Indeed, success and fame had nothing to do with him, and he had never known love.
Yet, just as the ancient sages had said: a bowl of rice, a gourd of drink, living in a shabby lane, yet never losing one's joy.
Give up all that can be given up, and naturally, one can obtain all that can be obtained.
Fame, fortune, love—these seemed indispensable, but they were merely the choice of most people, not the only path.
For so many years, Zhao Cheng had delighted in this way of life. Though many people close to him had tried to persuade him otherwise, Zhao Cheng had not changed in the slightest.
As for what he gained, it was not merely the joy of tranquility. In the years that followed, Zhao Cheng had scarcely ever fallen ill. Even time itself seemed to leave no mark on him. Though he was already in his thirties, at a glance he still looked barely over twenty.
His bearing and aura were also clear and limpid, unclouded by much impurity.
Meanwhile, some of the friends who had urged him otherwise in his earlier years had all grown old quickly, their former carefree grace long gone.
Endless overtime, troubles at work, trivial burdens of life—they complained that their wives and children were distant, while their wives and children complained that they were always at work. Their lives had fallen apart.
Before transmigrating, Zhao Cheng had undoubtedly lived at ease.
Then he transmigrated. When he awoke from a single night's sleep, he discovered that he had actually been reincarnated into another life, with a new identity and even a different human world.
And the moment he arrived, he was already facing a life-or-death crisis.
Fortunately, his life before transmigration had tempered his mind. During the process of