Chapter 6

“Don’t worry, brother, from now on, I’ve got your back.”

Recalling Zhang Jie’s memories and experiences from Water Margin, the Zhongtian Zhang Jie sympathetically patted the shoulder of the Water Margin Zhang Jie, who could see, eat, and taste but dared not eat.

Zhang Jie’s shoulder, which one could afford to eat, could reach to eat, but dared not eat.

Feeling the vast power shared from Zhongtian Zhang Jie,

the Water Margin Zhang Jie’s smile gradually grew radiant and unrestrained.

Those unbearable past memories were gone forever, never to return!

Unlike this sickly weakling who had poured all his attribute points into spirit,

Zhongtian Zhang Jie seemed to have dumped all his attribute points into his body:

his physical strength was extraordinarily high—even without martial training, he was like the mighty Zhang Fei,

a warrior capable of riding through ten thousand enemies to seize an enemy general’s head!

His daily training equipment weighed hundreds of jin.

After mastering the extremely yang Wudang Nine Yang Art, he became even more formidable,

and now it was no exaggeration to say he could lift a cauldron!

Though the Water Margin Zhang Jie, having shared his strength, still looked frail,

in truth his power was now identical to Zhongtian Zhang Jie’s—no difference whatsoever.

What relieved the Water Margin Zhang Jie was that

he had not suddenly transformed into Zhongtian Zhang Jie’s muscular, burly form.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want a muscular physique,

but he couldn’t explain to others how he’d changed overnight.

What if people thought he was possessed by a demon and burned him alive?

Could he really walk through Yanggu County to Bianliang wielding two watermelons as knives, slashing left and right?

“Little brother, with my strength, you’ll surely rise above your troubles when you return!”

The Water Margin Zhang Jie raised an eyebrow at Zhongtian Zhang Jie.

As mentioned earlier, Zhongtian Zhang Jie had poured all his attribute points into his body,

leaving his spirit, learning, and comprehension abilities utterly ordinary.

Had it not been for his master Yu Lianzhou, who had trained him in the Wudang Nine Yang Art for decades,

he might still be struggling to even enter the basics of the Wudang Nine Yang Art.

Concepts like meridians, acupoints, and visualization diagrams were utterly incomprehensible to Zhongtian Zhang Jie—like ancient scriptures.

People are different; even among humans,

the gap between individuals can be greater than that between a human and a dog.

Zhongtian Zhang Jie still remembered the words Qian Lao had said before his transmigration:

“Can a man really not learn calculus?”

Zhongtian Zhang Jie learned the Japanese custom of dogeza:

“I’m sorry—I’ve dragged down humanity’s average IQ. I apologize.”

Zhongtian Zhang Jie wasn’t completely incapable—he just learned at a snail’s pace,

making listeners heartbroken and onlookers weep.

Fortunately, Zhongtian Zhang Jie truly had a natural gift for physique:

his internal energy cultivation progressed far faster than other Wudang disciples.

Now his internal force was the strongest among Wudang’s third-generation disciples.

Even the last third-generation disciple to enter the sect, Mo Shenggu, couldn’t match him.

Mo Shenggu was years older, with talent and comprehension ranked among the best in the world,

yet Song Qingshu, the eldest third-generation disciple of Wudang, couldn’t come close.

And as everyone knew, this elder brother Song Qingshu was as petty as the Duan Shuiliu from “The Destroyer.”

Though he didn’t think all his fellow Wudang disciples were trash like Duan Shuiliu,

he deeply resented Zhang Jie, his junior whose internal energy surpassed his own.

Especially since Zhang Jie ranked second among the disciples—just below him—this terrified him:

he feared Zhang Jie might usurp his position as eldest disciple—or even the heir to Wudang’s third generation.

Petty and jealous, Song Qingshu subtly targeted Zhongtian Zhang Jie at every turn,

often belittling him with swordplay and lightness skills, areas where Zhongtian Zhang Jie was weak.

“When I return, I’ll give him a lesson.”

Zhongtian Zhang Jie’s eyes flashed with cold light upon hearing this.

Zhang Jie had never been a kind-hearted fool who repaid hatred with virtue.

He believed only in repaying virtue with virtue and hatred with hatred!

To Zhang Jie, the idea of repaying hatred with virtue was pure nonsense:

“If you repay hatred with virtue, how do you repay virtue?”

Only hatred deserves hatred, and virtue deserves virtue!

…

The Water Margin Zhang Jie, after carefully recalling and experiencing Zhongtian Zhang Jie’s memories and emotions, sighed:

“Thankfully, our shared space allows not just power-sharing,

but also complete sharing of memories, emotions, and experiences.

Otherwise, I couldn’t guarantee we’d remain one Zhang Jie in the future.”

Zhongtian Zhang Jie nodded in agreement:

“Different experiences breed different memories and emotions.

Even if we started as the same person, divergent experiences would create different worldviews.

If we couldn’t fully share, I couldn’t guarantee we’d remain one Zhang Jie.”

At this, the Water Margin Zhang Jie couldn’t help complaining: “I don’t understand those novels called ‘co-transmigration’

where the two souls can’t even share memories.

No memory sharing means concealment.

And once concealment appears, unless both are selfless saints,

they can never fully cooperate.”

Zhongtian Zhang Jie joined in: “Everyone holds back a little, I hold back a little—

calling it ‘co-transmigration’ is a misnomer; it’s just a chat group wearing a co-transmigration skin.

At best, since they started with identical memories, their cooperation is slightly less conflicted.”

The Water Margin Zhang Jie continued with his deduction:

“Without a shared goal, their split is inevitable.

The best outcome? They go their separate ways and never speak again.

But if one becomes so dark that he believes only he is the true continuation of the original self,

a deadly battle to prove ‘I am I’ will be unavoidable.”

Zhongtian Zhang Jie thought for a moment and said:

“What can you say about these co-transmigration novels?”

The Water Margin Zhang Jie replied: “Hard to describe.

But who cares? Existence is reasonable.”

The two Zhang Jies jointly decided to end this question with no definitive answer and moved on.

Zhongtian Zhang Jie suddenly grinned mysteriously:

“Do you know why the Song Dynasty produced no famous frontier poems?”

The Water Margin Zhang Jie, born into the Song Dynasty, smiled too:

“Who says our Song Dynasty lacks great frontier poetry?

For example, Lu You’s ‘Book of Grief, Part One’: ‘Night snow on boats at Guazhou Ferry, iron horses beneath autumn wind at Dasanguan.’

No verbs used—just six pure landscape images stacked together,

yet the desolate, somber aura of the frontier bursts forth.

These two lines would still be unmatched even among Tang Dynasty poetry.

Though Guazhou Ferry lies in Yangzhou, Jiangsu, and Dasanguan in Baoji, Shaanxi,

you can’t say they aren’t frontier regions.”

Zhongtian Zhang Jie chuckled, answering himself:

“It’s not that frontier poetry declined after the Tang Dynasty.

It’s that our Song Dynasty’s frontiers are, to later generations, uncomfortably close.

Xin Qiji’s ‘In my prime, banners led ten thousand soldiers’—where exactly was that deep incursion into Jin territory?”

It wasn't that frontier poetry declined after the Tang dynasty,

but that our Great Song's frontier was, for later generations, uncomfortably close.

Where exactly was Xin Qiji's "In my prime, banners led ten thousand men" when he penetrated a thousand li into the heart of the Jin realm?

The answer is in Jinan, Shandong.

That Jinan by Great Ming Lake,

Where lotus blooms on all four sides, willows on three, a city of mountains and half its expanse a lake.

If Jinan counts as a frontier, then the very definition of the Central Plains has clearly gone awry.

But to the Great Song, this was already a northern frontier.

Tang frontier poetry: Off to the border, unsure when I’ll return home—how sorrowful.

IP address: Kyrgyzstan.

Song frontier poetry: Once upon a time, there were no frontiers,

but as the Song army lost more battles, my home became the frontier.

Years passed, my hometown was occupied, and I didn’t know when I’d return home—how sorrowful.

IP address: Jiangsu.

Song frontier outposts stretched across Tiannanhaibei: Dasanguan in Shaanxi,

Guazhou in Jiangsu, Lingdingyang in Guangdong—all were frontiers.

The rich frontier resources gave rise to the flourishing frontier literary style of the Song dynasty—a true blessing for poets~

Tang frontier poets wrote their verses in Central Asia;

Northern Song frontier poets wrote in Shaanxi;

Southern Song frontier poets wrote in Jiangsu.

Later, people never again read a frontier poem as fine as “Song of White Snow Sending Judge Wu Back to the Capital.”

Not because there were no better poets, but because there were no better frontiers…

Water Margin Zhang Jie replied calmly:

“Wanyan Liang—no, Zhao Liang’s ‘Ten thousand miles of chariots and books united as one, how could the south have another border?

With a hundred thousand troops on West Lake’s shore, I shall stand atop Wushan’s highest peak.’

Though it’s a Jin poem, tell me—does it not speak of the Song and the frontier?”

In the Tang dynasty, there was a custom called “Weeping at Zhao Ling.”

When common folk suffered injustice or grievance, they would go to Zhao Ling and weep.

This custom persisted into the Northern Song, but by the Southern Song, few still wept at Zhao Ling.

Why?

Because Southern Song commoners had to cross borders to weep at Zhao Ling…

“Hah!”

Water Margin Zhang Jie and Heaven Sword Zhang Jie exchanged glances and laughed,

The entire shared space filled with joyful air.