After signing an unscrupulous contract with the “dog ratio system,” Mu Qi was sent to ancient times.
The good news is that the body prepared for him by the system belongs to the heir of the prince of the current dynasty—noble, wealthy, and born at the pinnacle of a fictional empire.
The bad news? The emperor is obsessed with alchemy, and factions of honest and corrupt officials are entangled in endless conflict. The court is riddled with incompetence from top to bottom, the nation is in decline, and the dynasty won’t last more than a few decades.
The even worse news? According to the contract drafted by the “dog ratio system,” Mu Qi must make a spectacular impact in this era—saving the collapsing nation, supporting a crumbling empire, leaving his name in the annals of history, and achieving eternal fame. Otherwise, he cannot return.
Faced with this “small” task assigned by his superior, Mu Qi, who is only skilled at talking nonsense, was completely overwhelmed:
…Just destroy everything already. Hurry up.
After repeated resistance proved futile, Mu Qi, having fully given up, decided to embrace laziness. Not only did he refuse to cooperate with the system, but he also filled his submitted work logs with relentless complaints and snarky remarks:
[Today, I went to the palace again to kowtow like crazy. I’m absolutely numb—how has that old “wall lamp” been refining elixirs for so many years and still hasn’t croaked to drop some loot?]
[Having to attend court at five in the morning? Damn, what a nightmare. And Senior Official Xu of the Purestream faction, how do you even have the audacity to accuse your political opponents of seizing farmland from the people? Did those tens of thousands of acres of irrigated land in your hometown fall from the sky? Disgusting.]
[Just yesterday, I complained about the Purestream faction, and today I must slap the Filthstream faction in the face! A year of salt inspections brought back only a million tons of silver? Even if the old Taoist’s brain is fried from refining elixirs, he should at least follow our ancestors’ example and flay a few hundred hides!]
[By the way, they say the old “wall lamp” emperor has been abstinent for decades while practicing his arts. Could it really be true? Now that I think about it, it kind of makes sense why fandom writers ship him with his sworn brothers in those slash pairings…]
Every night, Mu Qi would vent his frustrations with a thorough round of furious complaints, dumping all his verbal garbage into the system before immediately falling asleep without a care in the world.
However, Mu Qi seemed to have forgotten one important detail: the trashy system he was assigned had never guaranteed his information privacy…
The emperor, immersed in the pursuit of alchemy, secluded himself in a secret chamber for days of meditation. Finally, the heavens were moved by his sincerity. One day, a blinding light filled the room, and a booklet descended from the air. On its cover were four golden words: “Work Diary.”
The emperor, overjoyed, bathed, burned incense, and opened the booklet with reverence, eager to receive the divine guidance:
[June 11th night, daily complaint as usual: After all this heavy metal poisoning, how is the “wall lamp” on the dragon throne still alive?]
The emperor’s smile froze.
On June 12th, a sudden upheaval swept through the palace. It was said that on this day, the emperor expelled all the Taoists, severely punished the salt inspectors, confiscated their entire estates, and flayed them as a warning to others.
That same day, as Mu Qi lay idly at home, he suddenly heard the long-lost notification sound:
“Huh? Why is the mission progress bar moving on its own?”
