Just Like That, He Transmigrated

Transmigration was perfectly normal. These days, more people transmigrated than didn't. The question was where you ended up!

Wang Bo sat on a little stool in his family's small courtyard, wearing split-crotch pants. His head tilted upward, he blinked his little eyes and stared blankly at the old locust tree in the yard.

"Ah, could someone please tell me what era I've landed in?"

Great Jin!

That was the only information he had obtained since transmigrating. In fact, in this little mountain village, where news barely trickled in, knowing that he belonged to a country called Great Jin was already something.

Among the village's hundred-odd inhabitants, the only person who could read was the fortune-teller at the village entrance, and he was blind. This fellow was one of those legendary old examination candidates: he had taken the exams for more than thirty years without ever qualifying as a scholar, cried himself blind, and now made his living telling fortunes.

Although the villagers didn't put much faith in him, there were always ancient customs in these old mountain forests. Whenever a wedding or funeral came around, people wanted peace of mind, so he scraped by. Occasionally, when a prediction came true and people gave him more generous gifts of thanks, he could even afford a little meat. Life went on, after a fashion.

He was also the only person in the village who could write a few characters. Wang Bo had recognized the writing on the long white banner he carried: traditional Chinese characters. Although the speech of the people around him had been somewhat difficult to understand, he gradually began to make sense of it. It was Chinese, just spoken with a heavy regional accent. At first, therefore, he thought he had transmigrated to ancient China.

But little by little, he began to doubt that conclusion, because from the scraps of conversation around him, Wang Bo learned that their country was called Great Jin. Great Jin!

Ancient China had never had a dynasty by that name. There had been a Jin state during the Spring and Autumn period, but this clearly wasn't that era. He wouldn't have recognized the characters used back then.

So this wasn't ancient China. He had merely transmigrated to a world very much like it.

The only person in this little mountain village who could answer his questions was the old blind man, but naturally, he couldn't go to him yet. He was too young, only three years old, and still wearing split-crotch pants. How was he supposed to ask?

Did he want people to treat him like a monster?

This wasn't one of those wish-fulfillment novels where someone was born a genius and could speak in polished verse without anyone getting suspicious. Just three days earlier, a fellow in a neighboring village had been taken for a demon and beaten to death by the villagers because he kept spouting crazy talk. In times like these, it was better to keep a low profile.

Wang Bo had lived up to the scholarly character in his name: in his previous life, he had held a doctorate in Chinese literature. When he had nothing else to do, he also dabbled in ancient Chinese history and the like, so he was proficient in traditional characters. Beyond that, he had no particular talents.

In a sense, this wasn't transmigration but reincarnation. He had simply missed a bowl of Meng Po Soup in the Underworld.

In his previous life, he had been in poor health and worked a desk job. At thirty-six, in the year of his own zodiac sign, he had actually choked on a mouthful of cold water and breathed his last. When he next regained consciousness, he had just been born, arriving in this world.

Perhaps Heaven had felt guilty about letting him die in such a pathetic, utterly baffling way, and had therefore given him another chance.

After several years, he had finally adjusted.

Actually, "adjusted" wasn't quite the word. He had only been a newborn baby. There was no question of adjusting or not; he could only let others do as they pleased with him.

The family he had been born into was surnamed Zhou, and his name was no longer Bo. In fact, he didn't have a proper name yet. They called him Goudanzi.

Mountain families weren't fussy about such things. It was perfectly normal to reach seventeen or eighteen without receiving a proper name.

Having a surname at all was good enough.

The Old Zhou Household were mountain folk through and through. He was their fourth son, with three older brothers. The eldest was already eighteen and had married the year before. He was an honest, simple fellow who hunted and farmed. The second was thirteen,

and a little bastard who spent all day shirking honest work and giving everyone headaches. The third was nine, and he was the fourth, aged three. Besides these four little brats, the Old Zhou Household also had a daughter, seventeen that year. She had been betrothed at ten and was nearly old enough to marry.

Originally, the eldest Zhou son was called Big Doggy, the second Second Doggy, and the third Third Doggy. As the fourth, Wang Bo ought to have been Fourth Doggy. As for the Zhou family's daughter, this world was just like the wicked old society of the past: women had little standing and were automatically left out of consideration.

But there were already too many little doggies in the family, and feeding them was difficult, so Wang Bo had been given the nickname Goudanzi-Dog's Balls-meaning there would be no more little ones after him.

The Old Zhou Household was an ordinary family in this mountain village, scraping by on a few acres of poor farmland and whatever Old Zhou brought back from hunting. Hunting or not, firstly, Old Zhou wasn't particularly good at it, and a trip into the mountains rarely yielded much. Secondly, even when he caught something, it was sold to buy everyday necessities. As a result, they couldn't expect to eat much meat all year. For someone who had regularly feasted on fish and meat, that was a kind of torture. Still, it wasn't too bad. At three, he merely looked somewhat malnourished. The cornmeal porridge they ate every day at least kept him from starving. Occasionally, when luck smiled on them, he got a little wild game, and that was as blissful as celebrating New Year.

Mountain folk were tough survivors, and he had inherited good genes.

Over those three years, he had grown used to it. The black steamed corn buns and shit-yellow cornmeal porridge no longer disgusted him. He just closed his eyes and ate.

What depressed him most was the loneliness. This wasn't the "loneliness is my game" nonsense he used to spout while showing off online. This was genuine loneliness.

Just imagine the soul of a man in his thirties trapped inside an infant's body for three years. How lonely would that be? He couldn't say what he wanted to say or do what he wanted to do. When people pinched his cheeks or flicked his little willy, he couldn't even fight back. And he was still wearing split-crotch pants. What the fuck kind of life was this?

Luckily, he was a little older now. Although he still wore split-crotch pants, people had more or less stopped coming over to flick his little willy.

It was May, and the weather had warmed up. He had carried a little stool into the family courtyard and sat on it, staring blankly at the old locust tree, all kinds of random nonsense drifting through his mind as he sat motionless.

"Goudanzi! Goudanzi! Come here, it's time to eat!" He had no idea how much time had passed before the calls reached his ears. The voice was rough, but comforting to hear. Wang Bo knew it was Goudanzi's mother-his own mother now-calling him to dinner.

Lifting his chilled bottom off the little stool, Wang Bo trotted back into the house.

This wasn't like his previous life, when he could eat his fill three times a day. Here, they only had two meals: one around ten in the morning and another now, around five or six in the evening. That was when things were good. When grain ran short, even one meal a day was something to be grateful for.

Dinner was cornmeal porridge again, with black steamed corn buns. Compared with usual, there was an extra little plate of dark pickled vegetables.

The whole family gathered around a table. Although women had little standing in this era, mountain families didn't bother with too many formalities. Six of the eight family members ate around the table. Only Wang Bo and his third brother, being too young, ate on little stools beside it.

On the whole, Old Zhou was quite fond of Wang Bo, for no other reason than that he was obedient.

From birth until now, the little fellow had hardly given him any trouble. He had five children, and although mountain children were easy to raise, none had been like Goudanzi. Since birth, he had never once wet the bed or soiled his pants. That was no small feat. Third Doggy was already nine, and he had filled his pants just yesterday!

Old Zhou seemed to have something on his mind. He kept his head down throughout the meal and said nothing. Naturally, if he didn't speak, nobody else dared to, so dinner was rather subdued.

"Slurp, slurp, slurp...!"

Goudanzi, who was bent over his bowl wrestling with half a black corn bun, heard that sound and knew the Old Zhou Household's dinner was coming to an end. It was Old Zhou's distinctive way of finishing his last mouthful.

Once Old Zhou finished eating, everyone else had to stop, whether they were done or not, until he left.

Today, however, was different. He didn't leave.

"Little Hua, Wang Tianlei is back. Get yourself ready. We'll pick an auspicious day and marry you off!"

Little Hua was Goudanzi's elder sister, Zhou Hua.

She had been betrothed at ten to a family at the eastern end of the village. For five generations, that family had produced just one son in each generation. In this generation, that son was the Wang Tianlei Old Zhou had mentioned.

Wang Tianlei was nineteen that year. By village custom, he should have married fourteen-year-old Zhou Hua when he was sixteen. Unfortunately, at sixteen he had gone to serve in the army, and his service had lasted three years. He had only returned the day before.

One son per generation for five generations! His parents had been driven almost mad longing for a grandson. He had barely sat down after coming home before they were rushing him into marrying Zhou Hua.

Zhou Hua wasn't especially beautiful, but her features were pleasant enough. At seventeen, she radiated youth from head to toe. What was that expression Goudanzi had used in his previous life?

Youth was invincible. Yes, that was it: youth was invincible.

She was also extremely hardworking, capable at everything both inside and outside the house. Everyone who saw her had a few words of praise. If she hadn't been betrothed at ten, the stream of people proposing matches over the past two years would probably have worn Old Zhou's threshold right through.

At Old Zhou's words, Zhou Hua flushed with embarrassment and lowered her head to her chest, hiding her face completely. But even without looking, Goudanzi knew her face must have been as red as the evening clouds.

Naturally, Goudanzi had no say in such matters. All he could do was watch the excitement from the sidelines and wait until his big sister married, then tag along and scrounge some food and drink.

Little did he know that this ordinary marriage between mountain folk would bring unimaginable changes to his future.