by Baek Muyeon
History says Dong Zhuo dies in 192. Lü Bu kills him. Then the Dong clan gets exterminated. I knew all of this. Which would have been much more useful if I had not opened my eyes as Dong Zhuo’s nineteen-year-old son. There are worse transmigrations. Few come with such a clear expiration date. Fortunately, the original Dong Yu left me one magnificent inheritance: Everyone already thinks I’m useless. Lazy. Cowardly. Drunk whenever possible. More interested in beautiful women than military affairs. Perfect. All I have to do is protect that reputation, get Mother somewhere safe, gather enough money and food to survive, and avoid every famous man I remember from the Three Kingdoms. Especially Lü Bu. Then Father asked what I wanted. “A small estate.” “Where?” “West.” Li Ru looked at me. “Why west?” “Yuan Shao went east.” The room went quiet. That should have been my first warning. I wanted distance from Yuan Shao. They heard that I had already predicted rebellion. I wanted grain because jewelry is difficult to eat. They heard preparation for famine and war. I counted carts because, at some point, I fully intend to run away. Somehow that was worse. Yesterday, Li Ru thought I was an idiot. Today, he thinks I might have spent nineteen years pretending to be one. Father has started asking for my opinion. Lü Bu has started paying attention to me. And every time I desperately try to prove that I am a cowardly, lazy, womanizing waste of a noble son, everyone becomes a little more convinced that the act itself is part of some terrifying plan. I know how this story ends. I am trying very hard not to be important enough to change it. Unfortunately, the people around me seem determined to promote me into treason.
