Born to Be Either Rich or Noble - Chapter 3

Because of the young man’s sudden change in attitude, the two of them were once again invited back to the teahouse.

This time, there was no burlap sack, no bound wrists—they sat willingly across from their supposed “robber.”

On the cedar table, two more white porcelain cups had been placed. The first spring buds, steeped in boiling water, released a fresh, delicate fragrance that lingered in the air. Through the faint rising steam, the young woman’s pale eyes locked unblinkingly onto the young man’s face.

Her unrestrained gaze was that of someone admiring a prize already in her possession.

The young man had just survived a violent struggle; a few petals and leaves still clung to his hair. Yet his expression remained calm, his eyes as cold as frost, silently resting on the bronze sword in her hand.

Since the current emperor’s ascension, the law had been clear—commoners were forbidden to carry weapons without cause. Anyone caught with one would face a year of imprisonment. Only one kind of person could walk so openly with a sword at his side.

He was a man of arms—a martial escort, perhaps someone who made his living guarding caravans.

The drug she had used on him had almost worn off, and she had witnessed his skill firsthand. Yet Qian Tong made no move to return his sword. Instead, she tucked it into her own arms, right before his eyes.

The worn leather scabbard fell against the folds of her snow-white silk skirt like a shard of shadow sinking into clouds—an oddly arresting contrast. The young man averted his gaze, then lifted his head again to meet hers.

This time, at close range, her face was far clearer than when he’d glimpsed her from upstairs. He had to admit—she was beautiful. Qian Tong found herself momentarily distracted, but not flustered. She politely asked, “May I ask your name, sir?”

Song Yunzhi replied coolly, “Song.”

Beside him, Shen Che shot him a glance—too hastily, perhaps. The two had only agreed to hide their identities and infiltrate the merchant circles, but hadn’t discussed what aliases to use.

The young woman continued watching him, waiting for more. But the young man was as stingy with words as he was proud—after stating his surname, he said nothing further. Qian Tong had no choice but to press, “And your given name?”

“Yunzhen.”

Shen Che’s eyelid twitched.

The Marquis of Song, son of the Grand Princess, was named Song Yunzhi.

Courtesy name: Yunzhen.

In the capital, some addressed him as Lord Song, some as General Song, others as Assistant Minister Song—but few knew his courtesy name.

“Song Yunzhen.” The three syllables rolled lightly off the young woman’s tongue. She repeated them slowly, her tone soft and curious, watching his eyes for any flicker of reaction. But his dark gaze remained calm, as placid as rippling water. Seeing no hint of fear or deceit, she smiled. “A fine name.”

Then she asked, “And your age?”

This time, she caught the faintest ripple in his expression, quickly buried beneath her determined stare. After a brief silence, he replied, “I came of age last year.”

Just as she’d guessed.

“Then…” Her gaze flicked to his face again. His guarded look was obvious. Qian Tong hesitated, then wrapped her hands around her teacup, fingertips tracing the rim before she asked lightly, “Are you betrothed?”

Even faced with a young woman bold enough to kidnap him, Song Yunzhi did not lower his guard. From the moment he’d sat opposite her, every muscle had been poised for deception. His eyes followed her movements down to the pale fingertips resting on the porcelain cup. Her question made his brows knit slightly, his gaze lifting to her face.

Her dark pupils were clear and steady—none of the shyness or hysteria he’d seen in other women who looked at him. Her expression reflected nothing but the shimmer of spring light—no flirtation, no jest.

It seemed she was simply… curious.

But that did nothing to soften his distaste for such a question. His tone was cold and clipped: “What business is that of yours?”

“Mind your manners!” Fu Yin snapped first.

“Insolence!” Shen Che barked after.

Fu Yin looked in disbelief at the disheveled young man who’d suddenly leapt up. Did he not realize he was already neck-deep in danger? She clapped her hands once—coldly. At once, four burly guards pushed open the door and entered, arms crossed over their chests like towering walls, blocking the exit.

Two wandering nobodies, and already they’d offended a pack of local thugs. The Cui family’s men were probably waiting for them outside.

Fu Yin wasn’t afraid of his bluster.

Shen Che, however, measured the situation in silence. The heir’s earlier suspicion was correct—this woman was indeed a formidable local power. Just how far her influence stretched, he wasn’t yet sure. Reckless as he could be, he wasn’t stupid. And so, trusting in Song Yunzhi’s composure, he held his tongue.

The tension stretched taut. Finally, Qian Tong stepped back a little. “Then let’s change the question.” She turned to Shen Che. “What about you, young man? What’s your name?”

He noticed she’d deliberately downgraded his title—from “sir” to “young man.” He hadn’t even had time to invent an alias, so he glanced at Song Yunzhi for help. Thinking fast, he said, “He’s my elder brother. I’m simply Che.”

The heir did not deny the sudden appearance of this “younger brother.” His expression didn’t change.

The young woman continued her questioning, directing it all at Shen Che.

“Where are you from?”
“What do you do?”
“How many are in your family?”

They had already prepared their cover story on the way here, and Shen Che responded smoothly.

“We’re from Jinling.”
“Our family runs a security escort business. But after our father’s passing, we lost our footing there and came to Yangzhou to make a living.”
“Our parents are gone. It’s just the two of us now.”

Qian Tong showed no sign of doubting him. “If it’s only to make a living, then your vision is far too small.”

She adjusted the gold-beaded crown in her hair and continued slowly, “You may not know me, but this teahouse you’re sitting in—it’s mine.”

As she tilted her head, another gleam of gold caught Song Yunzhi’s eye, dazzling him for an instant. Her voice, full of pride, reached him again: “And half the streets outside are mine as well.”

The scent of prey grew thick in the air.

Neither man breathed. In the golden light, Song Yunzhi silently fixed his target: You’re the one I came to investigate.

“I’m not a stingy employer,” Qian Tong said smoothly. “If you follow me, I can guarantee you a house of your own here in Yangzhou within a day.” She pushed a cup toward him. “This cup of spring tea, to commemorate our first meeting, Sir Song.”

Having already been drugged by her once, who would dare drink her tea again?

Song Yunzhi didn’t move.

Qian Tong didn’t mind. She lifted her own cup and drained it. Then, instead of setting it down, she turned it idly between her fingers. “Sir Song, do you recognize this porcelain?”

He had already noticed it during their first encounter—an object of fine craftsmanship, but not one that someone of his assumed station should recognize.

“It’s ‘Snow-Glazed’ porcelain,” she answered her own question. Then, suddenly, she held it out to him. “I’ve had a golden cicada inlaid at the bottom. Tell me, Sir, how much would it fetch in Jinling?”(t/n: “Cicada” or “gu insect” here refers to a type of venomous parasite often used in classical Chinese fiction to symbolize control, poison, or curses.)

Gold inlaid on porcelain—such extravagance. Song Yunzhi wanted to ignore her entirely, but she added with a smile, “If you guess correctly, I’ll return your sword.”

A true warrior should never part from his weapon.

One hand offered the teacup, the other gripped his sword hilt—she was forcing him to reveal something of himself.

No doubt she suspected his identity.

Song Yunzhi leaned forward. His fingers, strong and slender like carved bamboo, brushed past hers as he took the cup she’d already turned over several times.

The golden cicada she spoke of, the size of a soybean, gleamed faintly at the base.

But the instant he focused on it, it twitched. Before he could react, pain shot through his palm.

His pupils constricted. The porcelain cup flew from his hand, shattering against the floor. His gaze snapped up, furious.

Shen Che leapt to his feet. “What did you do to him?!”

“Don’t move,” Qian Tong said calmly, gripping the young man’s wrist to restrain him. Her tone was even—addressed to both brothers. “If the cicada dies, so will your brother.”

Shen Che’s face went pale, eyes darting in panic to the heir’s expression.

Song Yunzhi’s gaze, however, turned glacial, locked on the audacious young woman before him.

Qian Tong, seemingly oblivious to their fury, gently patted his clenched knuckles. “Relax. You’re holding too tightly—it’ll only hurt worse.”

Just as she said, the golden cicada had entered his bloodstream; any exertion made his arm go numb.

Her relentless tricks were infuriating—truly hateful.

“Don’t worry, Sir. The insect only dulls your strength for now—it won’t take your life.” She avoided his eyes, trying to pry his fingers open. When he refused, she simply slid her own slender fingers between his until they were interlocked, forcing his palm flat with a soft snap.

“What are you doing?” His voice turned harsh.

But he couldn’t resist—his strength was gone. And she was determined. Their fingers intertwined, her touch delicate yet firm. She turned his palm upward—there, a pinprick-sized wound oozed a bead of blood. Qian Tong sighed softly. “See? You’ve drawn blood. I told you not to strain.”

Her gentle tone burned through him unexpectedly. He’d never touched a woman before, and the sensation of her fingers against his made his pulse quicken, his face harden.

He was no passive victim. In that moment, he made a decision—he would change his plan. He would not allow this woman to toy with him any longer.

He would kill her.

“All’s fair in war, Sir—you’ve lost this round.” As she spoke, she calmly drew out a silk handkerchief and wiped the blood from his palm. Her tone softened as her gaze met his blazing eyes. “Forgive me. It’s not that I don’t trust you, Sir Song—but people’s hearts are unpredictable. Before I entrust my fate to you, I must hold your life in my hand.”

Her fate?

Had she guessed something?

But she said nothing more, tucking the handkerchief into his palm. “You can’t kill me, Sir. The cicada may not be fatal—but if you don’t take the antidote each month, you’ll still die.”

Certain of her safety, she smiled faintly—the smug smile of a victor.

Song Yunzhi had met many women before.

Most were proper and restrained; even the playful ones never crossed the line. He had never known a woman could be this cunning.

Her elegant bearing and fine clothes were no different from the noblewomen of Jinling—but when she smiled, the mischief glimmering in her pale eyes was almost wicked.

That triumphant look fanned his fury. He wrenched his hand free, bloodied silk fluttering down onto the tea table.

This woman was intolerable.

Shen Che could no longer restrain himself. He raised a hand to strike. “You dare—”

Fu Yin, who had been quietly brewing tea, moved at once. Her grip caught his shoulder mid-blow—fast, ruthless, and precise. Her skill matched his own.

Qian Tong watched the shock and anger flickering in their faces and said evenly, “You can’t kill me either. If I die, your brother dies too.”

Nothing was more effective than holding another’s life hostage.

Now entirely in control, she asked again the question she’d been denied earlier. “Now then, Sir Song, can you tell me?”

He was still seething, her smugness burned into his memory. He swore silently that when the day came and she fell into his hands, she would learn what justice truly meant.

Seeing the flames of hatred in his eyes, Qian Tong didn’t mind repeating herself. “Are you betrothed?”

The young man lifted his eyes. The light struck them just so, amber depths flashing with surprise and caution.

Knowing how difficult he was to tame, she’d used such measures for a reason. Her finger toyed with the bloodstained silk on the table. “Sir Song?” she prompted gently.

Even if he refused to yield to her threats, he still had a mission to complete—and her question cost him nothing.

At last, Song Yunzhi answered, “No.”

The young woman seemed satisfied. Rising gracefully from her cushion, she lifted the bronze sword and held it out to him.

“Take it, my lord. I’ll take you home.”