Late April, 1990.
In the staff housing compound of Haishi’s Second Silk Factory, on the fourth floor of Building No. 3, Unit West, a strikingly good-looking boy of about seventeen or eighteen was sprawled lazily over the corridor railing, sunbathing and daydreaming.
Today was Thursday—a workday. At his age, people were usually in school.
High school, maybe a technical school, or at the very least already arranged by their families to start working at the factory. Nobody should be this free, hanging around with nothing to do.
Oh—Jiang Luo? That Jiang kid? Old Jiang’s third son?
Well, that explained it.
The kid was a slacker.
And his family didn’t care about him.
This, up until this April, was the general consensus in the Second Silk Factory:
He’s good-looking—really good-looking—but what a waste. Total delinquent. Doesn’t study, didn’t get into college, isn’t going to tech school, and his parents can’t be bothered.
When his name came up, half the parents in the factory would immediately lecture their only child:
“Don’t you dare hang out with him. He’s a troublemaker. When he gets out into society, he’ll just be another punk, a street rat, a useless good-for-nothing.”
Jiang Luo—the future “street scum”—was currently leaning sideways over the metal railing, looking loose and relaxed, squinting toward the distance. If he had a cigarette dangling from his lips right now, blowing smoke like he owned the world, it would’ve matched the whole vibe perfectly.
But no one knew what he was actually thinking:
Reborn… huh.
Back again… 1990… eighteen years old…
Ha.
Jiang Luo let out a silent laugh.
What was even funnier?
The timing.
Late April, 1990—exactly when his biological parents came looking for him in his last life.
Right.
Jiang Luo had been switched at birth.
Eighteen years ago, in the maternity ward of Haishi’s Women and Children’s Hospital, two women—Zhang Xiangping and Su Lan—gave birth minutes apart.
Zhang delivered a six-jin baby boy.
A few minutes later, Su Lan gave birth to another boy of nearly the same weight.
When the nurses placed the two newborns on the baby table, their ID wristbands got switched.
Zhang Xiangping’s son became Su Lan’s.
Su Lan’s son became Zhang Xiangping’s.
The boy raised as Su Lan and Zhao Guangyuan’s son was named Zhao Mingshi.
The boy raised as Zhang Xiangping and Jiang Jianmin’s son was Jiang Luo.
And just like that, the mistake lasted eighteen whole years.
Until April of 1990, when Zhao Mingshi—now a freshman at Fudan University—donated blood at school and was found to have a blood type that didn’t match his parents’. That shocking discovery finally uncovered the truth from years ago.
And why was Jiang Luo amused—almost insulted—by coming back at this exact point in time?
Because the Zhao family’s conditions were way, way better than his adoptive parents’, two ordinary factory workers. Shouldn’t being recognized and taken back be a blessing?
A blessing?
Jiang Luo laughed coldly.
Look at him, and look at Zhao Mingshi.
He was a delinquent, practically labeled a future gang member.
Zhao Mingshi was a top student at Fudan.
Jiang Luo still vividly remembered the way Su Lan and Zhao Guangyuan looked at him the first time they met him in the past life—after learning he hadn’t gotten into college, didn’t go to technical school, and had no skills. Shocked at first, then unmistakably disappointed.
That’s right—Su Lan and Zhao Guangyuan didn’t like him.
They loved Zhao Mingshi—the child they had raised, the one they had poured all their attention into, the talented, well-mannered boy who had gotten into a prestigious university.
Of course they wanted to love their biological son.
Blood is blood, right?
But when they actually met him…
All they had for Jiang Luo was disapproval and disappointment.
Thinking back on it now, Jiang Luo couldn’t help but laugh at himself—bitterly, mockingly.
After being taken back, he had desperately tried to earn their approval.
He didn’t want their money. He wanted them to know he hadn’t come back for money.
He did business, made his own money, even gave money back to them.
He brought gifts every holiday, never missed a call, never forgot to visit.
And what did he get in return?
They still didn’t like him.
At best, they treated him politely—surface-level courtesy.
They didn’t care, didn’t worry, didn’t value him.
What they did value?
Their eldest nephew, Zhao Shuo, and the son they had personally raised—Zhao Mingshi.
They paid for Zhao Mingshi to attend college.
At a time when ordinary worker salaries were just a few hundred yuan, they gave him five hundred a month in living expenses.
When he wanted to study abroad on an exchange program, they pulled strings everywhere to make it happen.
When he graduated, they got him a job, bought him a house.
On holidays, while Jiang Luo scrambled to figure out what gifts to bring home, Zhao Mingshi just had to call and say what he wanted to eat—and his parents would rush to buy groceries and prepare it for him.
Jiang Luo had to rely on himself for everything.
Zhao Mingshi just had to rely on his family.
All his life, Jiang Luo had longed for love, attention, support—everything Zhao Mingshi received so effortlessly.
He fought Zhao Mingshi almost his entire life over it.
He used to believe that if only he were better than Zhao Mingshi—stronger, more successful—his biological parents would finally love him.
After all, he was the real son, wasn’t he?
Wasn’t he?
Before he died in that past life, he had screamed internally:
I’m your real son! Why don’t you love me?!
What did I do wrong?!
How am I worse than him?!
Why?! Why?! WHY?!
But now, reborn, looking back?
He found it all ridiculous.
Why?
Because they just didn’t love him. End of story.
He had died once.
Now he was back.
Seeing it all from a distance, he had no bitterness left—only pure mockery.
He had everything he needed. He could become anything he wanted.
Why in the world had he wasted a lifetime fighting Zhao Mingshi?
Parental love?
So what.
Family resources and connections?
Big deal.
Life was meant to be lived upward, boldly.
Everything he obsessed over last time… wasn’t worth a damn.
Jiang Luo leaned against the railing, smiling faintly.
He was back. And it was 1990.
1990—what did that mean?
It meant everything had barely begun.
It meant endless opportunities.
It meant his wide-open future was just starting.
1990!
Capital hadn’t even started to sprout.
The Southern Tour hadn’t happened yet.
Everything was waiting to explode.
Just thinking about it made Jiang Luo want to laugh out loud—coming back to this year was like heaven throwing down a mountain of gold and telling him to go pick it up.
And so, on the very first day of his rebirth, Jiang Luo easily figured everything out.
In this lifetime, he would never waste a second competing with Zhao Mingshi again.
Zhao Mingshi, Zhang Xiangping, Jiang Jianmin—Zhao Guangyuan, Su Lan—and even that unlucky eldest son Zhao Shuo?
To hell with all of them.
Get lost. Every last one of them.
He was starting over.
Brand-new life.
Brand-new path.
He would carve out brilliance in this era with his own hands.
At that moment, Wang Chuang—the guy living in the easternmost unit—came hustling over with a bowl of noodles, chopsticks stuck right in.
“Here, eat. Noodles.”
Jiang Luo turned and glanced at it—honestly a little disgusted.
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