Chapter Two: The Miserable Scion of the Phoenix and the Dragon

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Jingzhao Prefecture—South of Wuan County—Qianlong Hill!

Qianlong Hill rests at the foot of Zhongnan Mountain, with its back to the mountains and facing water, surrounded by beautiful scenery. It is home to more than three hundred households and some seven or eight thousand acres of mountain fields. Around it grow many wild mulberry groves, perfect for raising silkworms and weaving silk, making it one of the more prosperous and affluent villages in the area.

The hill is roughly square in shape, with a residence of four or five acres at its center. The house is tall and the courtyard immaculate, complete with side rooms, annexes, stables, and even a small garden—it has every amenity one could ask for. Compared to the low, humble dwellings nearby, it stands like a crane among chickens.

Over the vermillion-painted main gate hangs a wooden plaque, inscribed with four characters: “House of Longyou Nobility.”

The royal clan of the Great Tang rose from Longyou. To elevate the standing of those bearing the surname Li, in the sixth year of the Zhenguan reign, Emperor Taizong—Li Shimin—decreed that the Li clan should be recognized as the noble family of Longyou, ranking first among all lineages in the “Genealogy of Clans”.

From that time onward, all members of the imperial Tang clan would hang a plaque bearing “House of Longyou Nobility” in their homes, both as proof of their heritage and as a mark of honor.

In other words, the master of this residence was a member of the Tang imperial family—though one without power or influence, for otherwise his rank and title would be clearly displayed upon the plaque.

Besides, a prince with real power and status would not reside in such a remote mountain village. To the north, thirty miles away, lies Wuan County’s seat; one hundred and fifty miles further is the imperial capital, Chang’an, famed for its bustling streets, willows shrouded in mist, and all the pleasures and riches a man could desire.

In the northeastern corner of the residence stands a small ancestral hall in the style of a siheyuan, occupying less than half an acre. Within the courtyard grows a dragon-scale cypress so large it would take two men to encircle it, its branches thick and verdant. Beneath the tree is a six-sided stone well, its depths inky and unfathomable.

Li Zhao wore a blue, round-collared robe and plain hemp boots, sitting slantwise under the dragon-scale cypress, his gaze adrift with confusion. Looking around to ensure no one was present, he furtively raised a finger to his mouth and bit down hard. Blood welled up, and pain shot through him.

He bit another finger—again, pain.

He bit all ten fingers, trembling from the pain. It wasn’t a dream; everything before him was real. He truly had crossed over to another world.

A spatial wormhole, a parallel universe, or had he borrowed another’s corpse to return to life? He could not comprehend it.

He remembered clearly: due to a solar eclipse, he had slipped and fallen into an ancient well. But he wasn’t at all panicked. Years of diving and surfing had honed his skills in the water—he could swim rivers and seas with ease, let alone a mere well.

He held his breath, positioned himself, and swam upward, soon breaking the surface. As he was about to climb up the well wall, a vortex suddenly formed at the bottom. The water spun with immense force, and in an instant, he was sucked in and lost consciousness.

When he awoke, he was in the Tang Dynasty—or, more precisely, his soul had crossed time and space to inhabit another’s body, absorbing all its memories!

It was now the twenty-eighth year of the Kaiyuan era, the second day of the second lunar month—the day when the Dragon Raises Its Head.

The original owner of this body was also named Li Zhao, sharing not only the same name but the same gender. The only difference was that this Li Zhao was just fifteen years old. For clarity’s sake, let’s call him “Little Li Zhao.”

Little Li Zhao’s origins were far from ordinary. His great-grandfather was the renowned Prince Wu—Li Ke. In other words, Little Li Zhao was a true scion of the imperial clan, a dragon among men. Quite impressive, wouldn’t you say?

But don’t celebrate just yet—there’s more.

After the Shenlong Coup, the Wu Zhou regime fell and the Tang Empire was restored. Emperor Zhongzong—Li Xian—seeking to revive the royal clan, issued an edict exonerating Prince Wu—Li Ke—posthumously naming him Prince Wu the Filial. He summoned Li Ke’s four sons back to Chang’an, bestowing titles upon them: the eldest, Li Ren, was made heir to Prince Wu and inherited his fief.

The second son, Li Wei, was named Duke of Langling.

The third son, Li Kun, became Duke of Zhangye.

The fourth son, Li Xuan, was enfeoffed as Duke of Guizheng.

Four brothers—one prince and three dukes—all enjoying glory and prestige.

Among them, the fourth—Li Xuan—stood out as the most accomplished, gifted in both civil and military arts, shrewd and capable. Deeply trusted by Emperor Zhongzong, he was appointed Minister of War (Third Rank), directly involved in matters of state—a man of boundless prospects.

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Alas, fortune is ever fickle. When a family reaches its zenith, decline inevitably follows. First, Li Wei and Li Kun died young, leaving no heirs—their lines were snuffed out.

Then, in the first year of Jinglong, the heir Prince Wu—Li Ren—was implicated in Crown Prince Li Chongjun’s rebellion. Their plans failed; Li Ren was executed, and his household annihilated, an event known as the “Jinglong Coup.”

Though Li Xuan had taken no part in the coup, he was not spared from its repercussions. He lost his noble rank and was banished from Chang’an, demoted to Sima of Jiangzhou (Sixth Rank).

Years later, Emperor Zhongzong died and Ruizong ascended the throne. In an effort to redress past injustices, Ruizong summoned Li Xuan back to Chang’an, intending to restore his title and employ him. Yet, after so many turns of fortune and witnessing the brutal struggle for power, Li Xuan had lost all interest in officialdom. Citing chronic ill health, he declined the emperor’s favor.

Thus, he moved his entire family to Qianlong Hill at the foot of Zhongnan Mountain, adopting the life of a secluded gentleman—plucking chrysanthemums by the eastern fence, gazing serenely at the southern hills—until he died peacefully at the age of sixty-six.

Little Li Zhao was Li Xuan’s grandson, and the sole direct heir of his line.

Misfortune struck again eight years prior, when a plague swept through the Guanzhong region: “In the first month, a great pestilence—every house suffered the pain of corpses, every room echoed with wailing. Some families perished behind closed doors, entire clans were wiped out. The emperor fled to Luoyang to escape; tens of thousands of officials and commoners died.” Among the dead were Little Li Zhao’s father and mother.

That year, Little Li Zhao was only eight—left a pitiable orphan, and the last living branch of Prince Wu’s line.

Misfortune was not finished. Just a few days ago, Little Li Zhao sat reading by the well’s edge when he accidentally fell in. By the time he was pulled out, he had ceased to breathe.

At that moment, a solar eclipse darkened the sky.

In another world, the other Li Zhao also fell into a well, and his soul crossed the boundaries of time and space to inhabit this body.

...

Ever since one of their kind, surnamed Xiang, crossed into the late Warring States era in search of Qin Shi Huang, the fabric of time and space seemed riddled with holes. The phenomenon of crossing over became commonplace—from the Qin and Han, to the Ming and Qing, traces of the “Transcenders” could be found everywhere. Some even ventured to other worlds, or transformed into animals—variety beyond count.

Many among the “Transcenders” possessed a golden finger—a unique advantage—like an emperor system, superpowers, or a wise old mentor hidden in a ring, aiding them on their meteoric rise to wealth, beauty, and power—whatever they desired.

He too had crossed over. Did he possess a golden finger?

He patted himself down, not sparing even his trousers, but found neither ring nor bracelet—no white-bearded mentor for him.

He sat cross-legged, hands and feet turned upward, searching his mind for an emperor system—nothing. He tried for superpowers: fireball, wind blade, battle spirit, x-ray vision, the Dragon Claw of Infamous Repute—nothing at all.

Cursed heavens! Not even a cheat to rely on—was he to run naked through this world? The difficulty seemed overwhelming.

But as the saying goes, when one door closes, another opens. Heaven may have withheld a golden finger, but it had granted him a fine countenance. Upon awakening, he’d glimpsed himself in a bronze mirror—delicate brows and clear eyes, lips red and teeth white—a handsome youth. When he grew up, he would surely win the hearts of countless maidens.

A further search of Little Li Zhao’s memories revealed little: eating, sleeping, reading books, being bullied... and nothing more.

He was, it seemed, a hopeless homebody—timid, indecisive, incapable of anything.

“Little Li Zhao, you may rest in peace. From today, I am Li Zhao. I will live a splendid life in this world for you. From now on, no one will bully me—not even the emperor himself!” he swore to himself—a declaration of his intent in this new world.

One more thing—the body was far too frail, as weak as a reed, utterly unlike the robust self he’d known before. At fourteen, he’d once competed in a city-wide junior athletics meet, winning seven gold medals in a single breath and breaking several records.

Clearly, the first step toward self-improvement must begin with physical training.

“Swish!... Ha, ha!”

With that thought, Li Zhao leapt up and began punching and kicking in the courtyard—not practicing any martial art, but the hand-to-hand combat techniques required of all special forces soldiers!

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Unlike the flowery, ornamental martial arts, this form of combat was forged on the battlefield at the cost of countless lives—simple, direct, and swift, designed to kill in a single blow without mercy.

Simply put, it was a technique for killing.

To add, though Li Zhao was well-versed in combat, he rarely used it against others. First, because it was too deadly; to take a life was a consequence he could not bear. Second, despite his harmless appearance, Li Zhao was a cunning rogue at heart. Faced with an adversary, he preferred to use strategy and trickery.

Between fighting and scheming, the latter held greater pleasure and satisfaction—heh!

“Huff, huff—can’t go on, I’m exhausted,” he gasped.

His body was far too weak; he hadn’t even finished a set before collapsing onto the ground, his thin arms and legs trembling and cramping.

His physical condition was so poor that direct combat training was impossible; he had to start from the basics.

Once his breathing had steadied, Li Zhao began jogging slowly around the courtyard to get his blood flowing, then squatted down to practice frog jumps, building up his thigh muscles and hip strength. To his credit, his imitation of a frog was quite convincing.

As he trained, two figures approached. The first was a young woman in blue, twenty-three or twenty-four years old, tall and strikingly pretty. Though perhaps not a peerless beauty, she was certainly one in a thousand, and she carried a bowl of steaming, dark herbal medicine.

Behind her was a boy of fourteen or fifteen, small and thin with a large head and sharp eyes—a quick-witted little fellow if ever there was one.

“Aunt Qing, has the young master been possessed? Ever since he woke up, he’s either been lost in thought or babbling nonsense, asking all sorts of strange questions. Now he’s hopping around like a frog. Maybe we should bring in a shaman to exorcise him?”

“White Bun, don’t talk nonsense. Our Yulang is blessed and will surely be safe,” the woman replied.

...

The young woman in blue was Li Zhao’s mother’s handmaid, who had been like a sister to her. After the passing of Li Zhao’s parents, she had cared for him ever since. Li Zhao respected her deeply and called her Aunt Qing.

The boy was a young servant named White Bun, bought years ago at the West Market in Chang’an for just two strings of cash—less than the price of an ox.

The Tang was indeed a feudal empire, and the keeping of slaves was common practice, especially among the great clans of Guanlong. They owned thousands upon thousands of servants—not only Han, but also many foreigners. Among them, the most prized were the Kunlun slaves (Africans), Hu concubines (Europeans), and Koryo maids (Koreans); nearly every noble family kept a few.

When the little fellow was bought, he was half-starved and ate eight buns in one go, nearly bursting. In the Guanzhong region, steamed buns are called “white buns,” hence his name.

White Bun and Li Zhao were the same age, growing up together as master and servant, but as close as brothers, sharing everything between them.

Yulang was Little Li Zhao’s childhood nickname.

In the Sui and Tang dynasties, it was common for young women to call their husbands or lovers “Yulang”—Jade Gentleman—a term laced with affection.

The Wu Prince’s line was thin, and with only one heir left, Li Zhao’s parents named him Yulang in hopes that his romantic fortunes would flourish, that he would one day have many wives and sons, and revive the House of Prince Wu to its former glory.