Chapter 376: Minor Senator Lin Ziqi

Stumped by a probability problem, she instinctively looked up for help. Every time she did, the sight of the classroom brought a familiar pang of dislocation.

This was the 17th century.

She scanned the room, bored. Everyone was taking a test, but each paper was different. There were no classmates her own age, only the so-called “little Senators.” Their ages varied wildly. The youngest, born a year before D-Day, was a freshly-minted six-year-old, promoted from the institute’s kindergarten. The oldest were her and Zhang Yunmi’s cohort, not yet eighteen. Consequently, the textbooks were a motley collection. The first class of the learning institute, established exclusively for the Senators’ children, employed a multi-grade system, tailoring education to each student’s ability and interest. Her test paper, therefore, was unique. Zhang Yunmi, her best friend and contemporary, was currently wrestling with a German exam.

“Principal Qian,” the old woman who served as their head teacher, sat behind the lectern. Her graying hair was pulled back in a neat bun, reminiscent of Jiang Qing, and she wore black-rimmed glasses. The younger students were so terrified of her they hardly dared to breathe. As for why Lin Ziqi, a girl of the 90s generation, knew who Jiang Qing was—that was the influence of her father, a member of the Political Security Bureau.

A sudden noise drew her gaze to the window. The window seat, she mused, was indeed the perfect spot for daydreaming. A group of boys from the selection group was playing ball—rugby, or as it was called in this world, Australian-style.

Yes, this world. The Chongzhen era of the Ming Dynasty. She, a “90s girl who lived in her own world,” didn’t know the exact year, only that it was 1634. Even when her father had herded her onto the ship, she’d only known they were going somewhere strange, somewhere they would never leave. The historic weight of transmigration hadn’t registered until after it had happened.

Transmigration. A word that was anything but foreign to her generation, a word tinged with romance and adventure. What was transmigration? It was the promise that, whether you were a nobody or a genius, you would be transformed. Women became irresistible beauties, men world-conquering heroes. At the very least, you could attract the emperor’s attention by farming.

But having lived it, Ziqi knew the ancient world was not the stuff of novels. No handsome men at every turn, no beautiful women on every corner. No cities bustling with inns and shops where one could plagiarize a poem to instant fame or earn millions with a simple invention. This world was not just poor and backward; it was perilous. The natives’ counterattacks, the threat of disease, the harsh environment… The greatest hardship was the material deprivation. In the early days, she had nearly broken down. When she was tired, she yearned for a Simmons mattress; hungry, for KFC; thirsty, for a soda. When she was bored, she wanted a computer; when it was hot, air conditioning. When the mood struck, she wanted to browse manga shops on a pedestrian street. But the reality? Forget Simmons, KFC, and soda—even the toilets were squat-style monstrosities she couldn’t get used to. And outside Bairen City, the concept of a toilet didn’t even exist.

Somehow, Lin Ziqi, a creature of comfort, had survived. She had to. Outside the camp was a dangerous world. In her eyes, the so-called natives were no different from the savages in manga.

She had lived with her father in a simple dormitory, eating seafood porridge day after day. She was tasked with copying documents, filling out forms for the natives, and was hastily dragged to “shooting training” before the Battle of Chengmai. And as the Senate achieved one “leapfrog development” after another, she grew up, from an elementary school student to a high schooler.

Now, she had just turned seventeen. In another year, she would be eighteen, a full-fledged “Senator” with voting rights.

She had no clear idea what being a Senator entailed. She only knew that her father and all the other uncles and aunts called “Senator” were incredibly busy, working from dawn till dusk. Even at home, their work continued. She often woke in the night to find the kerosene lamp in her father’s room still burning.

What kind of life had she lived for the past six years? No television, no games, not a single magazine to buy. Her mobile phone was a PHS relic. Even watching a movie on a computer or browsing the local network, which was nothing but forums, was a luxury rationed by a strict electricity quota. When she got her first period, the sight of the provided feminine hygiene products had made her break down and cry, much to her father’s confusion.

She had railed against her father’s unilateral decision. She had cursed the “livestock”—her father’s private term for the leaders—to the eighteenth generation. But in the end, Lin Ziqi had endured. She had seen her living conditions improve day by day. And some things, she had simply grown used to.

This time and space had its good points. The fresh air, the brilliant Milky Way at night—she had never seen such a beautiful sky in her old world. The freshest vegetables and seafood. And most importantly, her father’s status. A Senator. A “chief.”

The word “chief,” in Lin Ziqi’s world, had only existed in old black-and-white movies. But now, the naturalized citizens and natives used it to address her father with the utmost respect. In her old life, her father had never commanded such deference. Her own mother had always spoken of him with a look of disdain, as if he owed her five million. Of course, if that hadn’t been the case, they wouldn’t have divorced, and Lin Ziqi wouldn’t have come to this world with a father bent on “starting over.”

“In this new world, you will be a princess,” he had said, carrying his luggage as they queued to disembark the great ship.

Yes, a princess…

Her gaze drifted back to the boys on the playground. The way they looked at her was… different.

As soon as the Senate had established a foothold in Lingao, it had founded Fangcaodi. The little Senators, all under eighteen, had entered this world, almost completely isolated from the outside.

Fangcaodi, while no match for the schools of her old world, was a rare haven of tranquility. And it felt like a real school. The learning institute for the little Senators was a state within a state: high walls, heavy guards. Except for the carefully selected students of the selection group and the naturalized citizen teachers who tended to their daily needs, no one could enter or leave without permission. It ensured they were not disturbed. All they had to do was receive a good education and become new Senators.

Principal Zhang had told them they were not “second-generation Senators” whose succession was uncertain, but minor Senators, officially on the Senate’s roster. They had to cultivate the “awareness of a Senator” from a young age.

Lin Ziqi didn’t know what that meant, but from her father and the other adults, she gathered it was not a pleasant path. Much like her studies for the past six years, which had been a relentless grind. By fifteen, she had finished the high school curriculum of her old world and had begun her university education.

Mathematics, physics, chemistry, Chinese, history, biology, foreign languages, physical education… a deluge of courses filled their schedules. Except for the youngest, everyone had eight classes a day. After dinner, there was self-study, where the teacher would review the day’s lessons with them one by one.

How awful. I don’t want to be a top student. Why do I have to learn so much? Lin Ziqi lamented.

“Ten minutes left,” Principal Qian announced.

Lin Ziqi snapped out of her reverie, abandoned the troublesome problem, and began to check her paper. The weekly test scores affected her average. A poor grade meant make-up classes during the holidays—and holidays here were already pitifully scarce.

The clock on the main building’s tower struck two.

As soon as Principal Qian called time, the student on duty collected the papers. Today, it was Zhuo Tianmin’s son, Zhuo Xiaomin. He was six on D-Day, now a boy of twelve. He had his father’s high nose and big eyes, and eyelashes any girl would envy. In his white linen summer uniform, he looked almost pitiably submissive.

After collecting the papers, Principal Qian said, “You are dismissed. The school will be on holiday for two days starting tomorrow.” She tapped the table. “Review your lessons during the break. The cultural festival is coming up. Your time is precious…”

After a lengthy lecture, she finally departed, and the tension in the classroom evaporated.

The rest of the time was their own. The younger children were already packing their bags, but the older students seized the rare free moment to chat and play. Outside, the rugby match continued. They, like Ziqi, were boarders. The only difference was that every student on that playground was a top scholar who had survived a fierce academic gauntlet.