Chapter 3

Ding Yu opened his eyes amid throbbing headaches, greeted by a dilapidated ceiling supported by thick beams, a black-and-yellow quilt riddled with patches covering his body, the air thick with a faint mildew scent, his mouth parched and every muscle aching as if even the slightest movement were unbearable.

He grimaced, reluctantly turned his head slightly, glancing around.

It was a small wooden hut; the walls were patched and repaired, with faint drafts seeping through, and apart from the crude bed covered with dry rice straw, there was nothing else inside.

Where am I?

Ding Yu stared blankly for a long while before finally remembering something; ignoring his physical discomfort, he struggled to sit up and raised one arm.

A black, emaciated arm—strange, yet somehow familiar.

“No way.”

Ding Yu groaned.

At that moment, the door opened and a woman in a coarse gray cloth dress and a patterned headscarf entered; upon seeing Ding Yu awake, she cried out “Zhu-er!” and rushed forward, clutching him tightly in her arms and weeping.

Ding Yu’s body stiffened in her embrace; when he felt two hot tears trickle down his neck, he instinctively called out “Mother,” then broke free from her hold, clutching his head and convulsing on the bed as if in unbearable agony.

“Zhu-er, what’s wrong?” the woman cried out in alarm.

Before Ding Yu slipped into darkness, he vaguely saw two familiar figures rush through the doorway, then lost consciousness once more.

This time, he had another long dream: in it, he experienced the fragmented growth of a boy from birth to twelve or thirteen, his final memory ending as he helped his father and brother clear wasteland when a heavy rain fell, causing him to step into a hole and collapse unconscious.

……

After an unknown length of time, Ding Yu woke again, gasping on the bed, his mouth filled with the bitter taste of medicine; after moving his lips twice, he could even feel traces of herbal residue.

“Younger brother, you’re awake? How do you feel? Did the medicine Master Wang prescribed help?” The tall, thin youth beside the bed exclaimed with joy upon seeing Ding Yu stir.

“Big… brother, I’m fine, just weak all over.” Ding Yu murmured, gazing at the youth’s joyful face.

“Good, rest for now—I’ll go get Father.” The youth dashed out of the room, elated.

Ding Yu lay on the bed, staring silently at his own hands for a long while.

Am I now “Ding Yu,” or a boy from another world named “Wang Tiezhu”?

It seemed the two had merged—but the new memories were fragmented and incomplete, as if only Wang Tiezhu’s memories had fused with his; so he was still Ding Yu, yet his mind had inexplicably gained another person’s memories.

After analyzing his condition, Ding Yu exhaled slightly in relief—but what exactly was happening now?

The promised dream-entry into another world, body possession—how had it turned into becoming the other person outright? And clearly, the one replaced was the same boy he’d previously dreamt into.

During training, Dr. Chen and the instructors had never mentioned this could happen.

Ding Yu thought for a moment, turned his head, and tapped his own skull, whispering “Taiyuan”—but nothing happened.

This was truly a disaster; the method taught in training to activate the Taiyuan auxiliary system had clearly failed.

Ding Yu’s expression darkened.

“Clatter.”

A dark-skinned middle-aged man burst through the door; seeing Ding Yu seated on the bed, he immediately sat beside him, concerned:

“Zhu-zi, you’re really awake. Hu San said you’d sleep two or three days and might even die—total nonsense. Though his medical skills are terrible, that bowl of herbal broth really did save your life. Those half-sacks of beans weren’t wasted.”

“Father, I’m fine, just a bit of a headache.” Ding Yu looked at the man—strange yet familiar—and, under his father’s worried gaze, forced a faint smile before whispering.

This man was the biological father of this body: “Wang Kui.”

“Zhu-zi, you collapsed in the field because you’re too weak. It’s my fault—I shouldn’t have made you work in the rain. You’re lucky to be alive. Your mother has gone to your grandfather’s to beg for some cured meat to help you recover.” Wang Kui touched his forehead; seeing his temperature was normal, he finally relaxed.

“Mother went to Grandfather’s?” Ding Yu was startled; an image of a tall, bearded old man surfaced in his mind.

In his memories, this grandfather had only one daughter—his mother—and doted on “him” as the youngest child.

“Yes. Your grandfather is the most famous hunter within dozens of li; though old now, his skill in climbing mountains to catch rabbits and pheasants still outshines everyone in nearby villages. Drink some meat broth, and you’ll recover quickly.” Wang Kui smiled.

“Meat broth.”

Ding Yu realized that upon hearing the word, he’d unconsciously licked his lips—and even drooled a little; embarrassed, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

“Hah! Look at you, starving! By the way, I picked you a fruit on the way back—eat this to fill your stomach for now. Your brother and I still have work; you stay and rest.” Wang Kui laughed, pulled a small reddish-green fruit from his robe, and shoved it into Ding Yu’s hand, offered a few more words of comfort, then hurried out.

Ding Yu stared at the fuzzy wild fruit in his hand, then at the door through which Wang Kui had vanished, his heart filled with a thousand conflicting emotions.

He still had a “father” in his memory from Blue Star—but the innate sense of kinship he felt toward this man clearly proved the blood bond between this body and him.

“No, I can’t be fooled. During training, they warned us: body possession in dream-entry creates false attachment; one misstep and you lose yourself. Now it’s not possession—it’s full replacement. That makes losing yourself even easier. What I must do now is gather information about this world—complete the mission first.” Ding Yu silently pondered, bit into the sour fruit, and began meticulously sifting through the extra memories in his mind.

In these memories, he had lived since childhood in a village called “Wangjia Village,” which had barely a hundred households, mostly surnamed Wang; he had only visited a few other nearby villages within a twenty- to thirty-li radius, all roughly the same size as Wangjia Village. Far away lay a large city called Huangshi City, home to hundreds of thousands, under whose jurisdiction all nearby villages and towns fell—but Wang Tiezhu had never once set foot there.

Wang Tiezhu’s family life revolved entirely around the word “poverty.”

In his memories, hunger was common; the family survived on a few mu of land allotted by the village, growing a black pea variety. Their daily meals—two per day—consisted mostly of black pea porridge, with an occasional small bowl of salted vegetable broth. The porridge smelled fragrant but tasted bitter. Even this meager staple, he, still a child, could only have two small bowls daily; the rest went to his father and older brother, Wang Dagang, the family’s main laborers.

White rice and steamed buns did exist in this world—but for the Wang family, they appeared only during festivals, in tiny portions. Fortunately, he had a hunter grandfather who, whenever visiting Wangjia Village, brought cured game meat, giving him a taste of fat. But his grandfather’s home was far, and he came only a few times a year.

Their daily necessities—farm tools, salt, lamp oil—were purchased periodically by villagers sent in groups to Huangshi City.

What country this region belonged to, whether there was a court or emperor above it—Ding Yu found no such memories. To the people of Wangjia Village, the Huangshi City magistrate’s office was the government, and the Huangshi City governor was the highest official they knew.

The supernatural powers Dr. Chen mentioned—Ding Yu found no trace of them in Wang Tiezhu’s memories. Wangjia Village was a perfect example of a poor, backward village from ancient China; everyone here lived only to fill their stomachs.

“Looks like I’ll need another way to find valuable information,” Ding Yu mused.

At dusk, the sky turned pitch black.

In a slightly larger room, Ding Yu sat before a crude wooden table, staring blankly at the bowl of thick, black-green porridge before him.

“Zhu-zi, you’re still recovering—eat more.” Wang Kui, seated across from him, mistook his silence for delight and said kindly.

“Y-yes, younger brother, eat as much as you want. Don’t worry about the fieldwork—‘Hulu lu’… Dad and I will handle it.” The tall, thin youth, seated beside him, shoveled food into his mouth with a wooden spoon, speaking between gulps.

“Father, I’m just worried about Mother—she left early for Grandfather’s, and it’s so late, why hasn’t she returned?” Ding Yu mumbled, afraid of revealing his oddness; he quickly lifted the bowl and swallowed a large mouthful of black pea porridge—its bitterness flooded his mouth; had he not mentally prepared himself, he might have vomited on the spot.

Could this even be called food?

Ding Yu inwardly cursed, but after chewing the semi-soft black peas a few more times, they finally turned slightly sticky and fragrant, allowing him to swallow.

“Yes. Mother left early for Grandfather’s; by now, she should be back. Could something have happened on the way?” The youth finished his bowl in a few bites, wiped his mouth with his ragged sleeve, and asked curiously.

“Maybe your mother stayed longer at your grandfather’s. What could happen on such a short path?” Wang Kui shook his head dismissively, then ladled himself a bowl of black pea porridge from a nearby iron pot.

Ding Yu stared at the porridge in his bowl, wondering whether to feign disinterest to eat less, when two knocks came at the door—then it swung open, and the cloth-dressed woman and an old man with a thick beard, carrying a bundle on his back, walked in.

“Father-in-law.”

Wang Kui, startled, rose with bowl and chopsticks to greet him.

Ding Yu and the tall youth also stood from the table and called out, “Grandfather.”

In Wang Tiezhu’s memories, this “grandfather” had adored him as the youngest grandson: he often brought meat to improve their meals, and once even traded half a wild boar for a literate old scholar in the village to teach Wang Tiezhu reading and writing for over half a year—allowing this body to finally recognize basic characters and escape illiteracy.

The old man, seeing his two grandsons, smiled faintly and asked after Ding Yu’s recovery.

But before he could speak further, the woman, burdened with worry, blurted out a shocking piece of news: “Husband, your father heard news—Huangshi City is opening the Spirit Conscription.”

“Spirit Conscription? Father-in-law, is this true?” Wang Kui trembled, his chopsticks dropping unnoticed to the floor.

“The news is likely accurate. A friend of mine told me—his son serves in the Huangshi City Garrison. Once the Spirit Conscription begins, all males over ten must serve. Xiao Er is already ten. To avoid this, I plan to send him to a nearby Daoist temple.” The old man glanced at Ding Yu and frowned.

“Daoist temple? Which one, Father? Can you get Zhu-zi accepted as a temple acolyte?” Wang Kui’s face lit up.

Ding Yu froze, a cascade of questions flooding his mind.

What was “Spirit Conscription”? Becoming a Daoist acolyte? Was this like the Daoist temples on Blue Star? Was becoming a temple acolyte considered a great thing in this world?

“Naturally, the most famous one: Baiyun Temple. Normally impossible—but I’ve acquired something they desperately need, and Xiao Er’s age is perfect. It should work.” The old man patted the bundle on his back, confident.

“A temple’s a great place—they feed you white rice and flour! Grandfather, can I go too?” The tall youth, after hearing this, glanced at the black pea porridge on the table, his eyes gleaming.

“Da Gang, you can’t. You’re too old—temples only take those under fifteen.” The old man sighed helplessly at his other grandson.

“Slap!”

“What are you talking about? Do you think the temple is our family’s property? Sending Zhu-zi is already a miracle! Besides, the Spirit Conscription may be hard, and you might fall ill returning—but the pay is excellent. I’ll go with you, and when we return, you’ll have enough to marry a wife!” Wang Kui backhanded his eldest son on the head, furious.

“I just wonder if Zhu-zi can adapt to the temple…” the woman fretted, staring at her youngest son.

Ding Yu blinked, unable to utter a word.