I'll steal Gao Qiu's life and lead the Song Dynasty to prosperity.

In May of the second year of Yuanfu (646 AD), at the Zhao residence in Bianjing (Kaifeng).

"My lord, you can't catch it!"

Zhao's servant, Afu, hurriedly stretched out his arms.

The ball slipped past his fingertips by half an inch and rolled into the grass beside the bluestone path.

"Ah Fu, this is the thirteenth time. You should really put your heart into it."

Zhao Mingcheng stopped what he was doing, put his hands on his hips and took a breath, his forehead already covered in fine beads of sweat.

With a long face, Afu pulled the ball out of the grass and carefully wiped it with his sleeve.

"My lord, your footwork is too tricky, I really can't keep up..."

"I'm not telling you to follow along, I'm telling you to remember."

Zhao Mingcheng took the ball, performed an ATW move from freestyle football, and then connected with various freestyle moves.

"Did you see the Flowing Clouds Triple Strokes I just performed? The key is the connection between the shoulders, knees, and insteps, and the proper way to release the force."

"If you were to push the ball straight up with your shoulder, it could fly three zhang (approximately 10 meters) away."

Zhao Mingcheng then demonstrated it again.

The ball traced a gentle curve in the air, seemingly becoming a drifting cloud.

Afu stared, his eyes wide.

"Young master, where did you learn this skill? Just half a month ago you were..."

"What else?" Zhao Mingcheng raised an eyebrow.

"Still, still..." Afu shrank his neck, unsure how to organize his thoughts.

Two weeks ago, my husband was definitely not like this.

At that time, Zhao Mingcheng spent his days buried in rubbings of bronze and stone inscriptions and piles of ancient books. He could talk for half a day about the patterns on bronzes from the Three Dynasties and the brushwork of Qin and Han dynasty stone inscriptions.

Should we let him try playing Cuju (ancient Chinese football)?

That's absolutely impossible.

But everything changed after that high fever two weeks ago.

After his fever subsided, Zhao Mingcheng seemed like a completely different person.

Jinshi continued his studies as usual, but he practiced Cuju (ancient Chinese football) for half an hour every day without fail, and his footwork was so exquisite that it seemed as if he had been practicing since he was born.

Even more remarkably, Zhao Mingcheng earned the nickname "Liuyun Jushi" (Flowing Cloud Scholar) at the Imperial Academy because of this unique skill, which amazed even several professors.

"Ah Fu, people always have to learn to be flexible."

"Especially after...having had a great dream."

As Zhao Mingcheng spoke, he tossed the ball up, gently tapped it with his forehead, bent his waist backward, and the ball landed steadily on his chest.

Afu didn't understand, but Zhao Mingcheng knew very well—it wasn't a dream, but another complete life.

In that distant yet incredibly real world, he was a university professor teaching Song Dynasty history, and also a die-hard football fan who had been playing since elementary school.

On weekends, I either spend my time in the archives researching information or watching games at the sports field. I often go to the amateur sports field to play a few rounds of football.

After an accident, when he opened his eyes again, he was Zhao Mingcheng, nineteen years old, in the second year of the Yuanfu era of the Song Dynasty.

At first, he thought it was a hallucination, but when he saw the young face in the bronze mirror and felt the real texture of the rubbings on the desk, he finally accepted the fact.

He, a historian specializing in the Song Dynasty, became one of the subjects of his research.

And it was none other than Zhao Mingcheng, who was known in history as an epigrapher and remembered by later generations as Li Qingzhao's husband.

"Mingcheng!"

A loud and clear call suddenly came from the front yard.

Zhao Mingcheng's hand trembled, and the ball almost slipped from his grasp.

He winked at Afu, who immediately understood, took the ball, and retreated to the side under the locust tree, standing with his hands at his sides.

The footsteps approached from afar. The newcomer was dressed in a dark blue official uniform, wearing a right-angled turban, and appeared to be about fifty years old, with three neatly trimmed long beards.

He was Zhao Mingcheng's father.

Zhao Tingzhi, who was then serving as a drafter in the Imperial Secretariat.

Zhao Tingzhi walked into the courtyard with his hands behind his back. His gaze first swept over Afu, who was standing at attention with his hands at his sides, and then fell on the beads of sweat on his son's forehead and his slightly disheveled clothes. His brows furrowed.

"Making those toys again?"

Zhao Tingzhi looked displeased.

"I remember you were discussing the supplement to the *Jinshi Lu* with me just half a month ago. Now, you spend all your time playing football. Have you even reviewed your studies at the Imperial Academy? The grand examinations are just around the corner next year, and you..."

"Father," Zhao Mingcheng bowed respectfully, his tone neither hurried nor slow.

"I have been practicing this skill so diligently for the sake of my future."

"Future prospects?" Zhao Tingzhi seemed to have heard a joke, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.

"What future is there in Cuju (ancient Chinese football)? Mingcheng, you're a student at the Imperial Academy, not a Cuju performer from a theater!"

"My Zhao family has been a family of scholars for generations. Your grandfather was a Jinshi (a successful candidate in the highest imperial examinations), and so was your father. Are you trying to bring down our family's reputation?"

Zhao Tingzhi's words were harsh, and Afu, who was playing with Zhao Mingcheng, lowered his head even further, wishing he could shrink into the ground.

Zhao Mingcheng smiled slightly, walked to the stone table, poured a cup of tea and served it to his father.

"Father, please calm your anger and let me explain. In three days, there will be a gathering of students from the Imperial Academy and members of the imperial family at Yichun Garden. Are you aware of this?"

"Of course I know." Zhao Tingzhi took the teacup, his tone softening slightly. "But so what? It's nothing more than composing poems and enjoying the flowing wine cups. What's the point of you practicing Cuju (ancient Chinese football)?"

"It's different, Father. This gathering is divided into civil and military sections, and the grand finale of the military section is the Cuju (ancient Chinese football) match."

"At that time, the Imperial Academy and the Imperial Clan will send people to compete. It is uncertain whether the Emperor will come, but even if he does not, His Highness Prince Duan will definitely be there."

Upon hearing this, Zhao Tingzhi paused slightly in his tea-serving hand.

Prince Duan, Zhao Ji, was the half-brother of the current Emperor Zhezong and the most beloved son of Empress Dowager Xiang. At the age of nineteen, he was skilled in both calligraphy and painting, had a refined taste, loved entertainment, and especially enjoyed playing Cuju (ancient Chinese football).

These things are no secret in the government.

"So what?" Zhao Tingzhi put down his teacup, but his expression was no longer as stern as before.

"Father, I have studied diligently at the Imperial Academy for three years. I would not say I can recite the Book of Changes, the Book of Documents, the Book of Poetry, the Book of Rites, and the Spring and Autumn Annals by heart, but I know them by heart. The scholars have all praised my performance in the Mingjing examination."

Zhao Mingcheng leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice.

"But as you know, there are undercurrents in the court these days, and good scholarship alone... is not enough."

This was just a brief remark, but Zhao Tingzhi, being a seasoned official, certainly understood it.

It is now the second year of Yuanfu, and the political situation is delicate.

Emperor Zhezong was in poor health, the heir apparent was still undecided, and although the struggle between the old and new factions had temporarily subsided, the undercurrents beneath the surface never ceased.

Although Zhao Tingzhi himself was a Jinshi (a successful candidate in the highest imperial examinations) and held the official position of Zhongshu Sheren (a high-ranking official in the Imperial Secretariat), which seemed prestigious, his position was not secure. Without connections in the court, he was ultimately just a drifter.

"So...you're so skilled at Cuju (ancient Chinese football), are you planning to follow in Prince Duan's footsteps?" Zhao Tingzhi asked in a low voice.

"I'm not following Prince Duan's path; I'm just trying to make him remember me."

Zhao Mingcheng spoke frankly.

"Father, Prince Duan is famous among the imperial clan for his love of Cuju (ancient Chinese football). He keeps several Cuju masters in his residence, but what are their statuses? They are entertainers and servants."

"And what about me? I am a student of the Imperial Academy, a member of the elite class. I can discuss poetry and painting with Prince Duan, and explore epigraphy. I can also exchange skills with Prince Duan on the football field. I am nineteen years old this year, and it is time for me to make progress."

Zhao Tingzhi silently stroked his beard, as if deep in thought.

"Moreover," Zhao Mingcheng pressed on, "this gathering, ostensibly a fellowship between the Imperial Academy and the imperial family, is actually a way for the palace to observe the interactions between imperial family members and talented scholars."

"According to Prince Duan's preferences, he will definitely be present, and he will definitely be on stage."

"If I can entertain His Highness Prince Duan on the polo field and also demonstrate some knowledge and insight at the right time... then that impression will remain."

"You're just trying to take shortcuts," Zhao Tingzhi snorted, but his tone had softened considerably.

"Father, what I'm doing is tailoring my approach to the individual," Zhao Mingcheng comforted him.

"The Imperial Academy scholars often say that teaching should be tailored to individual students. Shouldn't the path to officialdom also be guided by 'the circumstances'? Prince Duan is a man of temperament, fond of elegance and pleasure, so I will start with elegance and pleasure."

"Once His Highness Prince Duan remembers the name 'Zhao Mingcheng,' won't he have avenues for discussing epigraphy, seeking advice on rubbings, debating classical texts, or talking about practical matters?"

That's very insightful.

Zhao Tingzhi stared at his son for a long time, feeling as if his son had finally grown up.

The former Zhao Mingcheng was indeed intelligent, but he was too bookish and even somewhat pedantic.

But Zhao Mingcheng before him had clear eyes and spoke with composure; his rhetoric was so eloquent that even this seasoned official couldn't find fault with it.

It seems that his son has really made a lot of progress at the Imperial Academy, which makes Zhao Tingzhi very gratified.

"What about your knowledge of epigraphy? Are you giving up on it?"

Zhao Tingzhi asked, his tone now completely softened.

"If you don't know how, you shouldn't learn. On the contrary, you should learn even more diligently," Zhao Mingcheng replied solemnly.

"Epigraphy is the foundation of my son's character and the basis for his success. Cuju (ancient Chinese football) is merely a means, a stepping stone, and a means of advancement."

"My son reads the classics every morning, practices ball in the afternoon, and studies epigraphy in the evening. He does everything without fail. If you don't believe me, you can check the progress of my supplement to the 'Tang Dengfeng Inscription Stele'."

Zhao Mingcheng spoke sincerely; he had indeed not neglected his studies on self-cultivation during these past two weeks.

Zhao Tingzhi finally let out a long breath and waved his hand.

"Enough, enough. Since you know what's going on, I won't say anything more. Just remember—"

He stood up and stood with his hands behind his back.

"Whatever you do, you must be mindful of your actions and never lose the integrity of the Zhao family."

"Your son will remember your teachings."

Zhao Tingzhi nodded and walked out of the courtyard with his hands behind his back.

Before leaving, he glanced at Afu, who was looking anxious under the locust tree.

"Ah Fu, go to the accounting office and get two strings of cash later. Get the young master a better ball; this one is too old, the seams are all worn rough."

"Yes, yes! Thank you, sir!" Afu was overjoyed and bowed repeatedly.

Only after his father's footsteps faded into the distance did Zhao Mingcheng finally breathe a sigh of relief, plop down back on the stone bench, and wipe the sweat from his forehead.

"My lord, you are truly amazing!" Afu hugged Ju and leaned in, his face full of admiration. "Your husband came in with such a stern face, and you just said a few words and..."

"What?" Zhao Mingcheng took the handkerchief offered to him and wiped his face. "You think I really convinced my dad?"

"Isn't that right?"

"My father was just going with the flow." Zhao Mingcheng looked in the direction his father had left, his gaze deep.

Afu seemed to understand, but he wasn't bothered by it.

"My lord, are you still practicing?"

"Practice, of course we'll practice." Zhao Mingcheng stood up and stretched his ankles again. "But we won't practice Flowing Clouds Threefold anymore; let's practice something more practical."

"Practical?"

"Hmm, for example..." Zhao Mingcheng took the ball from Afu's hand and gently tossed it up.

Then his right leg lashed out like a whip!

With a muffled thud, the ball shot like an arrow straight towards the courtyard wall three zhang away, hitting a tile on the top of the wall precisely.

It bounced back precisely and landed on Zhao Mingcheng's foot.

The ball was firmly adhered to the sole of his foot, remaining completely still.

Afu was completely dumbfounded.

Zhao Mingcheng gently tossed the ball in his hand.

"This kick is called 'Meteor Chasing the Moon,' and the force, angle, and landing point must all be calculated precisely. At the gathering three days later, the Cuju masters around Prince Duan won't be playing any fancy tricks."

Speaking of it.

Zhao Mingcheng looked out over the layers of Bianjing rooftops outside the courtyard wall, his gaze seemingly reaching beyond the green tiles and flying eaves, as if he could see even further away.

At this moment, his mind was made up.

"If you're going to steal someone's thunder, you have to do it thoroughly. Gao Qiu, you can live your life as an ordinary servant and playmate. I, Zhao Mingcheng, will pave the way for your rise to power."

After thinking it over, Zhao Mingcheng said loudly,

"Ah Fu, send me thirty more, quickly and accurately."

"Yes, my lord!"

The ball took flight again, tracing a trail of clouds in the twilight.