Chapter 3

As the soldiers laughed, their arrows no longer aimed at the three; the strong man, bold and decisive, suddenly bolted westward, shouting: “Run east! Hide your money!”

This single sentence carried two layers of intent: first, to make Wang Yang and the handsome boy run east, diverting the soldiers’ attention; second, to imply to the soldiers that Wang Yang and the boy carried money—making them more valuable targets than himself.

The strong man’s plan sounded clever, but in practice, it went completely awry.

First, the handsome boy, terrified, could no longer tell east from west and simply sprinted after the strong man.

Second, Wang Yang stood frozen in place—not because he didn’t want to flee, but because he judged that nine soldiers, armed with bows, made escape nearly impossible.

Third, the strong man had severely underestimated the soldiers’ reaction speed and the lethality of their cold weapons.

He had barely taken a few steps when an arrow struck the ground just before his feet!

The strong man instinctively raised his hands and dared not move further; the handsome boy froze in terror.

“Run! Keep running! This is a mulberry bow—you’d be dead before you hit twenty paces! You little bastards dare run? Just watch what I’ll do to you!”

The sergeant pointed; four soldiers advanced swiftly, two each, grabbing the strong man and the handsome boy roughly by the arms. The strong man shouted: “I know how to make salt! Fine salt! I can—ah!”

Before he finished speaking, his abdomen was slammed hard with the hilt of a knife; he doubled over in agony.

As the strong man screamed, the handsome boy cried out: “The wind is fierce, the sky high, apes wail in grief! The islets clear, the sand white, birds wheel back! Boundless falling leaves—”

Then he suffered the same fate: his mouth was struck violently with a knife hilt; his lips swelled instantly, teeth streaked with blood.

He couldn’t fathom why others, upon reincarnation, enjoyed luxury and pleasure, while he ended up like this—he was clearly the protagonist!

“What were they yelling about?” the sergeant asked, puzzled.

The black-faced soldier beside him, holding a spear, also looked confused: “One said he makes salt? The other was reciting poetry?”

It was like offering flirtatious glances to a blind man: both transmigrants shouted their “masterpieces,” and received not favor, but a beating. This wasn’t merely due to the soldiers’ crude nature—it was also a matter of era.

At the time, ordinary people knew only two kinds of salt: yellow and white, further classified by form as powdered, granular, loose, or large salt. There was no concept of “fine salt”—not because they were ignorant, but because the term “fine salt” simply didn’t exist.

If you placed modern refined salt before these soldiers, they’d naturally recognize it as a fine thing—but to merely speak of it? Don’t blame these “country bumpkins” for failing to grasp the concept.

Du Fu’s “Ascending High” was, of course, a peerless masterpiece. Yet in that era, poetry favored four- and five-character lines, with five-character verse dominating; seven-character lines were mostly found in folk songs and ballads. Though occasional literati composed serious seven-character poems, they were as rare as a single grain in the ocean—both in quality and quantity, utterly dwarfed by five-character verse.

Had a true poetry connoisseur been present, he might have wished to hear the handsome boy continue. But all soldiers here were rough men; even the spear-bearing black-faced soldier, who knew many characters, failed to grasp the poem’s meaning, let alone the others.

The sergeant pointed at Wang Yang: “Grab him too. This one’s well-behaved—the team leader will like him.”

Two soldiers strode toward Wang Yang, reaching out to seize his arms!

Wang Yang’s face darkened; he stepped back, eyes wide, and shouted with all his strength: “I am a son of the Langya Wang clan! Whoever dares harm me—his clan shall be exterminated!”

Wang Yang’s shout had been brewing for long; he had prepared for “success or death.” Like a cornered wolf, a trapped beast fighting desperately, he unleashed unimaginable force—his voice thundered, his aura roared like tiger or leopard, leaving the two soldiers momentarily stunned.

“Exterminate the clan” meant total annihilation. Wang Yang’s cry was like a bomb thrown among them—everyone froze.

All stared at Wang Yang; no one spoke.

Wang Yang had weighed this lie carefully.

Earlier, through phonology, he had deduced his era as Middle Ancient; then the man had mentioned “Northern spies,” suggesting a North-South divide. His location was clearly southern territory.

Though the Eastern Wu of the Three Kingdoms and the Five Dynasties also experienced North-South opposition, neither lasted as long as the Northern and Southern Dynasties. Statistically, he bet on the latter.

The Northern and Southern Dynasties were the age of aristocratic clans, where the gulf between noble and common was extreme: high-clan sons ruled the heavens; commoners scurried like oxen and horses. If he could successfully impersonate an aristocrat, he would terrify these soldiers!

Yet southern aristocratic clans were numerous: Wang, Xie, Yuan, Xiao, Gu, Lu, Zhu, Zhang—there were many. Which one should he impersonate?

Wang Yang reasoned: since he was lying either way, he might as well impersonate the foremost southern clan—the Langya Wang clan!

He recalled Mao Hanguang’s “A Study of Aristocratic Politics in the Jin and Northern-Southern Dynasties,” which recorded that among officials of rank five and above in Eastern Jin and Southern Dynasties, the Langya Wang clan had the highest numbers.

From Eastern Jin to Southern Chen, aristocratic political status rose and fell, but the Langya Wang clan remained unquestionably a top-tier clan.

Impersonating Langya was the safest choice.

Of course, “safe” was only relative.

If this were the time of Wang Dun’s rebellion in Eastern Jin, when Wang Dao led Wang clan members to beg for pardon before the throne—or if under Sun family rule of Eastern Wu—impersonating Langya Wang might backfire.

Moreover, high clans kept genealogical records and household registers—how easily could one fake them?

And Wang Yang didn’t even know the exact dynasty he was in—how could he fabricate details?

In short, the risk was immense. But to save his dignity, Wang Yang, in desperation, had no choice but to gamble everything.

The sergeant stared blankly, then burst into laughter first. Had he been drinking, he would have sprayed it far.

The soldiers all laughed uncontrollably, as if Wang Yang were the greatest joke imaginable.

The sergeant doubled over, pointing at Wang Yang: “You... you actually dare to make that up? You, a beggar? Even after eight lifetimes, you’d never be born into the Wang family! Hahahaha!”

Hearing this, Wang Yang exhaled in relief—he had feared these men had never heard of the Langya Wang clan. Now, their reaction proved his bet had paid off!

The era he had transmigrated into was precisely Eastern Jin and the Southern Dynasties!

As the saying goes: “Man needs clothes, horse needs saddle.” Wang Yang’s attire was utterly tattered; he had no belt, only a hemp rope tied around his waist. Even an ordinary peasant dressed better than he did. Without a plausible explanation for his clothing, this act couldn’t continue.

He had first claimed to be a vagrant, now claimed to be Langya Wang—he already sounded unconvincing. Most people, if their story shifted so abruptly, would rush to explain. But Wang Yang showed no intention to explain; instead, he sneered:

“I’m poor? My family owns coral trees worth more than all your lives. You call me poor?”

He glanced casually at his clothes, then said slowly: “I changed into this to evade bandits. You judge a man by his clothes—no wonder you’re blind.”

“I haven’t got time for your nonsense!” the sergeant snapped. “Lao San, Ding Jiu—hold him down and slap him twice!”

The two soldiers advanced on Wang Yang. Wang Yang stood firm, sneering: “If you two wish to have your clans exterminated, come closer.”

Lao San and Ding Jiu hesitated, seeing Wang Yang’s unshakable demeanor and confident tone.

The sergeant cursed: “Are you fools? Still believe him? Even if he were truly Langya Wang, he couldn’t exterminate entire clans! This is clearly a rogue impersonating nobility! Can’t you see that?”

“Hahahaha!” Wang Yang threw his head back and laughed loudly, as if the sergeant had told the funniest joke imaginable.

In truth, Wang Yang was the one telling the joke—the sergeant was right.

Wang Yang had to admit he’d gone too far saying “exterminate the clan.” He’d been terrified, desperate to intimidate the soldiers, so he’d used the threat. Had he had time to prepare, he’d have crafted a far better lie. But the moment was urgent—he had no time for careful planning.

Now, he had to make this lie hold.

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Note: In Middle Ancient sources, “Langya” is often written as “Langye.” The “Shuowen Jiezi” states: “Xie: Langye Commandery. From Yi , phonetic Ya .” The pronunciation of Xie is identical to Xing (ya). For convenience, it is uniformly rendered as “Langya.”

Salt policies varied across dynasties and could not be summarized as mere state monopoly. Even under state control, the specifics differed by dynasty. In Western Jin, private salt production was banned, punishable by four years’ imprisonment; by Eastern Jin and into the Southern Dynasties, the ban was lifted, allowing private boiling with salt taxes levied—a taxation system. Thus, when the soldiers heard the strong man mention “fine salt,” their first thought was not about smuggling. Later sections will detail the salt policy of this era.