Fang Ming found an arbitrary excuse to berate Zhao Gao, gave his basket a final kick, and sauntered away. Zhao Gao seemed far too honest, and his speech was stiff and unimaginative, which Fang Ming found dreadfully dull. There was no thrill in bullying someone like that; it was truly tedious.
Thus, Fang Ming decided to stop and seek out a new target. He had plenty of time, after all. To him, being scolded or struck by him was a blessing for these people—a fortune they couldn't even beg for. It was a favor to them. After all, his own hands were meant for calligraphy and painting, precious and noble things; these people would never touch a book or a brush in their entire lives, unlike him, for whom such things were a birthright.
Some people, he mused, simply weren't born with that fate. He, however, was different. His grandmother had told him he was destined for greatness, born to be an official. Therefore, Fang Ming felt he didn't even need to study hard; what was meant for him by fate could never be taken away. What was his would eventually come to him. He was only twenty, after all—he could afford to wait.
Chapter 45