Chapter One: The Boy from the Mountain Village
Five years later, Fangling.
Nestled in the fertile region of Jinghu, rich in fish and grain, though it lacks the grand prosperity of Hanzhong’s dragon-thriving lands, it stretches for a thousand miles, surrounded by mountains and forests. Blessed by the bounty of the two lakes and the unique fortune of mountain spirits, its resources make the people extravagant, rivaling even the abundance of Heluo.
Yet, the tranquility of ancient times differs from today. What is called peace now amounts merely to having enough to eat and getting by.
Five miles north of the city lies Changluo Mountain—not high nor dangerous, neither striking nor remarkable. Its appeal is simply its proximity to the city; from the summit, one can gaze upon the entirety of Fangling, making it a fine destination.
The cultured and noble folk of the city, idle and bored, often ascend the mountain to while away their hours.
Atop the mountain is the Temple of Seeking Immortals, said to have been burning incense since the Qin and Han dynasties. The simple townsfolk believe the older a temple, the more potent its blessings, so they often come to pay homage to the Heavenly Lord.
...
The temple prospers, its incense flourishing; the elder priest, adept at managing affairs, fills his coffers. Yet the village beside the temple is not so fortunate.
The farmsteads are scattered in the hollow of Changluo Mountain, blocking the mountain path, earning the name—Downhill Hollow.
About a hundred farming households dwell here, honest folk eking out a living from their meager fields at the mountain’s base.
Luxury is beyond their reach; survival is barely managed.
...
It was summer, just past dawn. Downhill Hollow echoed with crowing and barking; morning mist entwined with cooking smoke, lending a rustic serenity to the impoverished place.
Wu Ning had been up for some time, brewing two bowls of millet porridge in the kitchen, setting them on a bamboo table beneath the grapevines, waiting for his uncle, who always left early, to return and join him for breakfast.
He leaned on the table, propping his chin with an elbow, lost in thought.
Gradually, Wu Ning’s gaze grew unfocused; he was distracted.
...
Five years.
Five years ago, in the rain, he woke as if from a dream—mysteriously transported from modern times to the flourishing Tang dynasty.
Not only did he inhabit the body of a ten-year-old child, but upon opening his eyes, he met the fallen, rootless deposed emperor Li Xian and the naked Li Guo’er.
By chance, he also gained an Ultraman-like Taoist elder brother.
Such a high-level cast, fit for a prodigy!
Others believed Li Xian, once deposed, was doomed; but Wu Ning knew better—this “salted fish” was destined to rise again, to ascend the throne a second time and rule the realm.
...
Once Wu Ning regained his composure, he accepted reality and began plotting his brilliant new life.
Then, five years passed...
And nothing happened.
Five years ago, he was a poor boy; five years later, he remained a poor boy.
...
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“Cough... cough!”
Two heavy coughs from the path outside the fence snapped Wu Ning from his reverie. Glancing over, he saw it was Old Wu, the village elder from next door.
He withdrew his gaze, remaining lazy. “Grandfather, off to patrol the village again?”
Had he not spoken, the old man might have just glared and walked on. But now, perhaps finding Wu Ning particularly irksome, he came into the yard, hands clasped behind his back.
“Half dead so early in the morning, daydreaming again?”
Wu Ning sighed inwardly, bracing himself for a scolding. He straightened up, offering a fawning, goofy smile.
“Grandfather guessed right—I was just wondering when the emperor might grant amnesty and pardon the refugees.”
“Heh!” Old Wu was thoroughly annoyed. Among the young men in the hollow, none vexed him more than this one, who always had a retort ready.
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“What’s there to wonder? When it’s time, it’ll happen.”
He glared. “Even if they don’t pardon fugitives, is anyone in the hollow starving you, you little ingrate?”
Wu Ning was speechless.
Not starving? Should he be content with that? He was a transmigrant, after all!
Never mind using his skills and regal aura to overturn dynasties; never mind plagiarizing Li Bai, stealing Du Fu, or outshining Wang Wei and Su Shi to rise to fame; at the very least, picking up a bar of soap, lighting a candle, or slicing some meat should have brought wealth!
But he overlooked one crucial point in his high-powered transmigration: he had chosen the least promising profession—a fugitive.
That alone spelled the end.
...
Thus, Wu Ning became the most pathetic transmigrant in history.
The body he inhabited had fled from Guanzhong, parents long dead, raised only by an ugly uncle.
Though the Tang dynasty had been established for sixty years, by now fugitives were commonplace—refugees everywhere, villages half-empty. Both the people and the officials had grown accustomed; the authorities turned a blind eye.
If the people did not complain, the officials did not investigate. Refugees lived as ordinary folk; there was no difference.
Yet, a fugitive was still a fugitive.
Living quietly posed no problem, but if the emperor granted amnesty, they could legally become ordinary citizens. With luck, in a sparsely populated place, they might even receive land from the government and settle down.
But for someone like Wu Ning, shaped by a millennium of prosperity and thoroughly steeped in web novels where protagonists bulldoze through twenty-four dynasties, “fugitive” was the most wretched fate.
Forget changing dynasties—he’d be suppressed before leaving the village.
Rising to greatness was impossible; with no status or identity, even carrying a crime, he could not hope to spread his fame. At best, he’d be smug in the county, only to be reported by countless others.
Even a comfortable life was a distant dream. The reason? Fugitive! Rootless, homeless, unable to secure any livelihood.
Five years!
Wu Ning had squatted in Downhill Hollow for five years. Not only had he achieved nothing, but even the earthen courtyard and thatched hut he and his uncle lived in were temporarily lent to them by Old Wu.
Their sole livelihood was a vegetable plot—unused land spared for them.
Five years! Even Tang Yi, that rascal, would have amassed wealth, claimed the emperor as his father, and cursed the prime minister by now.
But Wu Ning could only cling to two bowls of millet porridge and daydream.
Could he be content?
...
“Grandfather, you should go patrol the village. Isn’t there plenty to attend to at the kiln?”
Wu Ning began to usher him out; talking to this old man was pointless.
Old Wu glared once more, unwilling to waste words on this slippery youth.
Turning to leave, his gaze fell on the millet porridge, and his brows furrowed.
Wu Ning’s mouth was sharp, but among the village children, he was the most responsible—at eleven or twelve, he was already earning for the household.
Otherwise, with only that vegetable plot and a lazy uncle, the pair would have starved long ago.
The boy was clever; in recent years, life had improved noticeably.
But now... why were they drinking thin porridge again?
In Tang times, commoners ate two meals a day—morning and evening. Thin porridge at night was normal, but the morning meal had to fuel a day’s labor. Only if they truly had nothing left would they drink thin porridge in the morning.
Staring at the two bowls, Old Wu paused.
“Why eat thin food in the morning?”
Wu Ning hesitated, realizing Old Wu had noticed something, and forced a smile. “A bit of thin porridge in the morning—good for the health.”
“Good for the health?” Old Wu muttered coldly, but did not expose the truth.
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He ambled toward the yard’s exit. “Go to my house later; your fifth uncle will give you a bushel of old grain.”
Already outside, he kept grumbling, “It’s rotting in the granary, might as well help chew through it.”
...
Wu Ning stood in the yard, wanting to refuse, but the words caught in his throat.
He knew well: though Grandpa Wu was the village elder and owned a charcoal kiln, his life was only slightly better than most.
Besides, Downhill Hollow was a “clan village”—everyone bore the surname Wu. All kin, essentially a single family. When any household was in trouble, Grandpa Wu supported them.
Today, a bushel for this family; tomorrow, two pints for another. The elder’s own days were probably harder.
...
Gritting his teeth, Wu Ning muttered bitterly, “Don’t let me rise again!”
“You rascal, who are you calling father?!”
Outside, Old Wu poked his head back in, stern-faced, inexplicably returning.
Wu Ning shrank back, startled. “Grandfather, why have you come back?”
“Hmph!” The old man snorted, “You vex me so much I nearly forgot the proper business.”
He instructed, “When your uncle returns, tell him not to go out. Your fourth uncle will be back in the hollow soon.”
“Oh.” Wu Ning replied listlessly, glancing at the porridge.
He thought, the porridge was nearly cold; his uncle still hadn’t returned—likely wouldn’t be back before noon.
When he looked up again, the old man was gone.
...
He waited a while longer, the sun rising higher, still no sign of his uncle. He forced down a bowl of cold porridge and put the other back in the pot to keep warm.
Just as he finished tidying up, a chubby, broad-eared head poked into the yard.
Fat and big-eared, meaning the boy was very plump; the small head meant that despite his size, he was younger than Wu Ning by two years.
Wu Ning grinned. “Tiger, why are you sneaking around so early?”
This chubby youth was Wu Sanhu, nicknamed Tiger.
He was not third in rank among his peers—in fact, Tiger was thirteenth. The name came because, as the village elder explained, he happened to be born in the year, month, and day of the tiger, so his father named him Sanhu—Three Tigers.
“Come in and give me a hand.”
Wu Ning had been in Downhill Hollow for five years now; Tiger was a childhood companion, so he showed no restraint.
Tiger didn’t speak right away; first, he scanned the yard carefully.
His size was exaggerated, but he really looked a bit like a burglar.
Seeing only Wu Ning at home, he asked, “Where’s your uncle?”
Wu Ning frowned. “He’s out. Why are you looking for my uncle?”
Despite his bulk, Tiger was terribly timid. Normally, he never dared look straight at his uncle’s face, so why was he here today?
“He’s out?” Tiger let out a sigh of relief.
He looked at Wu Ning, then urged, “You shouldn’t stay home either—get moving. My mother’s coming here, she’ll be here any moment!”
“Huh?”
Wu Ning suddenly understood Tiger’s urgency—his fierce mother was on the way.
“No way…”
“She’s coming to collect a debt, isn’t she?”
...