Chapter 1: The Transcendent Traveler and the Indolent, Disabled Monk

Tang Dynasty, ninth year of the Tianbao era (750), early spring, first month. Mount Heng, Tianzhu Peak, Prajna Monastery.

In the dense forest, a youth stood before a tree as thick as a large bowl, eyes half-closed, focusing his breath with intense concentration. Sweat trickled slowly down his bare, muscular chest, soaking the coarse linen shorts tied around his waist until they darkened.

After a moment, the youth suddenly opened his eyes, fixing his gaze on the tree before him. He took a deep breath, his chest swelling, then his abdomen expanding, six abdominal muscles clearly defined.

“Ha!” he let out a low growl, stepping forward and slamming his shoulder into the trunk.

With a muffled thud, the trunk snapped, dark russet bark splitting to reveal pale yellow fibers beneath. Before the crown crashed down, the youth darted two steps to the front left, swinging his shoulder into another tree.

Again, a tree as thick as before broke with a crash.

He twisted, weaving five steps to the right, and smashed into a third tree.

With a thunderous crack, the third trunk snapped in half.

At that moment, the crown of the first fallen tree rustled violently and collapsed toward him. Instead of retreating, the youth surged forward, hands flashing to catch a falling bird’s nest, then darted out of harm’s way before the branches could strike his face.

Three trees toppled in quick succession, falling in a rough circle around him. Unperturbed, he looked down at the nest in his hands and broke into a wide, white-toothed grin.

Inside, three fluffy nestlings stared up at him in terror, while an adult bird fluttered overhead, beating its wings in panic and crying out in the darkness.

“Don’t be afraid. I broke your home, but I’ll find you a better one,” the youth said gently. Balancing the nest in one hand, he grabbed a staff over a yard long, leapt over the fallen trunks, and sprinted toward Prajna Monastery.

In the monastery’s northwest corner stood an ancient ginkgo tree, its branches spreading wide like a canopy. The youth carried the nest, climbing deftly as a monkey to the uppermost boughs, where he found a suitable fork and carefully secured the nest. Satisfied, he ruffled the chicks, then wrapped his arms around his head to watch the adult bird as it circled and wailed in the inky sky.

“Zai Xing, at it again with the birds?” called a scholarly man of twenty-seven or twenty-eight, standing at the tree’s base and gazing up with a resigned expression.

The youth peered through the dense leaves at the scholar, then laughed heartily. “Li Sanlang, here to see my master again?”

“Yes. Do you know where the master is?”

The youth looked into the distance, a smile spreading across his lips. “Don’t bother waiting—who knows where that old rascal’s wandered off to this time.”

The scholar sighed and started to leave, but the youth called out, “Wait!” He leapt down agilely, landing beside the scholar, who only managed a weary smile. “You should be more careful, Zai Xing,” he said.

“No worries.” The youth flicked the staff onto his shoulder, threw an arm around the scholar, and patted him. “Li Sanlang, do you really want to meet my master?”

The scholar, slightly put off by the youth’s sweaty, overheated presence, was about to step away, but at this question he straightened and nodded solemnly, “Of course! I’ve come sincerely to seek the master’s wisdom.”

“Good. Then go back and wait. When you hear my master chanting sutras, come here—you’re sure to find him.”

“Really?” The scholar’s eyes widened with delight.

The youth’s face turned serious. “In these mountains, you’re the only friend I have besides my master. Why would I lie to you?”

“Wonderful!” The scholar clasped his hands in thanks and hurried off.

Watching him disappear around the corner, the youth grinned and set off east along the monastery wall. After a hundred paces, he came to a square stone well. He rested the staff and his clothes on the rim, drew a bucket of water, and doused himself from head to toe, washing away sweat and leaves.

Sitting on the stone steps, he exhaled a long breath. “Eight years—it’s finally done. Time to go down the mountain and collect my debts.”

His name was Li Zaixing, an orphan taken in by the monastery’s sweeper-monk. He had grown up here for as long as he could remember, largely unnoticed by anyone except the old monk. None knew that after he had fallen from a cliff eight years ago, he was no longer the same ignorant, silent boy. Even if they noticed him growing stronger day by day, they only joked that the sweeper-monk was training a successor, never suspecting the restless spirit now inhabiting his body.

Li Zaixing gazed into the black sky, his thoughts drifting to the Tibetan Plateau a thousand years in the future.

Back then, he was a border soldier. Each day brought nothing but horseback patrols across vast, empty lands with his comrades, guarding the nation’s frontiers, honing his riding and martial skills. Once, while pursuing an enemy agent who’d crossed the border, he faced a hail of gunfire. His spear, practiced for over a decade, cut down two foes, but couldn’t outrun bullets. As he stabbed the last enemy through the chest and fell from his mount, he thought he’d died a hero’s death. Instead, he awoke as a ten-year-old novice at Prajna Monastery.

A child no one noticed. No parents, no friends—only a master derided as the “Lazy Crippled Monk,” who spent his days sweeping and scavenging scraps for food.

Gradually, from overheard snippets, he learned he’d come to the Tang Dynasty, and felt both alarmed and thrilled. Having spent his past life guarding a desolate wilderness, he had no intention of spending this one hidden in a mountain monastery. He dreamed of seeing the Tang’s glorious era with his own eyes, of witnessing the world’s splendor that history so revered.

He stayed only to reclaim his former skills. In his previous life, besides mastering modern firearms, he was adept at Bajiquan and the spear, both passed down through his family. In the twenty-first century, martial arts served little purpose beyond fitness and discipline, but in the Tang, where gunpowder was yet unknown, his skills would be invaluable.

So he stifled his restlessness, training in secret for eight years, until tonight he finally mastered Bajiquan’s most formidable close-quarters strike—breaking three thick trees in a single breath, surpassing even his former self.

The day of success was the day to leave the mountain.

Though most of his energy went into training, he’d also learned a few things—such as his fall from the cliff was no accident, that the voice haunting his memories spoke with a Chang’an accent, and that name so familiar to later ages.

Knowing someone wanted him dead didn’t frighten him—in fact, it excited him. He’d always been a troublemaker; in his past life, his father sent him to the army because of his endless mischief. In truth, his father had another complaint: out of admiration for the Song general Yang Zaixing, he had changed his own name despite his father’s protests, abandoned his family’s spear technique for the Yang style, and nearly drove his father to challenge him to a duel. Now, to find someone in the Tang Dynasty wanting his life—well, that was interesting indeed.

He burned with curiosity to unravel the mystery: Who was he, really, and why was his life in danger?

“Brat, can’t you practice somewhere farther away? Now I have to clean up after you again!” A burly middle-aged monk dragged three trees from the woods, grumbling furiously, “Do this again and I won’t bother with you next time!”

Li Zaixing recognized the trees as the ones he’d just broken.

This was, of course, his master, the so-called Lazy Crippled Monk. To the scholar Li Bi, he was a reclusive sage; to Li Zaixing, he was just a disreputable old rogue. Carnivorous and unafraid of killing—he’d taken lives before.

“I won’t need you to clean up,” Li Zaixing said with a grin.

“What’s this? Planning to rebel?” The monk’s thick brows rose.

“I’m leaving the mountain tomorrow.” Li Zaixing’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “Old rogue, don’t you have anything to say to me?”

The monk froze, dropped the trees, and sighed. “I knew you were working so hard just to go down the mountain. What’s so good down there? Here you have food and drink, nothing to worry about. Out there, you know nothing—not even the roads…”

Li Zaixing cut him off. “So you’ll find me a guide.”

“A guide?” The monk blinked, then caught on. “That Li Bi?”

Li Zaixing smiled, nodding meaningfully. Though not an expert in Tang history, he knew Li Bi well. Alongside Li Jing, Li Bi was hailed as one of the Tang’s twin pillars—Li Jing renowned for his military genius, Li Bi for his intellect and statesmanship. Rising and falling through four reigns, Li Bi nearly saved the dynasty single-handedly, moving effortlessly between court and wilderness, and in legend, was considered almost a demigod like Zhuge Liang.

Li Zaixing’s interest in Li Bi stemmed not just from folklore but from Li Bi’s pivotal role in dividing the Tang’s formidable enemy, Tubo. Having garrisoned the border for years, he was familiar with this era and with Li Bi’s exploits. With such a genius before him, how could a time traveler not seize the chance to befriend him?

The monk shrugged, picked up an axe, spat in his palm, and in a flurry of blows, chopped the thick trunks into kindling as easily as snapping toothpicks. He tossed the axe to Li Zaixing and finally said, “Think your skills are impressive? You’ve got a long way to go.”

Li Zaixing watched as his master barely broke a sweat and weighed the axe in his hand. “A Chan monk secretly practicing Tantric techniques—nothing to boast about,” he teased.

The monk, drinking water, spat it out in shock, eyes wide as copper bells. “How did you know those were Tantric techniques?”