xu Ge Lao claimed that his hometown had a divine doctor who could revive the dead.

 Xu Ge Lao demanded proof, so Yan Ge Lao consulted with his son. The young minister said, “This is easy. Just let the person named Xu bring the divine doctor, and have the doctor revive Emperor Gao from Jinling. It won’t even take a day, and then, Father, you can run to Ryukyu with Xu Ge Lao!”

“Of course, if you don’t want to run with Xu Ge Lao, you could also revive Emperor Wuzong. That way, the current emperor would be flying faster than both of you!”

After typing the last few words with a clatter, Mu Qi let out a long breath, feeling finally at ease. He checked for any typos and, without hesitation, clicked “Submit.”

The report had two copies: one would be sent to the task reviewer for a thorough barrage of nonsense; the other would be posted to the task exchange forum to gain traffic and hopefully earn a little experience. If it weren’t for the guidance of predecessors who had crossed over, Mu Qi might have already suffered a lot in the chaotic political scene and wouldn’t even have the chance to slack off.

However, after pressing the submit button, the upload page froze and failed to refresh. There was even a system crash. The system had explained that the review server was on the brink of collapse and asked Mu Qi to reduce the submission load, but Mu Qi wasn’t moved. Aside from his usual disdain for the live-streaming company’s terrible hardware, he naturally increased the frequency of submissions.

What a joke. You think you can escape the flood of nonsense by creating a bug?

Today was no different. Mu Qi merely rolled his eyes at the frozen page and then collapsed onto the bed without another thought.

March 2nd, 3 AM.

In the secluded room of Qingliang Hall, everything was silent except for the Emperor’s long and slow breathing, rising and falling in an oddly coordinated rhythm.

As a seasoned practitioner of immortality for more than ten years, the Emperor, who was also the Feixuan Zhenjun Qingxu and the Liuhe Gong of the Five Thunders Dazhenren, wasn’t casually meddling in cultivation. This time, in his closed-door training, he had been focusing on the South China Taoist techniques passed down in his family, practicing meditation and breathing exercises eighty-one times each day. Once the white light before him appeared like the fullness of the moon, he would know it was time.

According to the Taoist priests the Emperor trusted, this method of cultivation would take seven days to show results. However, perhaps because Feixuan Zhenjun had an extraordinary nature and innate wisdom, today, after only a few cycles of breathing, the white light before him began to appear, flickering brightly. It wasn’t just like a full moon, but it seemed to give the Emperor a pair of old immortal eyes that almost shed tears.

Emperor Qingxu slowly opened his eyes and saw blinding white light in mid-air, with occasional sparks flashing.

…Wait, why is there a sun in the middle of the night?

The Emperor stared blankly at the light in the air; he wasn’t doubting his cultivation, but which method had ever mentioned creating a ball of white light in the air at the final stage? And why were strange messages like “upload error” and “data overflow” popping up in the light?

He had read all the Taoist scriptures, but this didn’t look like anything from the immortal world.

Had the Taoist gone mad?

The Emperor was still stunned and didn’t know what to think, watching as the white light suddenly disappeared and a black book fell from the air, landing in front of the Emperor’s meditation cushion with a soft thud.

When the book landed, the Emperor shivered and quickly realized, although everything seemed off, this book falling from the heavens must surely be a divine omen, a sign of heaven’s decree.

Wasn’t Song Zhenzong’s heavenly book also delivered in a similar way?

…Alright, maybe the comparison to Song Zhenzong is a bit far-fetched. But regardless, this heavenly book was a good omen, which meant what? It meant the Emperor had virtue!

Since he had virtue, had the Taoist finally succeeded?!

The Emperor was ecstatic at the thought of the Taoist’s success, but there was no one around, no close eunuchs like Li Zaifang to flatter him with praises or compose an impromptu poetic tribute. That moment of ecstasy felt strangely lonely.

But it didn’t matter. The Emperor didn’t plan to share this moment of divine enlightenment with anyone. He wanted to be alone with the great moment of connecting with heaven and earth.

His face flushed with excitement, he took a deep breath of true qi, used the energy he had cultivated for decades to calm his erratic heart, then washed his hands briefly, bowed respectfully to the book, and carefully opened the mysterious, unexplainable divine book.

The Emperor took a deep breath, kneeling closer to the moonlight, ready to seriously study the will of heaven. But when he opened the book, he saw the four characters on the cover:

“Work Log”

Feixuan Zhenjun carefully remembered the name of the heavenly book and opened the first page:

“Error 404 not found. Server delivery issue; please try again later.”

The Emperor: ??!!

What the hell is this? Is this what it feels like to read a heavenly book? This is nothing like the records in the Taoist scriptures!

The Emperor, stunned, paused to think for a moment, then decided to hand this heavenly book over to a few disgruntled scholars in the court for interpretation. He would also order them to write a congratulatory tribute to the Saint Emperor’s heavenly mandate and decree and submit it within three days.

Such a great divine event should be shared with the court, so everyone can acknowledge the Emperor’s joy!

The Emperor was satisfied with his decision and opened the second page:

“Daily Question: After taking so many pills, why hasn’t the old wall lamp exploded into gold coins? By the way, when he gets up at night, beep—beep—will it change color?”

The Emperor: !!!

—What?!

All that can be said is that the Emperor’s cultivation, which he had painstakingly developed since his teenage years, was no joke. After briefly seeing such absurd, unruly, and nonsensical words, he managed to suppress the surge of blood from his chest, preventing himself from fainting on the spot.

“To still have such power in their forties or fifties, truly impressive.”

The Feixuan Zhenjun glared with bloodshot eyes, gritting his teeth, his whole body trembling. 

His hands shook as he continued flipping through the rebellious demon book. If the old wall lamp at the beginning was just an appetizer, then the various strange and absurd sarcastic remarks and odd comments that followed were truly a series of increasingly devastating blows, making the emperor’s face flush, his nostrils flare, and the veins on his forehead burst one after another. Even his neck had thickened several circles.

Finally, after reading the last of the court jokes, the Zhenjun could no longer bear it. He grabbed the demon book and flung it into the air, letting out a sharp, inhuman shriek:

“Rebellion!”

Inside the imperial palace, the Chief Eunuch of the Inner Court, Li Zaifang, sat cross-legged outside the emperor’s meditation chamber, eyes closed, focused on gathering his energy. He was waiting for the sound that signified the return of His Majesty, the Clear Emperor, the prince of Feixuan.

Although his status was extraordinarily high, able to balance power with the senior ministers, in essence, Li Zaifang was still just a humble servant raised by the emperor. No matter how busy the imperial affairs were, it was the eunuchs’ duty to attend to their lord without slack. The chief eunuch, always busy and worried about everything, could only find a moment’s respite when the emperor was in seclusion.

After all, everyone in the palace knew that when the emperor was in meditation, even urgent national matters could not be disturbed. The palace staff could take the opportunity to rest.

Li Zaifang’s face twitched slightly, and he suddenly opened his eyes.

Despite the excellent soundproofing of the chamber, he seemed to hear a sharp and jarring cry, so unpleasant it sounded like claws scraping on an iron pot.

“Where did that wild cat come from?” The chief eunuch scolded unhappily. “Don’t they know this is the sacred space of the Lord’s meditation?”

He looked up, only to see the two little eunuchs in front of him with faces as if they had seen a ghost—along with the sound of porcelain shattering.

Li Zaifang sucked in a cold breath, quickly scrambling up from the floor, and burst through the doors.

“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!”