Chapter 3: Cao Cao Meets His Son-in-law

Chen Cong was just thinking when the door to the woodshed creaked open.

Bathed in the last light of the setting sun, he clearly saw a short, dark figure—no more than seven feet tall—dart into the room, a sword hanging at his waist.

“What luck!”

He needed a messenger to lure Cao Cao out, and this person had arrived at just the right moment.

Without hesitation, Chen Cong reached for the kitchen knife he had hidden by the bed, rolled off the mattress, and in a burst of speed closed the gap to the intruder in half a step, pointing the blade straight ahead.

In a low voice, he demanded, “Who are you?”

Cao Cao had barely set foot in the woodshed when, in a blur, a kitchen knife glinting with a cold light was pressed against his forehead. He nearly lost his wits from fright.

A closer look made his scalp prickle and a cold sweat break out on his back.

Standing before him was a youth over eight feet tall, about seventeen or eighteen years old, with an imposing bearing, sharp brows, and bright eyes—handsome features all marred only by a conspicuously short crop of hair.

But that was not the most remarkable thing.

What truly shocked him was that the youth, landing barefoot on the flagstone floor, left a deep footprint engraved in the stone!

And the way his fingers sank into the handle of the kitchen knife!

Every detail screamed danger—the young man before him was not just dangerous, but extremely dangerous.

“Easy, brother,” Cao Cao stammered, “I’m only here to bring you your meal at the young lady’s bidding.”

He quickly explained himself, still uneasy, raising the food box in his hand to prove his claim.

“Oh,” Chen Cong said, feigning nonchalance as he tossed aside the knife and offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I overreacted.”

“No harm done, no harm done…”

Cao Cao set the food box down carefully, his eyes catching the scattered bamboo slips on the floor. His pupils contracted again.

“Qingqing Zijing.”

The delicate seal script was unmistakably his daughter’s handwriting.

Unlike the dignified Ding family, Cao Cao himself had never been a stickler for decorum. Whether or not he minded his daughter hiding her lover in the woodshed depended on the man in question.

If the fellow was just a pretty face—a smooth-talking good-for-nothing—he’d deal with him on the spot, no questions asked.

But if the man was not only attractive but also competent and had a decent family background… well, marriage was marriage; it didn’t much matter who the groom was.

Cao Cao composed himself forcibly, filled a cup with fine wine, and pushed it over.

“May I ask your name, young man?”

Chen Cong accepted the cup and took a measured sip, then launched into his prepared story.

“My name is Chen Cong, no courtesy name, age eighteen, from Qiao County. I know not my parents nor do I have siblings—grew up on the charity of neighbors. Because I could not bear to see the people suffer at the hands of northern ruffians, I struck out in the street and now, to escape my enemies’ pursuit, I cut my hair and changed my appearance.”

His hometown was in the Bozhou region, which was called Qiao County in this era—no issue there.

Before crossing over, he had been an orphan, so there was nothing to hide.

As for the short hair—he certainly couldn’t say he’d just gotten it trimmed before graduation.

And his age. He wasn’t trying to appear younger, but after this strange journey, his body felt lighter, and the stubble on his face had faded to fine down. No one would believe he was actually twenty-two.

“Not bad…” Cao Cao frowned slightly, torn.

Looking long-term, marriage was a means for two families to exchange resources. To give up a daughter for a lone warrior with no ties was a losing bargain.

There were many ways to win men’s loyalty; without a family network for leverage, there was no need for deep entanglement.

Especially since Cao Rong was his most favored daughter.

But for now, there was a pressing matter at hand—one that only a hero of great strength could help him solve.

And Chen Cong’s supposed weaknesses now became advantages.

Being from Qiao County made him a fellow townsman—instantly more familiar.

No family meant no external interference; if he married into the Cao family, their interests would be one and the same.

Only those who shared his interests could be trusted with his life.

But…

Cao Cao already bore the shame of being the son of a eunuch, a target of mockery among scholars. To marry his daughter to a criminal vagabond would make him a laughingstock.

He filled the cup again and offered another toast.

“I have always admired righteous heroes,” said Cao Cao. “I heard how you struck down a villain in the street, and it did my heart good. Come, let us drink deep.”

Chen Cong stroked his chin, eyeing the little black man before him with suspicion.

Who was this fellow, really? Why was his reaction so off?

If you find a dangerous man hiding in your woodshed, shouldn’t you report it to your master?

How could a mere servant of the Cao family speak of admiring heroes?

“And may I ask your name?” Chen Cong probed.

Cao Cao, not wishing to reveal himself, replied offhandedly, “Oh, just a household servant—no proper name. You may call me Uncle Lucky, if you wish.”

Pfft!

Chen Cong almost spat out his wine.

No wonder he was called the fastest wit of the late Han—there was something uncanny about him. He’d just been thinking about Cao Cao, and here the man was.

As for “Uncle Lucky,” that might fool a naïve youth, but not him.

He remembered perfectly well: Cao Cao, courtesy name Mengde, childhood name Lucky, pet name Aman.

Costume changes wouldn’t fool him.

He hadn’t recognized him at first—who’d expect the master of the house to come sneaking into the woodshed?

But then, Cao Cao never played by the rules.

Of course, Chen Cong wasn’t about to expose him. If it was a game of acting, he was happy to play along.

After the wine, Chen Cong let out a long sigh. “To tell you the truth, Uncle Lucky, I do regret what happened. Yes, I killed a horse and knocked out a man with a single slap, and it felt good at the time. But the man was powerful, and now I’m left hiding and homeless.”

“Oh?” Cao Cao’s eyelid twitched—he was even more tempted.

To kill a warhorse with a single slap—what a peerless warrior!

As he refilled the cup, Cao Cao asked casually, “May I ask who you offended?”

“I don’t know,” Chen Cong replied. “The man was nine and a half feet tall, broad-shouldered and burly, with narrow eyes and a thin scar on his eyelid.”

“Hua Xiong!” Cao Cao exclaimed.

“Hua Xiong?” Chen Cong was delighted.

The first boss of the great stage of the late Han, flattened by his own slap.

It was oddly satisfying.

Come to think of it, if Guan Yu’s famous feat was slaying Hua Xiong over warm wine, then his own victory—a live capture—was even greater.

Capturing was better than killing, which meant he surpassed Guan Yu.

Guan Yu was the God of War, so he himself must be greater.

Heavens, he’d better not let his imagination run wild!

Cao Cao, assuming Chen Cong feared reprisals, sought to reassure him. “Never fear, young man. My lord has some influence—he won’t dare come here. But tell me, how strong are you, truly, to kill a horse with one blow?”

Hmm.

That was a tough question for Chen Cong.

He hadn’t really tested his own strength. It was only his first day after crossing over, and he’d spent it pondering life in the woodshed.

But it didn’t matter. Didn’t know his strength? Then just measure it.

“Uncle Lucky, is there anything heavy in the manor?”

Cao Cao’s interest was piqued. “Come with me.”