Volume One Chapter One Reborn

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On a spring morning in March, the village of the Xiao family was just awakening from a light mist and, unable to contain itself, quickly bustled with life. During the idle season, the industrious enjoyed a rare moment of leisure, yet the idlers and gossiping women had long since gathered in groups at the crossroads by the village entrance, beside the timeworn, gleaming stone roller, chattering animatedly.

“Tsk, tsk, look over there in the Xiao family’s courtyard—what strange antics are they up to again?”

A sallow-faced woman pursed her lips, gesturing toward the Xiao family residence diagonally across the way. The compound, with its mottled grey walls and half-open wooden door, revealed everything inside—a pair of weathered adult men, together with two half-grown boys, were stretching and contorting their limbs in the courtyard, making odd, noisy sounds, their movements peculiar and outlandish.

“Heavens above—what sort of spirit dance is this? Have they studied themselves silly?” sneered a lazy fellow in worn-out shoes, drawing a round of raucous laughter.

“What else could it be?” another chimed in, his scorn barely veiled. “That old Madam Yu is desperate for her two precious sons to win the top scholar’s title! The eldest, Xiao Boduo, and the second, Xiao Zhongyuan—haven’t they been trying for nearly ten years now? Tsk, the ancestral property’s all gone, there’s barely enough rice left for the pot, and the two of them are still only elementary scholars, nearly thirty years old!”

Then, lowering her voice and with a hint of schadenfreude, the first woman added, “And that Ning boy of theirs, last month, playing by the creek—water barely up to his calves, yet he managed to fall in and couldn’t get up for ages, couldn’t even call for help! Isn’t that odd? I’d say old Madam Yu is even more muddleheaded now!”

The laughter grew even louder, carrying across the alley and scraping at Xiao Ning’s taut nerves like sandpaper.

Inside the court, old Madam Yu, her hair already streaked with white, stood ramrod straight, the polished bamboo ruler in her hand a silent command. Her sharp gaze swept over the four in the yard: the eldest son, Xiao Boduo—dull and honest; the second, Xiao Zhongyuan—his eyes wandering; the eldest grandson, Xiao Yun—nine years old, visibly striving; and the youngest, Xiao Ning—eight, seemingly attentive, though his bright eyes darted slyly toward the noisy crowd outside.

What the villagers called “spirit dancing” was in fact the unchanging Six-Character Breathing Exercise practiced by the Xiao family. Xiao Zhongyuan, taking advantage of old Madam Yu’s fleeting glance at Xiao Yun, slouched and let his form slip.

Crack!

The ruler sliced the air, landing with precision and force on Xiao Zhongyuan’s protruding backside, the sound crisp and clear.

“Ow, ow, ow!” Xiao Zhongyuan hopped about, grimacing and winking frantically at his son, Xiao Ning: Good boy, beg your grandmother for mercy for your father!

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Watching the menacing ruler, Xiao Ning shrank his neck without hesitation and flashed his grandmother a smile so sweet it could make one sick. “Well struck, Grandmother! I agree—Father simply doesn’t try hard enough!” He silently added to himself: Now that she’s punished him, let her be appeased and spare me!

Everyone else in the courtyard—Uncle Xiao Boduo, Aunt Wang, her eldest daughter Yao’er and younger son Yun, and his own pregnant mother, Madam Zhou—all kept their eyes lowered, feigning intense busyness, sweeping, feeding chickens, or otherwise, fearful lest disaster spill over onto them.

After half a stick of incense, the ordeal of the breathing exercise finally ended. At old Madam Yu’s command, everyone scattered as if pardoned: “Eldest and second sons, back to your rooms to study. Eldest daughter-in-law, prepare breakfast. Second daughter-in-law, sweep the courtyard. Yao’er, feed the chickens. Yun and Ning, rest a bit, then help your mother with her chores.”

The dilapidated, shabby Xiao family compound was suddenly filled with a heavy air of busyness. Xiao Ning exhaled deeply, grabbed a broom taller than himself, and hurried to his mother’s side to help sweep the yard. Five months pregnant, Madam Zhou moved slowly, supporting her waist.

When they reached the gate, the villagers’ jeers outside were painfully clear. Xiao Ning suddenly looked up and glared fiercely at them, his dark eyes ablaze. Yet the villagers, caught in the act, showed not a trace of shame, only laughing and slowly wandering away.

Xiao Ning withdrew his gaze and surveyed the desolate family courtyard: peeling walls, draughty paper windows, worthless firewood piled in the corners. Under the eaves, a few weary, drooping old hens feebly scratched at the earth.

With a silent sigh, he thought, “No wonder they look down on us—this family is so poor that even a copper coin hitting the floor would ring out.”

Yes, Xiao Ning had “awoken.”

Half a month ago, a fall into the water drowned an eight-year-old, ignorant child—and “awoke” a soul from another world. In his previous life, he was a postdoctoral scholar in Chinese language and literature at Tsinghua and Peking University, worn bald from study. A tragic car accident had flung him into this strange new world. Coincidentally, the original owner of this body was also named Xiao Ning. After falling into the creek and losing consciousness, he awoke to find himself quietly replaced. Fortunately, he’d merged with fragments of the original’s memories, or else in this superstitious, feudal era, he would have been burned as a “water ghost possessing a body.”

Grandmother Yu was a living embodiment of “hoping one’s sons will become dragons.” For ten years, she had poured her heart and all the family’s resources into her two sons, now at the age of thirty yet still mere elementary scholars, yearning for their names to shine on the honor rolls and bring glory to the family. Sadly, her stubbornness earned only the villagers’ unkind ridicule—“Madam Yu has lost her mind; the Xiao family is doomed never to succeed!”—every word a sharp blade.

From the inner room came the vigorous, if somewhat clueless, recitation of classics by his uncle and father: “The Master said, ‘To learn and constantly practice what one has learned, is that not a pleasure?’...”

Hearing their voices and looking at the crumbling home before him, Xiao Ning pressed his lips tightly together.

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“Are we really fated never to succeed?” he murmured, eyes downcast. “Perhaps not.”

In those first days after awakening, he’d been utterly lost.

The Dayu Dynasty? He’d never heard of it. The emperors and poets from his memories—Qin Shi Huang, Han Wu, Tang and Song ancestors, the immortal poets, the philosophers of Cheng, Zhu, Lu, and Wang—seemed not to have left the slightest trace in the annals of this land. He’d felt a wave of panic until he peeked at the books in the hands of his father and uncle—“The Four Books and Five Classics.” Coupled with the county, prefectural, provincial, and imperial examination system and the subtle customs and products of the land, his heart gradually settled.

This world, it seemed, was akin to the Ming Dynasty of his previous life—only the founding hero’s surname had changed from Zhu to Xiang.

But what did it matter?

As long as the Four Books and Five Classics were still revered, as long as the foundation of governance remained the “doctrine of benevolence and virtue,” then surely heaven had opened its eyes!

The knowledge stored in his mind was, in this era, a dazzling, revolutionary galaxy.

Those timeless poems and essays that flowed readily from his lips? They were the least of his treasures.

What he truly possessed was the foundation for survival—perhaps even for rising to the heavens.

He held in his hands the very weapon for hacking a path through the imperial examination system!