Chapter One: Transmigration

“Hiss...”
Chaos, darkness, a world without daylight.
A hoarse, rasping sound echoed in the void, and countless low, unintelligible whispers reverberated through Li Yang’s mind.
He had no idea how long he drifted in the darkness—here, time seemed to have lost all meaning—until faint, indistinct murmurs gradually seeped into his awareness.

“Li’s awake—I’m sure I just heard his voice...”

“Grandpa Lu, you must save him!”

“Alas! He’s lost too much blood. Saving him will be difficult... This damnable world!”

“Who’s speaking?”

Did I... fail?

The voices hovered on the edge of perception, as if coming from another world, slowly coaxing Li Yang’s muddled consciousness back from oblivion.

“How could this happen...”

“He’s too gravely injured. I fear I’m powerless to help...”

“It’s all my fault. If he hadn’t tried to save me, Li wouldn’t be like this...”

Whether anxious, sorrowful, or resigned, the voices grew clearer, like stones cast onto the still surface of a lake, sending ripples through Li Yang’s mind.
His eyelids twitched; gradually, he became aware of his own body.

“Wait...”

“Grandpa Lu, look...”

A cry of delight rang out nearby, and Li Yang summoned all his strength to tear himself free from the darkness in his mind, slowly opening his eyes.

Dim light swam before his gaze; the flicker of a yellowed flame revealed a web-strewn temple ceiling, broken windows, prickly weeds beneath him, and a bare, battered door—a temple as shabby as any he’d seen in a television drama.
Beside a pile of grass, a ragged, wild-haired young beggar and a small, grey-robed old man stared at him in astonishment and joy.

“Well! Xiao Li, you’re awake?”

The old man, still unable to believe his eyes, grasped Li Yang’s wrist and carefully checked his pulse.

“Thank the heavens, Brother Li! Truly, the gods have blessed us!”

Li Yang’s expression froze. What on earth was happening?
Though the light was dim, there was no sign of electric cables or anything modern—only a dilapidated temple, and these two peculiar people by his side. Having just regained consciousness, Li Yang was thoroughly bewildered.

It took him a long moment to collect himself, a wry smile flickering across his face.

“So I failed. And judging by my current state, it’s not just an ordinary failure...”

In his previous life, Li Yang had been a sorcerer of the waning age, practicing a hodgepodge of spells accumulated and handed down in his family. Hodgepodge, because the family’s tradition was pieced together from all manner of sources—some Daoist, some Buddhist, even some witchcraft and shamanic arts from Xiangxi and the South Seas.

As the world’s spiritual energy faded, many spells became useless, causing countless ancient lineages to die out. Li Yang’s ancestor was a third-rate shaman who survived the chaotic war years by trickery and deceit, collecting many valuable items along the way. Thus the family legacy survived, generation after generation.

Yet as spiritual energy grew scarcer, many spells lost their efficacy. Through much trial and error, the family eventually devised a technique that didn’t rely on spiritual energy at all: cultivating by harnessing the bloodlines of rare beasts.

But as spiritual energy declined, so too did the rare beasts, becoming ever less common. In his last life, Li Yang spent decades cultivating and finally managed to find a half-spiritual yellow weasel to perform a ritual, only to fail in the end due to his own age and frailty.

Yet, by Heaven’s mercy, it seemed he had crossed over to another world.

At this realization, excitement and anticipation surged through Li Yang’s heart, and almost instinctively, he tried to sit up.

Hiss!!

But as soon as his body moved, a soul-piercing agony shot through his chest and abdomen, contorting his features and sending blackness swimming before his eyes.

“Careful!”

Within the ruined temple, seeing Li Yang awaken, both the old man and the boy crowded around him, the beggar boy especially agitated.

“Brother Li, your wounds were just bandaged! You mustn’t move!”

Brother Li? Is he talking to me?

Lying atop the straw pile, Li Yang broke out in a cold sweat, his whole body wrapped in pain and weakness.

Only then did he realize that his upper body was tightly bound with strips of ragged cloth, some already stained with fresh blood—evidence of a grave injury.

This body—how wonderful it is to be young.

Feeling the vitality coursing through him, Li Yang couldn’t help but marvel inwardly; only those who have tasted the bitterness of old age can truly appreciate youth’s value.

He recalled the hopelessness of watching his previous self wither away, powerless to stop it. Now he cherished this young body all the more.

Just as this thought arose, a tide of memories surged into his mind, giving him no chance to resist.

They belonged to another—a beggar boy called Xiao Li. The memories flashed like a dream, ephemeral and fleeting, before fading away.

This was a county called Nuqing in Xiangxi. The original owner was not a local, but had drifted here, begging for survival.
It was the late Qing, early Republic years, and the country was torn by war. The boy had no name, an orphan raised among beggars, and now, at fifteen, had followed the refugee tide to Nuqing County, finding shelter in a broken temple on the outskirts.

Li Yang glanced at his companions.
The anxious boy was named Xiao Liu—also a beggar, and a close friend of the body’s original owner. They often begged together in town. The old man was a barefoot doctor from the county, a kind soul who frequently helped the two of them—he’d no doubt bandaged Li Yang’s wounds.

Thinking of his injuries, Li Yang smiled bitterly. Earlier that day, he’d seen a group of adult beggars trying to steal Xiao Liu’s steamed bun. The original owner, fearless as ever, had confronted them, and was nearly beaten to death for it.

Though he was no longer a child, one against many was impossible odds. If not for Li Yang’s soul crossing over, the boy would have died—truly a tragedy sparked by a few steamed buns.

Seeing these memories, Li Yang more deeply felt just how chaotic and wretched this era truly was.

“Brother Li?”

Beside him, noticing Li Yang’s odd expression, Xiao Liu grew more anxious and remorseful, his eyes red. “How are you feeling?”

Li Yang, his mind still reeling from the flood of memories, managed to reply, “My head feels muddled...”

Xiao Liu wanted to say more, but the old man cut him off.

“That’s enough, Xiao Liu. He may be awake, but he’s not out of danger. Let him rest—whatever you have to say can wait.”

Then turning to Li Yang, he admonished, “Xiao Li, you’ve lost too much blood and your injuries are severe. It’s a miracle you survived. Don’t think of anything else. I have no proper tools here—once I’ve finished brewing the medicine, I’ll have Xiao Liu bring it to you. Drink the broth and get through the night, and you’ll be out of danger, understand?”

Li Yang’s mind was in turmoil; he was only too glad to be left alone. Forcing himself to focus, he said, “Thank you, Grandpa Lu...”

The old man shook his head, said no more, and led the reluctant Xiao Liu out of the temple.

Silence returned. Only Li Yang, eyes tightly shut, lay atop the pile of straw, gritting his teeth against pain and weakness, striving to calm the storm of memories within his mind.

He didn’t know how long it took, but at last he fully absorbed the beggar boy’s memories, opening his eyes with difficulty.

His first task was to recover—he had little faith in the standards of medicine in this era.