Chapter One: The Plum Rain Season

During the rainy season, torrents of rain fell without end, the river ran muddy, and all the fishing villages near the shores of Tai Lake suffered calamity. Houses collapsed, and the villagers fled in droves to higher ground for safety.

Dusk had already settled. Around a rising campfire, a handful of broad-shouldered men busied themselves. In this wretched weather, luggage was soaked, clothes were soaked, their very bodies were soaked through, and even the air in their lungs felt thick with dampness, carrying a musty scent that made one uncomfortable.

After striking flint for quite some time, they finally sparked a flame, but the firewood was damp as well. It took great effort to catch the tinder, and the slender tongue of flame was so frail it seemed it might die at any moment.

At last, the fire took hold, though it sent up thick, choking smoke that made the men cough incessantly. Still, at least it gave them warmth against the chill, and as the flames grew, so did their sense of comfort.

“Take some of this firewood over to him,” said a young man in his twenties.

A boy, perhaps fifteen by appearance, frowned and protested, “Why should I take firewood to that bastard? We barely have enough for ourselves! I won’t do it!” He turned his head away, stubborn as a mule.

The young man sighed. “Ah, I don’t like him either. But he paid us to keep him safe. Before his servant died, he gave me so much silver—I have to take good care of him until someone comes to fetch him. Besides, he’s unconscious now—saving a life is a virtue. It brings good fortune.”

The boy grunted a few times, glancing warily at the stick in his elder’s hand. After a moment, he relented with a sigh, gathered some burning firewood, and walked a dozen paces before stopping outside a tent. His tone was less than pleased: “Second Sister, is he awake yet?”

A voice called from within, “Is that you, Third Brother? Come in.” After a pause, she added, “He’s still not awake.”

He entered the tent. Inside, a mattress was spread over wooden planks, and a man lay upon it, his face ashen, lips tinged with blue, utterly motionless. If not for the pulse in his chest, he might have been mistaken for dead.

“Ah, this rainstorm came far too suddenly,” the young woman—named Zhang Qili—murmured. She was just sixteen, her skin sun-darkened, the second of the family. The eldest, her brother Zhang Qinian, was in his early twenties. The boy, the third sibling, looked fifteen or sixteen but was in fact only thirteen and hadn’t yet been given an adult name—everyone called him Ergou, a common nickname among superstitious farming folk who believed humble names brought good fortune. Their parents had died of illness years before, leaving the siblings to survive under their elder brother’s care.

Ergou set down the brazier, sneaking a glance at the man on the bed, then tossed in several damp sticks of wood. Instantly, smoke rolled thick from the tent, making Zhang Qili shout in exasperation, “Ergou, you little rascal, are you trying to smoke me to death?”

He stood and tried to flee, but she grabbed his ear, and he couldn’t break free. “Second Sister, I was wrong, I’m sorry, alright?”

“If you’re sorry, then take the brazier outside! Do you want to smoke Master Yang to death?” she scolded, releasing him.

Neither of them noticed that, on the bed, Master Yang’s fingers twitched slightly.

Grumbling, Ergou took the brazier outside. In his eyes, this man, though literate, was nothing but a wastrel—squandering the family fortune, forever making his second sister laugh with his glib tongue. Despicable! What kind of “master” was he, anyway?

He muttered under his breath as he dawdled, thinking, “Freeze to death for all I care!” Only after half an hour did he finally bring the brazier back inside. The tent grew warmer. Peering over Zhang Qili’s shoulder, he asked, “Second Sister, why isn’t he waking up? Is he dead?” Deep down, he almost hoped Yang was dead—then he’d no longer threaten his sister’s reputation.

Zhang Qili sighed softly. She couldn’t tell, either.

Her ancestors had been physicians. In these chaotic times, with the old dynasty fallen and warlords ruling every corner, the old taboos between men and women seemed less important—life and death mattered more than propriety.

Master Yang’s full name was Yang Lian, and he was said to hail from Guanzhong. Fleeing the wars there, he’d been robbed on the road—his money stolen, his forehead gashed, nearly losing his life but for the intervention of an old family retainer. Though the wound had healed, the scar remained, lending him a fearsome countenance.

In Zhang Qili’s eyes, Yang Lian was a strange man. Sometimes he’d drink himself insensible, muttering or shouting curses in the street. He’d wander the village, telling risqué jokes to the young women, yet never laid a hand on any of them. Sometimes, he’d stand in the courtyard, reciting poetry no one understood, wearing the air of a learned scholar.

What drew her most, though, was his kindness. For all his oddities, whenever the villagers needed help, he was generous to a fault. She knew his old servant—mysterious in his own right—had often tried to dissuade him, but Yang Lian always followed his own heart, giving money freely whenever the villagers were in trouble.

Such extravagant generosity, combined with his love of gambling and drink, meant his fortune quickly dwindled. Two months ago, the old servant died, entrusting Zhang Qinian’s family to care for Yang Lian for three months, after which someone would come for him. Before passing, the old servant secretly gave Zhang Qinian ten taels of silver; that was why they’d brought Yang Lian with them as they fled the floods. The old servant’s judgment was keen—Zhang Qinian, though greedy for money, was a man of his word. Throughout their journey, he never abandoned Yang Lian.

Hearing Ergou’s question, Zhang Qili shook her head. She had no answer, so she sent him to see if the food was ready. Their meal was simple—living near Tai Lake, fish was plentiful. They boiled dried fish with broken rice, seasoned with coarse salt—a meal, for now, to stave off hunger.

Zhang Qili stoked the fire until the dampness faded, fetched a basin of water and set it to warm. When the water was hot, she dipped a cloth, wrung it out, and carefully wiped Yang Lian’s face and hands.

He was burning with fever, sweat beading on his brow as fast as she wiped it away. Touching his forehead, she realized, “He’s got a fever.” She quickly set aside the cloth, took out her medicine box, prepared a dose, and fed it to him with water.

A fever is worst when bundled up tight; loose clothing is best. Zhang Qili glanced outside—Ergou was nowhere to be seen. After a moment’s hesitation, cheeks flushed, she stepped forward to loosen Yang Lian’s clothes so he wouldn’t overheat.

He wore a scholar’s robe, belted at the waist. Perhaps in haste, the knot had tightened and was hard to undo. No one was around, so she knelt at his side, bent down, her hands feeling for the knot to see why it wouldn’t come undone.

On the soft couch, Yang Lian felt terribly unlucky. One moment, the sky was clear; the next, a torrential downpour left him drenched to the bone. In the chaos, he’d slipped and fallen into a pit, and everything went black.

How long had he been out? He tried to lift his head, only to find a strangely dressed figure kneeling between his thighs, fiddling with something. He was startled.

“Damn it, you pervert! Get away from me!” he shouted, his voice resounding like a bell.

Zhang Qili jumped in fright, shrieked, and threw down the belt, staring at Yang Lian in alarm. When she saw he was awake, she exclaimed, “You—you’re awake?”

Yang Lian looked closely and was momentarily stunned—the person before him was a young woman of striking features. Though her skin was darkened by the sun, she was undoubtedly a budding beauty. Her attire, however, struck him as odd.

She wore a jacket and skirt, her hair coiled and pinned with a wooden hairpin, her face nearly untouched by powder, the faintest brush of her brows, with a few pimples dotting her cheek—youthful and charming.

“Who are you? Did you save me?” Yang Lian asked. He remembered falling into the pit and blacking out, but now he was in a tent, which puzzled him. Her curious clothes made him wonder—was she cosplaying? But her outfit was so shabby and patched, hardly professional. Why cosplay if you can’t afford it?

Zhang Qili’s dark eyes flickered with concern. She reached out hesitantly. “Master Yang, have you lost your wits from the fever?”

Her cool hand touched his forehead—it was still burning. Was he truly delirious?

“Second Sister!” Ergou burst in, having heard her scream. He rushed into the tent to see Yang Lian grabbing his sister’s hand, the belt undone, and his sister looking flustered. Rage flared; he charged over and punched Yang Lian in the back of the head.

There was a dull thud. Yang Lian went limp, collapsing to the ground.

“What are you doing?” Zhang Qili pushed Ergou aside and hurried to help Yang Lian, only to realize he’d been knocked unconscious.

“Help me get Master Yang back on the couch!” she scolded, glaring at her brother.

The two of them fumbled to lift Yang Lian back onto the bed. Zhang Qili, sweating from exertion, wiped her brow and glowered at her brother. “If anything happens to Master Yang, you’ll answer to me.”

Ergou sulked, pursed his lips, and stormed out.

Though Yang Lian seemed peacefully unconscious, his mind was in chaos. Countless fragments of memory flooded in—they were from this body’s former life, now vividly replayed in his mind. The memories threatened to overwhelm him, making him feel as though he truly was this person.

Yet, with the knowledge of his previous life, he knew full well he was not the body’s original owner. So, soul transmigration was real after all—and his journey had carried him a thousand years into the past, into the life of someone who shared his own name.

His head throbbed—not only from the blow but from the onslaught of alien memories. He was shocked to discover that this seemingly ordinary wastrel was anything but, with a most unusual background—one so complex that, for a moment, Yang Lian felt utterly at a loss.