Xiang Yang

"First bow, second bow, third bow. Ceremony complete. The family offers thanks."

After a deep, ringing cry, Xiang Yang, his face streaked with two trails of tears not yet dry, bowed to a broad-shouldered, thick-waisted man in a constable's uniform. "Thank you, Uncle Wang."

Uncle Wang nodded, sighed, and patted Xiang Yang's shoulder. "My condolences. Though Old Xiang is gone, life must go on. I've already spoken with the County Magistrate. Rest for a few days first. Once you've handled Old Xiang's funeral affairs, come to the County Yamen."

Xiang Yang nodded, gratitude showing on his face. Before he could say anything else, another mourner arrived for whom he had to return the courtesy. He could only repeat the same movements and expression, thanking a well-dressed man in bright silk clothes.

It was not a large mourning hall. The entire room was barely over twenty square meters, and the paint had peeled from some places, exposing the yellow bricks beneath. White here, yellow there—it looked poor and shabby.

Against the north wall lay a gray coffin. Before it stood an incense table with white candles, piled high with offerings. White strips of cloth hung from the beam above. The scene lacked only a black-and-white photograph, but unfortunately, this was a feudal society resembling ancient China. Such high-end things had yet to exist.

Xiang Yang was fifteen this year. Delicate-browed and fair-faced, with red lips and white teeth, his phoenix eyes glistened with tears like pear blossoms in rain. Dressed in mourning clothes, he looked especially helpless and frail. There was a saying: to look pretty, wear mourning white. On this rather handsome youth, it fit without the slightest discord.

Today was the second day of the vigil. More than fifty people, great and small, had come throughout Anyuan County to offer incense and mourn Xiang Da Niu. For a petty constable who had muddled along for decades and earned only three qian a month, it was simply unbelievable.

Xiang Da Niu's ancestral home was Anyuan County, Qingjiang Prefecture. His family had produced only one son in every generation, and his ancestors had all been old farmers who faced the soil with their backs to heaven. By his generation, there had finally been some promise. After providing useful intelligence to a county magistrate conducting a covert inspection among the common folk, he had been recruited into the County Yamen as a yamen runner.

After several years of work, Xiang Da Niu's honest and simple nature earned the county magistrate's favor and regard. He successfully became a constable and, through the matchmaking of Third Aunt, married the daughter of a poor old scholar in the county. That tender, lovely maiden marrying a big rough man who could not read a single word had made countless people in the county town green with envy. A loser's comeback was nothing more than this.

But after Xiang Yang was born, everything changed. First, Xiang Yang's mother died in childbirth. Then the county magistrate who had recognized Xiang Da Niu's talents was promoted. The new county magistrate, Lord Li, felt that Xiang Da Niu had not been promoted by him and was not loyal enough, so he kept him as a petty constable for more than a decade.

If things had continued that way, there would have been nothing wrong with living an ordinary life. At least he would have remained safe and lived steadily.

Who could have known that Black Wind Stronghold would come down from the mountains to pillage outside the county town some days ago? Xiang Da Niu, who had always been listless, knew not what madness had seized him. He fought with incomparable bravery, hacking two bandits to death before being chopped to death himself amid a storm of blades. In the end, he received the county magistrate's commendation and was posthumously promoted to Honorary Constable Captain. Xiang Yang was also exceptionally permitted to inherit his father's profession, rising from a minor yamen helper to a constable of the County Yamen.

It could be said that of the fifty-odd people who came to mourn Xiang Da Niu, aside from several old colleagues who had known him for more than a decade, most had come for the county magistrate's sake. Otherwise, a petty constable died, and that was that. Who would care about him?

As for Xiang Yang, with his old father—his only relative—dead, he was truly alone in this world, without another family member. If he had not been able to work as a constable at the County Yamen and scrape together a living, he would likely have been drinking the northwest wind before long.

The people helping Xiang Yang in front of the mourning hall were mostly neighboring residents: Aunt Wu, who ran a bun stall; Uncle Li, the blacksmith; and Mr. Liu, once a student of Xiang Yang's maternal grandfather. Seeing Xiang Yang constantly wipe away tears, they felt miserable as well. What a bitter-fated child.

Outside the mourning hall, the sky gradually darkened. Seeing that no one else was coming to pay respects, everyone packed up and prepared to leave. Before departing, Aunt Wu handed Xiang Yang a small basket, stroked his head, and said with heartache,

"These are buns Auntie made for you. You can't go hungry while keeping vigil at night. Don't force yourself, and if you need any help, just come to my home."

She was a simple village woman with sincere feelings, and Xiang Yang was deeply moved. He nodded again and again, his hand gripping the basket hard enough to turn pale.

Mr. Liu stood beside Xiang Yang, stroked the black beard beneath his chin, pulled a folded sheet of white paper from his robes, and handed it to Xiang Yang as well.

Xiang Yang accepted it and unfolded it. Written upon it were four words: "Loyalty to duty."

"This was actually written by your maternal grandfather for your father before he died. Though Da Niu could not recognize a single character, he truly lived up to these four words. He protected the people and died fighting bandits. Now that you too have become a constable and inherited your father's profession, do not disappoint the expectations of your grandfather and father."

It was a form of encouragement. Xiang Yang solemnly put away the calligraphy and bowed to Mr. Liu. "Rest assured, sir. Xiang Yang would never dare disgrace the name of his ancestors."

As for Uncle Li the blacksmith, he had not come empty-handed either. After returning from outside, he placed a Wild Goose Feather Saber, still in its sheath, before Xiang Yang.

"This was your father's saber. It took more than a dozen chips while fighting the bandits of Black Wind Stronghold. I've reforged it. It's much sturdier than the ones issued by the County Yamen. Take it. How can you stand watch in the future without a good blade?"

Uncle Li was dark-skinned and not tall, but his hands were thick and powerful from years of blacksmithing. Though he was not good with words, he was a man of feeling and loyalty. The refined iron spent forging a weapon was no small expense for a blacksmith who normally only repaired farm tools. Xiang Yang remembered this kindness.

After seeing off the few warmhearted and simple elders, Xiang Yang shut the red gate and secured it with a crossbar. Only then did he wipe away the nonexistent cold sweat from his brow. He looked up at the darkening horizon and smiled soundlessly.

He walked to the water vat on the right side of the courtyard, scooped up a ladleful, and gulped it down. Using the last trace of light before heaven and earth sank into darkness, Xiang Yang saw an unfamiliar yet handsome face reflected in the water. He touched it. Cool and smooth. He flicked it, and it hurt. He really had transmigrated.

On Earth, Xiang Yang had been a shut-in in his twenties. From childhood to adulthood, he had loved nothing more than staying home and reading novels. Later, he had even made it his livelihood. He did not earn much, but it was enough to keep himself fed and clothed.

Then, during a trip home to visit relatives, Xiang Yang found a square paper seal, white as snow and impossible to write upon, in his old family house. By accident, the paper seal cut his fingertip. His blood seeped into the white paper, and his soul transferred. In a daze, he arrived in this unfamiliar world and transmigrated into a youth who was also called Xiang Yang.

As for whether he had gotten the short end of the stick? Xiang Yang felt that he had made a tremendous profit this time. If nothing else, this body was ten years younger, which meant he had effectively gained ten more years of life. How could he not be happy?

What was more, according to the memories of the original Xiang Yang, this world had martial artists who soared high and leaped far, flying over eaves and walking across walls. What an enormous attraction that was for a visitor from Earth.

He remained lost in thought for quite a while. Only when heaven and earth had completely darkened did Xiang Yang hurriedly return to the mourning hall, find a prayer cushion, kneel before the incense table and the coffin behind it, and begin keeping vigil.

He had taken over another person's son's body, so naturally he had to fulfill a son's duties. But he had barely knelt for any time at all when Xiang Yang suddenly felt his mind sink. A blank sheet of paper, white as snow, appeared inside his mind, filling his vision like a floating white page.