The affairs of state lie in rituals and defense. So too for noble families.
No one could remember exactly when the city's triumvirate began regularly attending the Cheng family's ancestral ceremonies. At the height of the Chengs' influence, even provincial officials would attend.
Of course, the Cheng family no longer possessed their former splendor as a great aristocratic house, though they still commanded considerable prestige in Shaonan City. With Prefect Cheng Yuan'an (Cheng Jinzhou's father), Chief Secretary Cheng Yuanquan, and Sacred Hall Master Cheng Huafu—all Cheng family members—in attendance, the ancestral worship day became an unofficial holiday for government offices and sacred halls alike.
Like most in the city, Cheng Jinzhou crawled out from under warm blankets while the sky still hung black.
Four maids who had risen earlier hurried to prepare him—dressing him in robes and boots, washing his face, and meticulously arranging every strand of hair. Had Cheng Jinzhou not objected, they would have powdered his face with a whitening paste made from animal fat.
Red lanterns hung outside every doorway, their bean-sized wicks casting dim light that barely illuminated the peeling paint on the walls.
When families flourished, overconfident patriarchs inevitably undertook grand construction projects, convinced their prosperity would endure—or at least hoping it might. Yet inevitably, descendants would one day struggle to afford even basic maintenance.
The Chengs fared better than most. With salaried family members contributing, they maintained a rough financial balance. Still, their sprawling estate covering thousands of acres couldn't be regularly maintained. Even for ancestral rites, little remained to refurbish less visible rear quarters.
Fortunately, this didn't disrupt daily life.
Cheng's mother rose even earlier than her son. Her sixteen-piece ceremonial robes required thirty minutes to don properly. To prevent the seven hair ornaments from clinking impolitely, maids discreetly inserted additional supports into her coiffure. Even the attendant waiting to accompany her wore entirely new garments, carrying parasols and replacement items—outfitted like a World War II American soldier.
Cheng Jinzhou suppressed a chuckle as he obediently trailed behind his mother, stealing glances at his supposedly sickly father.
Prefect Cheng Yuan'an cut an imposing figure—just past thirty, in his prime, with a beard adding gravitas to his features. This appearance helped ease Cheng Jinzhou's psychological transition.
In the month since his transmigration, Cheng Jinzhou had rarely seen his so-called father. The prefect clearly prioritized career above all—common among nobility, though Cheng found such existence dull. For a man holding combined mayoral and party secretary roles, Cheng Yuan'an maintained surprising modesty with minimal questionable income, suggesting higher ambitions. Yet having only one concubine—his wife's former maid—made him seem almost prudish among peers.
What truly irked Cheng Jinzhou was his father's neglect. As a leading city official, Cheng Yuan'an's erudition was unquestionable, yet he couldn't consistently monitor his son's studies, let alone provide proper instruction. The original sickly Cheng's academic shortcomings owed partly to this neglect, forcing the transmigrated Ph.D. to start from scratch. Worse, as a prefect's son, he lacked expected privileges—an intolerable situation for any transmigrator.
Today, Cheng Yuan'an appeared particularly solemn. Noticing his son, he nodded slightly. "Keep responses brief during the ceremony. No fidgeting. Understood?"
The admonishing tone drew a noncommittal grunt from Cheng Jinzhou, who had no interest in confrontation.
When no further instructions came, Cheng's mother cheerfully took her son's hand. "We're running late. Let's go."
Cheng Yuan'an led the way as the trio boarded a four-wheeled carriage, his concubine following in a two-wheeled cart behind.
In the Great Xia Dynasty, only those with scholarly honors or titles could ride in two-horse carriages or palanquins carrying multiple bearers—exceptions were rare.
Cheng's carriage wasn't built for speed. This ceremonial vehicle, constructed entirely from hardwood with a cabin exceeding ten square meters, prioritized sturdiness over mobility. Though suspension systems remained unknown, the Cheng family's well-paved roads ensured their masterfully crafted wooden wheels rolled smoothly.
At slow speeds with such craftsmanship, the carriage's comfort surpassed that of twenty-first century budget cars.
Perhaps this relentless pursuit of perfection contributed to ancient China's technological stagnation—master artisans compensating for technical limitations with sheer skill.
The two white stallions clip-clopped forward. After a single shout, the driver fell silent. Cheng's mother adjusted her attire before instructing her son on ceremonial protocols—every step and kowtow position. Though these were lessons from etiquette classes, Cheng paid attention; the original owner's memories remained imperfect.
The short journey served more for display than transportation. Only when outside noise grew did Cheng's father murmur, "You're twelve now. You must learn to make your own decisions."
This cryptic statement hung in the air until the steward's breathless announcement: "Young Master, Madam, Third Young Master—we've arrived."
Cheng's mother blinked in confusion before following her husband.
Stepping out, Cheng Jinzhou instinctively shielded his eyes from the sudden brilliance.
Though dawn hadn't broken, countless candles illuminated the main estate like a night-time football stadium.
"That's hundreds of taels worth of candles," Cheng thought, recalling how Western Jin Dynasty aristocrat Shi Chong famously burned candles instead of firewood to flaunt his wealth—a display the Chengs now surpassed.
"This way, please." Servants stationed before silk curtains began guiding guests.
The flagstone road was lined with two-horse carriages and rare eight-bearer palanquins. Further back stood simpler two-bearer sedan chairs and two-wheeled carts. Few arrived on horseback, leaving the parade ground stables oddly empty.
The Cheng ancestral hall's early relocation to the city testified to both the family's long history and shifting priorities.
Initially, the enshrined ancestors had aspired to establish themselves in the capital. Following tradition, the hall remained in their ancestral village.
But modern Chengs had long abandoned imperial capital ambitions. After security incidents, they moved the hall—not to the capital, but to distant Shaonan.
Cheng Jinzhou mimicked his father's measured gait. With only family present, conversation flowed casually, his mother smiling throughout.
Meanwhile, the transmigrated scholar focused on observing boys his age. His future happiness in this household would largely depend on peer relationships.
Here, the original sickly Cheng had left him nothing but his status as the direct-line grandson.