Chapter 1: Transmigration

(Parallel universe, parallel universe, parallel universe—important matters are said three times; the question is parallel universe, and the heroine of this story passes through in a single chapter. The plot and characters are entirely fictional; any resemblance is purely coincidental, so dear readers, please do not see yourselves in it!!! Reviewers, please be lenient, thank you for understanding.)

On the 17th day of the ninth month of the 16th year of the Guangxu era, Xikou Town was softened by the autumn rain.

Around noon, the old wooden gate of the Jiang Family let out a creak, numbing the tips of people's ears, and two old women lifted a pallid woman.

"It's born! A boy!" a hoarse midwife's voice suddenly rang out in the house, sounding like sandpaper on dry wood—coarse and grating. The door curtain whooshed open, and a mixture of straw ash and heavy blood scent, wrapped in the birthing woman's sweat, burst out, making people wrinkle their noses. Zhou Guixiang collapsed on the wooden bed, her hair stuck to her sweaty forehead, her cheeks a sickly white, her lips cracked with fine lines from dryness, and she strained to turn her head to glimpse the cradle. Just as a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, a violent cough forced it back, her shoulders jerking, and the handkerchief she clutched became soaking wet.

At the kitchen doorway, Li Fugen squatted in front of the firewood pile, his knuckles gripping a pine twig until they turned white.

Li Yuxuan was bound tightly like iron; his arms and legs could not move a fraction, his eyelids could not open, and his nose was a chaotic jumble—bitter herbs, charred fire smoke, the acidic sweat of the woman holding him, mixed with his own milky scent, stinging his head and making him dizzy, while drowsiness rose like a tide.

The woman cradling him had her hair in a round bun, her bangs damply clinging to her forehead, the tips still dripping water; her once delicate features were now swollen like walnuts, her gaze unfocused. Her arms swung woodenly, her hands trembling slightly, and she hummed an out‑of‑tune tune, her voice quivering like a winnowing sieve, broken and intermittent, even she could not recall the next line. Li Yuxuan felt a choking panic inside, wanted to curse to vent, but his throat was as if blocked by cotton, so he could only babble "ah‑ah‑ya‑ya," drooling down his cheek, smearing his face.

Sleepiness attacked, his head sank, and in his dream the only sound was the "tap tap tap" of machines on an electronics factory assembly line. When he opened his eyes again and took in his surroundings, three or four months had passed. The baby's body had grown, its face round, plump and soft, and Li Yuxuan finally grasped the taste of it—he had stepped from the noisy assembly line into the Qing dynasty of 1890, becoming the son of a servant in the Jiang Family of Xikou, Fenghua, Zhejiang! And that wild boy in the Jiang household who was always dragging a runny nose and was called "Ruiyuan" by the servants was none other than the future Chairman in textbooks. That boy always liked to tug at his face when no one was looking, leaving him with a snot‑covered face, irritating him to the point of a grin, yet he dared to be angry but not to cry.

"Xuan boy! Stay away from the stove! Be careful, it's hot!" Zhou Guixiang was scrubbing clothes in a corner of the courtyard, and the wooden mallet went bang bang against the stone slab, her voice bright enough to pierce the courtyard wall. Li Yuxuan crouched before the earthen stove, staring at the black, heavy iron pot with worry.

The frustration in his heart felt like a stone blocking him. He had previously watched Republican‑era TV dramas and always thought the long robes, horse‑coat jackets, blue bricks and black tiles seemed fresh, but now that he was actually here, he realized life was nothing like that. At an age when one should be outgrowing split‑crotch trousers, he had to help the adults; before dawn the rooster crowed, its calls rising and falling, keeping one awake. At night there was only an oil lamp, its dim yellow light unable to illuminate even a palm‑sized spot, so reading required leaning in so close the eyes grew sore. The only amusement was squatting at the base of the wall listening to an old laborer missing a front tooth recounting tales of the jianghu; but his stories were either about robbery or collusion between officials and bandits, his spit flying far, and it was still worse than the novels he had read in his previous life.

What burned him even more was his status as a servant. The Jiang Family was the top household in Xikou Town, with a salt shop, a money house, everything, plus vast fields outside; they employed several servants, and even the cook Zhang Ma could command him at will. He could rent a low, cramped room in a corner of the big courtyard only because his grandfather had once worked as a long‑term laborer for the Jiang Family—that low room leaked wind and rain, water would pool under the bed on rainy days, and at night he had to wrap himself tightly in a blanket. As for Jiang Ruiyuan, that shaggy youngster who would later become the principal, he was a few years older, brimming with boundless energy, spending his days leading a gang of wild kids around town: climbing trees to pull out bird nests, getting covered in leaves; wading in the river to catch fish and shrimp, drenched all over. Several times he almost knocked the newly‑walking Li Yuxuan over, and not a single apology was offered; he just grinned, as if it were perfectly natural.

From the age of six, the shouting never stopped. "Little Xuan, go fetch water to the West Wing! The tub must be full!" "Xuan boy, the Young Master needs to write, hurry and grind ink! The ink must be fine!" Li Yuxuan grew quickly; by eleven he was already half a head taller than his peers, his hands and feet deft, and everyone in the Jiang household liked to command him. Even if his heart wasn't happy, he could only lower his head and respectfully answer, "Understood," for after all, eating someone else's food meant obeying their words. When fetching water, the bucket struck his shin, the pain making him grit his teeth, yet he had to endure it for fear of spilling water and being scolded; when grinding ink, he had to exert great effort to make the ink stick fine, his arms aching so he could barely lift them, and he dared not pause.

After the autumn harvest, the table still served coarse rice with salty vegetables; the vegetables were so salty they turned bitter, with not even a speck of oil visible, and only occasionally a piece of steamed sweet potato appeared, which was an improvement to the meals. Zhou Guixiang pushed a rice bowl toward him, her eyes suddenly reddening, her voice trembling: "Xuan boy, your grandfather... shamelessly begged the mistress... starting tomorrow, you will go with the Young Master to the clan school to study."

Li Yuxuan's hand trembled, and the chopsticks clack dropped onto the floor, rolling to the table leg, his eyes widening: "Study? Me?"

"Yes." Zhou Guixiang wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, reached for the chopsticks, brushed them on her collar and handed them to him, "Your grandfather, for this matter, kowtowed to the mistress many times, his forehead bruised red... as the old saying goes, all else is lowly, only studying is noble... after studying, you won't have to live like us, watching people's faces for permission."

He understood. In these times, a servant's child entering the clan school to study was like a pie falling from the sky. The Jiang Family's clan school was located beside the ancestral hall, a blue‑brick tiled building far more grand than his low room, and they hired the town's most learned Ge Laoxiansheng, who taught the *Three Character Classic* and the *Hundred Family Surnames*; even Jiang Ruiyuan would be struck with a ruler if he was late. This truly was the best path his taciturn grandfather could arrange—though the grandfather rarely spoke, he was especially fond of him, once secretly slipping him a half‑piece of hard malt candy, a sweetness he remembered for several days.

But Li Yuxuan felt a deep dread. In his previous life at a technical school, he spent his time gaming or sleeping, his textbooks were so new they could be sold as second‑hand goods, and he constantly dozed off in class, getting scolded by teachers. This life, he now had to start from scratch with the classical "zhi hu zhe ye"? Those winding ancient texts gave him more headaches than the circuit diagrams of an electronics factory; just recognizing those dense traditional characters would take him half a day's effort.

On the second day before dawn, as soon as the rooster began its first crow, Zhou Guixiang yanked him out of his warm quilt. He tried to linger in bed, but his mother grabbed his ear and pulled him up. She rummaged through the chest and found a patched but freshly washed blue cloth jacket for him to wear, and kept babbling nonstop: "When you get to the school, you must listen to the teacher, study well, and don't be mischievous... never make the Young Master unhappy, be tolerant in everything, don't fight for food at meals, sit upright..." After a long lecture, she finally pushed him out the door.

He kept his head down, following Jiang Ruiyuan toward the ancestral hall, the stones under his feet hurting his soles. By now Jiang Ruiyuan had grown considerably, his brows and eyes hinting at his future appearance, the unruly vigor even stronger, walking with his head held high, as if fearless of heaven or earth. He glanced sideways at Li Yuxuan, his tone tinged with arrogance: "Little Xuan, how old are you this year?" "Answer the Young Master: eleven," Li Yuxuan replied softly, not daring to look up at him.

In the clan school, Ge Laoxiansheng wore a half‑worn cyan cotton robe, the cuffs frayed, his goat beard neatly combed, and the purple bamboo ruler in his hand polished to a glossy shine that made one uneasy. Li Yuxuan was assigned a seat in the last row against the wall; the table leg wobbled, so he propped a brick underneath. His desk mate was the accountant's younger son, also a tutor's assistant, so nervous he could barely breathe, sitting motionless, his brush in his hand nearly breaking from the grip.

"The Master said: To learn and practice at intervals, is that not a pleasure..." the old teacher recited, shaking his head, his voice wavering, his ruler tapping lightly on the desk now and then to remind wandering students. Li Yuxuan stared at the dense traditional characters on the page, feeling them whirl on the paper; the more he read, the more dizzy he became, and the hard wooden bench beneath his butt dug into him, making his whole body ache after a short sit. He wanted to shift but feared the teacher would notice and strike with the ruler. He secretly poked the desk with his finger, making tiny pits to pass the excruciating time.

Just as school let out and he stepped over the ancestral hall's threshold, Jiang Ruiyuan stopped him. The teenager placed his hands on his hips, his chest puffed up, already bearing a hint of adult bearing: "Little Xuan, go back and tell your mother to clean the East Wing, hang up the red silk lanterns; tomorrow the family will hold a wedding ceremony."

Li Yuxuan stared blankly, scratching his head with a puzzled expression: "A wedding?"

"What do you know!" Jiang Ruiyuan frowned, a trace of discomfort flashing across his face, his ears turning red as if embarrassed, "It's my mother and the elders have arranged a marriage with a girl from the Mao family of Yantou Village, named Mao Fumei."

Mao Fumei? Those three words cracked in Li Yuxuan's mind like thunder. He had little recollection of the principal's original wife, but was she marrying so early now?

He stood dumbfounded, watching Jiang Ruiyuan swagger away.

Li Yuxuan inhaled a deep breath of crisp air, shivered, and shook his head, casting aside the tangled thoughts—what mattered now was hurrying home to tell his mother about the Young Master's upcoming marriage, and the dreaded early morning class at the clan school waiting for him tomorrow; if he were late, the teacher's ruler would show no mercy.