Chapter One: A Night of Murder Amidst Wind and Snow

“Only a fool wishes to cross worlds; whoever desires such a thing is a fool indeed.”

Fang Cheng huddled beside the campfire in the ruined temple, hungry and cold, carefully roasting a fish no bigger than his palm. He couldn’t help but mutter.

Yes, he was a transmigrant.

Once, Fang Cheng had graduated from a prestigious university and entered politics, quickly latching onto the support of a powerful alumnus. His strategic advice proved invaluable, and he soon became a core member of the elder’s think tank. But as fate would have it, his rise was as swift as his fall. When the elder sought higher office, he was ambushed and forced into ignominious retirement. Those around him were implicated.

Fang Cheng went from being a rising star to a spent wave dashed upon the shore.

He thought his life was over, resigned to obscurity, but when he awoke, he found himself in another world.

He had crossed over with his soul, and his body was restored to its teenage years—fifteen or sixteen. Worse yet, when he transmigrated, he had been asleep, clad only in underwear.

Thus he was cast into a world of ice and snow.

Heaven spared him a thread of hope. In the first days after his arrival, the cold was not so severe, and the Yongding River had not yet frozen solid. He managed to scrounge some meager warmth—hardly clothing at all—wrapping himself in rags.

But as the saying goes, clothes make the man, and tack makes the horse. Dressed as he was, Fang Cheng could not enter town; local beggars would beat him, constables would drive him out.

He was forced to survive by fishing in the Yongding River.

Watching the snowstorm outside the temple, feeling the biting cold, Fang Cheng grew anxious. “If this snow continues for days, I’ll run out of food, and even firewood will be gone.”

“This can’t go on,” he thought. Only now did he truly grasp the hardship of surviving the winter, the bitter reality that for the poor, winter itself is a hurdle, not just debts or social obligations.

He curled up in a corner, clutching a heap of dry grass, watching the fire dwindle—firewood had to be rationed.

“I must find a way out,” he told himself. But what way? The only options that came to mind were crime: thieving and violence.

Suddenly, he heard movement outside.

Fang Cheng peered out the door. At first, he couldn’t see clearly; then a shadow appeared, and finally, unmistakably, a person was approaching.

The figure walked through the storm: about fifteen or sixteen years old, much like Fang Cheng. Raggedly dressed, but unlike Fang Cheng—who was wrapped in a patchwork of rags and grass—the newcomer’s clothes were intact, though unwashed and stained with grease and unknown filth.

He looked to be a fellow in hard times.

Fang Cheng instantly seized a wooden stick and stood at the temple entrance.

The temple was dilapidated and cold, but it was the only shelter Fang Cheng had found for miles. This stranger’s intentions were unknown; letting him in could spell trouble.

“You’re not welcome here,” Fang Cheng said. “Leave at once.”

The newcomer paused, glancing at Fang Cheng’s attire, a flicker of contempt in his eyes.

“Brother, I’m from Guangdong, seeking relatives in Beijing. I lost my luggage on the road and have fallen upon hard times. Please, let me stay for the night.”

Fang Cheng shook his head coldly.

Having recently arrived in this era, he understood its customs: the lower classes lived by the law of the jungle. Rural disputes over water left many dead, and the authorities rarely intervened. Beggars fought among themselves, corpses appeared daily, and no one cared. That was in town; on the open road, who knew what dangers lurked? A stranger could die in the county, and his body would be wrapped up and disposed of without ceremony. In the wild, during a snowstorm, vigilance was imperative.

“At least let me rest my feet, warm myself by the fire, shelter from the snow? If I keep traveling in this blizzard, I’ll surely die on the road,” pleaded the newcomer.

Fang Cheng hesitated, watching the thickening snowflakes outside. Forcing someone to leave in such weather was tantamount to murder. He couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Moreover, driving someone to desperation was dangerous.

Even a cornered dog will leap over a wall; a desperate man is even more unpredictable.

“All right. But once the snow lets up, you must leave.”

“No problem,” the newcomer replied gratefully.

Fang Cheng let him into the ruined temple and threw a few more logs onto the fire.

The dying flames revived.

The newcomer warmed himself, feeling his frozen limbs begin to thaw, his joints loosening. Rubbing his hands, he noticed the fish hanging nearby—Fang Cheng’s last bit of food.

“Brother, do you have any food?”

“No,” Fang Cheng replied firmly.

“I can pay for it.”

“Not for sale,” Fang Cheng said.

Ordinarily, he might have traded for money, but in this weather, this last fish was his last hope for survival.

He didn’t know when he’d next catch something.

He kept his grip on the stick, his eyes flicking toward the blizzard outside.

Based on his instincts, night had already fallen, but the storm was so fierce he’d lost all sense of time.

The blizzard raged for half a day, then gradually subsided.

“The snow has stopped. You should leave now,” Fang Cheng said. “Head west for seven or eight miles and you’ll find a village. If you have money, you can buy food there.”

His kindness went only so far.

Traveling through a snowy night was harsh, but if the stranger stayed, Fang Cheng wouldn’t dare sleep.

The newcomer stood up, bowed, and said, “Thank you—” Suddenly he raised his head, his face twisted with rage, and drew a dagger, lunging at Fang Cheng.

Fang Cheng had never relaxed his vigilance; he swung his stick in response.

Both were cold and hungry. Fang Cheng had long since digested his fish; their limbs felt numb, their movements stiff as corpses grappling, awkward and rigid.

It was an ugly scuffle.

But each blow was deadly.

Neither hit the other; one wielded a stick, the other a dagger, circling the fire.

“You should’ve listened to your Uncle He,” the newcomer snarled, face livid, advancing slowly. “I only wanted your fish, but if you won’t give it, I’ll take your life instead.”

With that, he lunged, dagger aimed at Fang Cheng’s chest.

Fang Cheng said nothing; in this bitter cold, even speaking seemed to drain his precious warmth.

He silently swung his stick.

It was like turn-based combat; both missed again, merely switching positions.

A thought struck Fang Cheng. He jabbed his stick at the fire, scattering burning embers at his opponent.

The newcomer dodged.

He avoided the embers, but not the stick that followed.

The stick struck him squarely on the forehead.

With a cry, his dagger dropped, and he clutched his head.

Fang Cheng immediately drove his stick into the man’s groin.

A piercing scream; the man collapsed, blood pouring from between his legs.

Fang Cheng planted his foot on the man’s chest, raising the stick high.

He was ready to kill.

The stranger’s face turned as pale as snow. He pleaded desperately.

“Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me! I am the son of the Marquis of Wuning. If you kill me, the Marquis’s household will never let you go!”

Fang Cheng sneered, “You expect me to believe that? What noble heir would look like you?”

“If you were smart, you wouldn’t say such things. If you really were, you’re forcing my hand—I’d have to kill you, even if I didn’t want to.”

He brought the stick down hard on the man’s neck, again and again. The sound of bones breaking rang out, and the man died, his body growing cold.

Only then did Fang Cheng stop.

He sucked in a breath of icy air, feeling it stab into his chest like a knife.

“I’ve killed a man.”

It was his first time, though he had expected it.

In the lowest strata of ancient society, life was cheap. Fang Cheng didn’t know if he would survive the winter; if not, crime was always an option.

He just hadn’t thought his first killing would be over a fish.

The cold wind allowed no time for reflection. Fang Cheng immediately stripped the corpse of its clothing and donned it himself.

A box fell from the body’s breast.

Opening it, Fang Cheng found a jade pendant pressed against a stack of letters, and several bloodstained coins.

The pendant was rectangular, engraved with a tiger’s mouth, claws, and tail. On its face, characters in cinnabar read: “Marquis of Wuning’s Household.”

Fang Cheng drew a sharp breath.

“It’s true—the Marquis of Wuning’s Household.”