Transmigrated into a Grandpa, Embracing the Laid-Back Life

The mule cart creaked and jolted over the stone-strewn dirt road, kicking up a cloud of yellow dust.

Zhao Rui sat on a soft cushion, still feeling uncomfortable all over. He lifted the cart curtain and looked at Su Ming walking silently by the roadside, a mocking smile curling his lips.

“Hey, Su Ming, are your legs made of iron? We’ve been walking almost an hour, aren’t you tired?”

Su Ming didn’t turn his head, answering calmly, “I’m fine.”

“What good is saving a few coins on carriage fare? By the time we reach town, you’ll be worn out, how will you study then?” Zhao Rui’s voice dripped with superiority. “Not like me. I conserve my energy, so I’ll be full of vigor when we get to town.”

The driver was an old man in his fifties, surname Qian, hired by Zhao Dequan from the neighboring village. He kept his head down and drove, ignoring the boys’ conversation, the wrinkles on his face deeper than the ruts in the road.

“So far, your choice seems right. Look at that Zhao Rui, like a peacock spreading its tail, afraid no one will notice his bright feathers,” Lin Yu observed calmly.

Just as the mule cart turned a mountain bend, several people suddenly appeared in the middle of the road.

Five burly men blocked their path, chests exposed and darkened. They carried all kinds of weapons—machetes, wooden clubs, and even a rusty firewood knife.

The leader had a scar running from his eye to the corner of his mouth; when he grinned, the scar crawled like a living centipede.Old Qian’s face drained white in an instant; he could no longer grip the whip, and his hands trembled as he halted the mule.

Zhao Rui inside the cart hadn’t grasped the situation yet, and peered out impatiently. “Old Qian, why aren’t you moving? Stop dawdling!”

When he leaned out, his gaze met the malicious eyes of the scar-faced man.

Zhao Rui’s face turned as white as Old Qian’s.

“G—good sirs, what—what is the meaning of this?” Old Qian asked in a trembling voice.

The scar-faced man hoisted his machete, strolled forward, and tapped the cart pole with the blade’s flat. “Nothing special. This road? My brothers and I just fixed it up, filled all the holes. If you want to pass, you owe us some hard-earned money, right?”

“Toll for fixing the road?” Zhao Rui heard clearly from inside the cart, and anger flared in his chest.

He had always been the village bully; he had never suffered such humiliation. He figured these men were common thugs looking to extort money.

“‘Giant Baby ADC’ is getting emotional, showing signs of initiating a group attack! Su Ming, hold him back! Don’t let him speak!” Lin Yu fretted, practically about to combust.

But it was already too late.

Zhao Rui whipped the cart curtain aside, leaped down, his calves trembling but his bravado fully on display.

“Do you know who I am? My father is the village chief of Su Family Village, Zhao Dequan! If you dare touch me, aren’t you afraid my father will report you and have you thrown in jail?”

At those words, the air froze.

Old Qian closed his eyes in despair.

Su Ming’s heart sank to the bottom of his stomach.

The scar-faced man paused, then exchanged glances with his brothers and burst into a thunderous, mocking laugh.

“Hahahaha! Village chief? How terrifying!” the scar-faced man laughed until he seemed to cry. “Brothers, today we’re lucky—we’ve hit a big fish! The son of the village chief!”

“The village chief’s son must be loaded!”

“Strip him and see if the village chief’s child has gold trim!”

The mountain bandits laughed uproariously. The way they looked at Zhao Rui was like looking at a lamb already skinned and cleaned, ready for the pot.

Lin Yu calmly instructed, “Disciple, maintain your poor identity. You’re safer than Zhao Rui now. If anything happens to Zhao Rui, run into the forest immediately.”

Zhao Rui’s face drained of all color. He finally realized that the identity he had boasted about was not a talisman here, but a death sentence.

“What…what do you want?” His voice shook desperately.

“We don’t want anything.” The scar-faced man’s smile vanished; his eyes went cold. “Originally, we’d have been satisfied with eighty or a hundred wen as tea money, get friendly, and move on. But you had to use your village chief father to press down on us.”

He stretched out a big hand like a palm fan, grabbed Zhao Rui by the collar, and hoisted him up.

“I hate people like you the most, always pressing others with your status!”

“Unload this cart! Everything down!”

Two bandits rushed forward, roughly tossing luggage, cushions, and provisions from the cart onto the ground.

Zhao Rui’s ornate case holding brushes, ink, paper, and inkstone was kicked open; its contents were scattered everywhere.

“There’s…money in my bosom…” Zhao Rui wailed, trembling as he pulled out a heavy pouch.

One bandit snatched it, hefted it, and counted through it with bright eyes. “Big brother! Not small! Three or four hundred wen!”

“Search him! Search carefully!” the scar-faced man ordered.

Soon, the purse Zhao Dequan had tucked in for him and the few silver pieces he had hidden in his shoe were all produced.

Two bandits forced Zhao Rui to the ground; his cotton robe was torn to shreds, and he looked as miserable as a beaten rooster.

Throughout, Su Ming stood rooted in place, motionless.

He bowed his head, both hands clenching his little bundle, his body trembling slightly, his eyes filled with fear—perfectly playing the part of a frightened, impoverished youth.

But his hand was always on the skinning knife his Second Brother had given him, hidden in the bundle.

The knife’s cold handle steadied the blood hot in his veins.

He knew that rushing in now would only add another corpse to the tally.

“Lie low. Let him be. The wind brushes the ridge while the strong do as they will; the bright moon shines on the great river while the wicked act as they please,” Lin Yu’s voice hummed in his head like a lullaby. “Your money is your family’s hard-earned sweat and future investment. Zhao Rui’s money is his father’s—money meant to buy lessons. They’re different in nature and value; don’t confuse them.”

The scar-faced man’s gaze finally landed on Su Ming.

He appraised Su Ming from head to toe—his laundry-faded old clothes, the frayed cloth shoes, and the pitiful little bundle.

“Come over here.”

Su Ming stiffened, slowly lifting his head and looking at him with a timid expression.

He shuffled over.

“What’s in the bundle?” the scar-faced man asked.

“Uh…just some hard black wheat buns, and…two old sets of clothes to change into,” Su Ming’s voice was thin as a mosquito’s, trembling with fear.

“Open it. Let me see.”

Su Ming’s hands shook harder as he untied the bundle, revealing dry, hard black wheat buns wrapped in oiled paper.

A bandit reached in and rummaged; aside from a few patched-up clothes, there was nothing else.

“Big brother, just a poor bastard,” the bandit sneered with disgust.

The scar-faced man frowned and looked at Su Ming again.

He saw Su Ming’s eyes.

They held fear and nervousness, but deep within them was an odd calm, like an ancient well that ran deep under a storm.

This wasn’t the look of a stunned child.

The scar-faced man’s chest gave a sudden, inexplicable jolt.

He’d been on this road for over ten years, seen many desperate men, and killed more than one. He had a beastlike instinct.

This shabby kid, unremarkable as he seemed, gave him a faint, indescribable sense of danger.

Like a snake hidden in the grass.

Leave it alone, and nothing happens; move, and someone dies.

“Forget it,” the scar-faced man waved, irritation flaring for no reason. “A penniless kid—what could he have? Bad luck!”

“Let’s go!”

He shot one last vicious glare at Zhao Rui sprawled on the ground, hoisted the stolen goods with his men, and strode off.

Only after the group disappeared over the next ridge did the world regain its deathlike silence.

All that remained were the mule’s anxious whinnies and Zhao Rui’s uncontrollable sobs.

Old Qian slumped to the ground, gasping for breath as if pulled from the water.

Su Ming slowly loosened his grip on the knife handle; his palms were slick with cold sweat.

“Crisis resolved. This social practice class is a success,” Lin Yu breathed out. “Disciple, you applied the core ‘survival’ principle—being poor is the best shield—perfectly avoiding all risk. Class rating: excellent.”

Listening to his master’s summary, Su Ming walked over to Zhao Rui and, seeing him with his face smeared with snot and tears, felt no schadenfreude.

He bent down and quietly picked up the scattered books and brushes, one by one, putting them back into the torn case.

Zhao Rui lifted his head and stared at Su Ming with bewilderment, humiliation, and an undefinable complex mixture of emotions.

He couldn’t fathom why those brutal bandits had taken everything from him yet left this poorer bumpkin untouched.

“Don’t…don’t touch my things!” he suddenly screamed, shoving Su Ming away. He crawled on the ground and clutched the books to his chest like a madman.

Su Ming stumbled but didn’t get angry; he only watched quietly.

After a long while, Zhao Rui’s cries gradually quieted.

He sat on the cold ground, clutching the tattered case like a child abandoned by the world.

Old Qian recovered himself and looked at the ruined mess and the emptied mule cart, grief tearing at him.

“What…what should we do now…how will I report this to the village chief…”

Su Ming walked over to Old Qian, took two black wheat buns from his bundle, and handed one over.

“Old Qian, eat something.”

Old Qian took the hard bun dumbfounded, staring at Su Ming’s calm face. His mouth opened but no words came out.

Su Ming took one bun himself and ate small bites.