It’s laughable that after a century of the Great Zhou Dynasty, it crumbled due to the decline of the royal heirs. Not only did a fool ascend the throne, but also a eunuch seized great power. Wu Jing found himself in the shoes of the last imperial son of the Great Zhou, a recently crowned emperor who was perceived as a fool. He watched as people took advantage of his ignorance, serving him a meager meal of vegetables and plain rice. Fists clenched, he grew angry. Outside the palace hall, palace maids gossiped: “That little emperor is quite handsome.” “If only he weren’t a fool.” “The Ninth Thousand Years probably won’t tolerate the restored normal emperor sitting in this position.” Wu Jing felt deflated. He had to swallow his pride and continue pretending to be a fool. Until one day, as he passed by the imperial garden, he accidentally saw the unpredictable and ruthless Ninth Thousand Years, known for killing without blinking, wearing a crane-patterned court robe. The red sleeves draped gracefully on the ground. The Ninth Thousand Years squatted down, revealing a side profile with a smiling expression, extending a slender hand, feeding… a wild cat! This cat was one of the wild cats in the imperial garden. The next day, at the same spot, he saw the Ninth Thousand Years feeding a limping stray dog. The third encounter was in the imperial study. Wu Jing sat stiffly on the grand dragon throne, with a eunuch beneath his feet, a ten-year-old who accidentally spilled tea on the Ninth Thousand Years’ robe, now frantically bowing. Blood streamed down his face. After a moment, someone came to take the little eunuch away, but the man sitting in the chief minister’s chair suddenly spoke in a gentle tone, “Forget it, he’s just a child.” Wu Jing shifted his black eyes. Ning Qinghong turned his gaze, “Your Majesty, please let me review your lessons during this time.” “Gurgle—” Wu Jing awkwardly looked at his stomach, a sudden insight striking him. The semi-grown teenager tilted up a pretty little face, his black eyes innocent, “Brother, I’m hungry.” Ning Qinghong narrowed his eyes slightly, picked up a pastry, “Come here.” He fed the little emperor like he was feeding a kitten, coaxing him to finish. Rumors spread that the Ninth Thousand Years suffered from a mental illness. Sometimes smiling, sometimes cruel and tyrannical. Wu Jing, who regretted hugging this thigh too late, hid in the wardrobe of the sleeping palace, hearing calls from outside. Ning Qinghong, with a cold face, spoke in an oddly soft tone, “Wu Wu, aren’t you hungry?”