The mountain path was rugged. Deciding to abandon his horse, he tracked the trail of blood on foot.
His quarry was a limping rock sheep. It had flashed into view halfway up the mountain before vanishing into the dense jungle.
The midday sun could not pierce the thick canopy, leaving deep shadows everywhere. Though it was already noon, the previous night's dew still clung to the myrtle berries. A patchwork of fallen leaves carpeted the ground, hiding a tangle of gnarled roots ready to trip any unwary traveler.
Tracking under these conditions was difficult, but he still spotted a few drops of fresh blood on the leaves, along with a small tuft of fleece scraped against a tree trunk.
Yes, this was the way.
Rock sheep indeed had a habit of climbing higher when facing danger.
He climbed swiftly, failing to notice a pair of eyes glaring unblinkingly at him from the forest shadows thirty feet ahead.
Those eyes burned with startling rage and hatred.
Cresting the boulder along the ridge, he saw the rock sheep again, head lowered as it licked the wound on its leg. Just as he reached behind to unsling his bow, a shadow darted into his peripheral vision, fast as a flash of light.
What was—?
Before the thought could finish, the thing slammed into him.
It was a colossal leopard, its build rivaling that of a fierce tiger. Its forepaws were bigger than his head, and its coat was faded to the color of sand, as though washed clean of color.
The giant leopard opened its maw, foul breath rushing into his face. Instinctively, he raised an arm to shield his vitals. With a sharp crack, the beast bit straight through his armored forearm, and he couldn't tell if the bone had snapped. The sheer impact robbed him of his footing, sending him tumbling down the mountain ridge.
Tangled together, man and beast rolled, the leopard tearing into him in a frenzy. He couldn't help screaming in agony, but that didn't stop his other hand from drawing the short knife at his waist and plunging it into his assailant, gouging out over a dozen bloody holes!
The blade sliced through iron like mud. Not only did it severely mangle the leopard's entrails, but the two thrusts into its chest sent blood spurting, splattering his face and head.
All living creatures possessed an instinct for survival. Even the most savage beast should have abandoned its prey and fled by now.
Yet this one did not!
It dragged him forward with desperate force, carving a trail of blood in their wake.
Looking into the leopard's bloodshot eyes, he realized it had gone mad.
A sand leopard had no business being here! Where the hell had this damned monstrosity come from?
It even snarled at him in human speech:
"I will never give you the divine bone!"
"Let go, let go of me!" His soul nearly flew from his body in terror. He drove the knife into the leopard's throat three more times, straining with every ounce of strength he possessed to break free.
There was no surviving what lay below!
Yet no wound, however grievous, could halt the leopard's charge. In the next breath, the ground vanished beneath them.
Man and leopard plunged into the thousand-foot abyss, locked in their deadly embrace.
Even in its death throes, the leopard refused to relent, snapping its jaws shut around his neck.
With a crisp snap, the protective pendant around his neck flared with crimson light and shattered.
In that final fraction of a second, the last image burned into his sight was four bloodstained fangs!
"Aaargh—!"
He Lingchuan bolted upright with a shout, scaring the daylights out of everyone around him.
The maid closest to him stumbled back three paces in fright. Out of nowhere, an ordinary-looking man stepped to his side, eyes darting about vigilantly. "Young Master?"
Before him lay an exquisite small hall. Two folding screens depicted craggy peaks and graceful waters, and in the center stood a theatrical stage. The actors onstage were in full costume and makeup, while the audience below—over two hundred people eating melon seeds, sipping tea, and shooting the breeze—all looked up toward his box.
Right. He was in a second-floor private box. In the corner burned the faintly sweet aroma of goose pear bed-curtain incense; beside him, on a silver platter, droplets of water still clung to fresh grapes and sweet melon.
This was an opera house named Zhaixiantai—the Pluck-the-Immortals Stage—not the edge of a sheer cliff. Gathering his wits, He Lingchuan rubbed his neck out of habit. "I'm fine."
There had once been four deep puncture wounds there, barely half an inch from his carotid artery, but they were now fully healed, covered in tender pink new flesh. Across his body were at least a dozen similar fresh scars.
A necklace still hung from his neck.
He remembered with crystal clarity that the round jade amulet had snapped into eight pieces under the leopard's monstrous force. Yet somehow, when he awoke, it was once again resting intact against his chest.
Without realizing when the habit had formed, he found himself wanting to touch it whenever he was idle, as though some mysterious, inexplicable bond tied him to it.
Also in the private box was another wealthy scion named Liu Baobao. Seeing He Lingchuan come to, Liu Baobao snapped his fingers at the page boy beside him. The boy immediately hurried to the balustrade and called out below, "The Young Master is awake! Carry on!"
The operas popular in the Yuan Kingdom were primarily brisk and fast-paced, striving for novelty and spectacle. They plunged straight into the action without tedious, drawn-out singing, making them quite popular with the youth, who enjoyed them much like stories. Today, Zhaixiantai had prepared two new plays featuring renowned actors. But not long after the performance began, Young Master He had fallen asleep upstairs. The next scene was an intense martial arts brawl, and fearing it would disrupt He Lingchuan's sweet dreams, Liu Baobao had called a halt midway through.
The wait had lasted over an hour, and murmurs of discontent had begun to stir among the audience below. Fortunately, the guest of honor had finally awakened.
Downstairs, the pipes and strings struck up a lilting melody once more, and a crisp male voice began to sing: "Now hear of the divine golden bull released by the Xiluo Kingdom, an invincible guardian of the realm—"
He Lingchuan frowned.
This play again?
He had fallen asleep listening to this very scene earlier, and now they were at it again?
Liu Baobao caught his expression and smiled at once. "Brother Chuan doesn't care for it?"
"Too bland," He Lingchuan said sluggishly.
In truth, Liu Baobao had paid out of pocket to arrange this private performance. He was the one spending the money, and he had personally selected the lead actors more than two months ago. Zhaixiantai had spent a fortune to bring this entire troupe from the heartland all the way out to a godforsaken backwater like Blackwater City.
Yet the true master of the house was this half-awake youth, who went on to add, "Next time, let's pick a different theater. Don't go to any place called 'Pluck the Immortals.' Are immortals peaches you can just reach out and pluck?"
Liu Baobao grinned. "This place was originally called the Star-Plucking Stage. The owner later figured having 'immortal' in the name would be better for business. You know how it is—people only name things after what they lack."
He Lingchuan squinted at him. "Oh? So Blackwater City lacks immortals?"
"Not at all, not at all! With Lord He here, Blackwater City has more than enough!" Liu Baobao hurried to say. "What even is an immortal anyway? Just some airy myth, good only for storybooks. Who could possibly lack that?"
He quickly changed the subject. "How about we switch to Lord He's Dingdaoshan?"
"Fine." Now that his own father's name had been invoked, how could He Lingchuan say no?
He leaned back onto the soft couch, eyes half-shut. The middle-aged man waved the surrounding attendants away before asking in a low voice, "Those nightmares again?"
"Hah." He scoffed in denial. "No!"
"How could that be!" He Lingchuan said with firm finality. "Uncle Hao, just watch the play."
It was a superfluous denial, but entirely true to his character. The middle-aged man, Uncle Hao, did not argue and fell silent, remaining upright at his side.
The renowned performers were indeed masterly, drawing cheers from the crowd below. He Lingchuan watched for a while before his gaze drifted to the wisps of smoke curling from the censer, his thoughts wandering once more.
In truth, he was not He Lingchuan.
The real He Lingchuan was probably long dead.
He was merely a nobody from another world, an inexplicable replacement.
In his former life, his days had consisted of working an unremarkable job at an unremarkable company for an unremarkable salary. As a hot-blooded youth, he had often felt that life was unfair. Yet no matter how impassioned his silent indignation or how fierce his internal condemnations, the moment he stepped in front of others, he had to pretend that all was peaceful and harmonious, putting civility above all else.
The beatings of society could always shape a person into whatever cog it desired.
To make matters worse, during an economic downturn, his company had withheld pay for three months. Yet he lacked the brazen audacity to declare, "I quit, screw you all," and walk out the door.
How had he ended up here?
It was hard to say. All he remembered was pacing outside a restaurant two or three times that day before deciding out of charity to give his business to a street-corner food cart. After all, making a living out in the freezing wind of deep winter was never easy.
"Boss, one jianbing, please. Extra scallions, extra sauce... no egg, no meat... right, neither."
The words had barely left his lips when he saw a car hurtling toward a little girl by the curb. Panicking, the driver had only accelerated.
With tragedy imminent, he hadn't stopped to think. He had done the bravest thing of his life:
He dashed forward in a single leap, sweeping the girl into his arms...
Did the car hit him? Not at all.
Completely unscathed, he returned the child to the parents who came rushing up, even admonishing the kid to "watch the road from now on," before turning away.
He hadn't walked two steps when a flowerpot plunged from the sky, striking him square on the head with pinpoint accuracy.
And just like that, he had been sent here.
When he opened his eyes again, his whole body ached as he lay in a bed amidst antique furnishings. Surrounding him were faces filled with pleasant surprise, including a handsome middle-aged man whose eyes brimmed with tears as he cried out with emotion, "Lingchuan, you're finally awake!"
He felt his head, only to realize he had become He Lingchuan, the eldest son of He Chunhua, the Governor of Qiansong Commandery in Jinzhou, Yuan Kingdom.