Soul Bottle

Dusky evening mist spread over dense grass that stretched to the sky.

Beneath the setting sun, a river surged past, its current swift as a galloping horse.

Wang Yang slowly opened his eyes, only to feel the world spinning around him, his head swimming.

Where was he?!

He had just been looking around a museum. How had he ended up here in the blink of an eye?

He forced himself to sit up and was startled to discover that three other people had sat up with him!

All three wore their hair in topknots and shabby short tunics of coarse hemp, dressed like people from ancient times.

Two of the three were young.

One was built like an ox, resembling a mighty vajra guardian.

The other was extraordinarily handsome, like a pretty-boy heartthrob from an idol drama.

The last was an utterly unremarkable-looking middle-aged man in his forties or fifties.

To Wang Yang's right, someone as thin as a reed lay motionless in the grass.

Including the skinny man lying there, the five of them formed a small circle.

A crudely made woven-grass basket stood in their midst. Not far from it sat an earthenware pot with a fire-blackened bottom and a little leftover broth inside.

Beside the pot was a wooden bowl with a large wooden ladle laid across it. The bowl held a dark liquid, and from the smell drifting over, Wang Yang thought it might be vinegar.

The four exchanged looks. For a moment, no one spoke.

Wang Yang instinctively reached up to adjust his glasses, only to find nothing there.

Perhaps noticing that gesture, the middle-aged man stared at Wang Yang and ventured, "Dr... Dr. Wang?"

Wang Yang froze. "Editor Xu?"

"It's me! It's me!" the middle-aged man answered at once. "Why are we here? And you... how did you end up looking like this?"

Something occurred to Wang Yang. He hurriedly stood and ran toward the river. The other three followed.

The face reflected on the water belonged to a youth no older than seventeen or eighteen.

Sparse brows, clear eyes, a slightly prominent nose.

His looks could fairly be called delicate, but his face was far too pale. Combined with his slight build, it made him look somewhat timid. His eyes were faintly red, giving him a weak, exhausted appearance.

He wore no glasses, yet everything within his sight was sharply defined. He had not experienced this feeling since becoming nearsighted in sixth grade.

Unrestrained laughter rang out beside him. The handsome, pretty-boy youth waved his arms and stamped his feet in excitement.

"We transmigrated! We actually transmigrated! I've read who knows how many transmigration novels, and now it's finally happened! Hahahaha! That museum trip wasn't wasted! Hahahahaha! And I ended up this handsome!!!"

He felt his face, then looked at the other three beside him. Confirming once again that he was the most handsome of them all, he was beside himself with joy!

The burly man stretched a few times, cracking his joints, then threw several punches into the air as though adjusting to his new body. He said scornfully:

"This is ancient times. You can't become a celebrity here. What the hell good are looks?"

The handsome youth was still wildly excited. The burly man's jab did not anger him; instead, he grew even more enthusiastic. "It might not be ancient times! Maybe it's an alternate world! A fantasy world!"

"What are you thinking?" the burly man said with absolute certainty. "We transmigrated in a museum. Of course it's ancient times!"

"Ancient times are great too! We can copy poems! Lyrics! Novels! We'll have to divide them up properly, one category each! No copying the same things!"

The burly man snorted. "Copy novels? You seriously think this is a webnovel? Go on, try writing Dream of the Red Chamber from memory!"

The handsome youth faltered. "I couldn't, but maybe someone else could." He turned to Wang Yang. "Are you a PhD? In what field?"

"I'm not a PhD," Wang Yang said. "I'm a doctoral student."

The handsome youth looked puzzled. "Is... is there a difference?"

"You only earn a doctorate after passing your dissertation defense. I'm in my second year. I haven't graduated yet."

"What do you study?" the burly man asked bluntly.

"Literature."

The burly man sneered. "Then that's worth jack shit! Literature doesn't teach you history. It's fucking useless for transmigration!"

The middle-aged man had long heard of Wang Yang's reputation. Meeting with him this time had been an assignment from his publishing house, which planned to collaborate with the museum on an essay collection. Wang Yang was one of its contributors. He immediately explained, "Dr. Wang specializes in classical litera-"

"So what if it's classical literature?" the burly man interrupted. "Does he know history? Can he write Dream of the Red Chamber from memory?"

He looked at Wang Yang and declared with iron certainty, as though stating an immutable truth, "I'm telling you, forget PhDs-even postdocs can't write Dream of the Red Chamber from memory!"

The handsome youth turned to Wang Yang. "You really can't?"

"Isn't it obvious?" the burly man said impatiently. "I'm telling you, there's nobody in the entire country who could write Dream of the Red Chamber from memory!" He turned to Wang Yang with a smug expression. "Tell us. Am I right or not?!"

Wang Yang said nothing. He had no inclination to join this pointless debate, much less explain the scope and implications of classical studies or the distinction between broad and purely literary conceptions of literature in their fields of inquiry.

The question of Dream of the Red Chamber was even further outside his concerns.

Never mind the sayings "each age has its own literature" and "each age has its own particular excellence." Literary standards changed with time and circumstance. Li Bai's "Bring in the Wine" might have vanished without a trace in the pre-Qin era, while Su Shi's "Remembrance of the Red Cliffs," had it been written a few centuries earlier, might have been dismissed as a vulgar little tune unfit for refined company.

They did not even know which time or world they were in. What was the point of talking about copying poetry or novels?

Even if they could copy them, had history ever lacked literary masters?

Li Bai, Du Fu, Su Shi, Xin Qiji-which of them had not possessed unsurpassed literary talent? Yet which had fulfilled his ambitions?

Fulfilling one's ambitions meant more than official rank. Even considering rank alone, Su Shi had held high office, but how had that turned out?

"Do you know what a Redology scholar is? Even Liu Xinwu wrote a continuation of Dream of the Red Chamber," the middle-aged man could not help telling the burly man.

Although the burly man had no idea who Liu Xinwu was, his rebuttal came swiftly. "What the hell was his continuation worth? Could it compare with the original? Besides, I said writing it from memory. What the fuck does a continuation have to do with that?"

The middle-aged man was about to argue further when Wang Yang suddenly said, "Does anyone else think there's something wrong with our accents?"

The three looked at him in confusion. "Nothing's wrong," the handsome youth said. "We sound just like before."

The middle-aged man thought for a moment. "I haven't noticed any difference."

Even the argumentative burly man nodded in rare agreement.

"Wait." Wang Yang gathered himself, started to speak several times, then stopped and tried again, seemingly struggling to get the words out.

"Just say whatever you want to say!" the burly man snapped.

Gesturing with his fingers, Wang Yang slowly uttered two words: "Peach blossoms."

He paused, then pronounced each word distinctly. "Peach blossoms bloom. Peach blossoms fade."

His expression relaxed afterward, as though those few words had cost him considerable effort.

The three looked puzzled. The youth murmured, "Peach blossoms bloom. Peach blossoms fade. What's that?"

Hearing the youth repeat the phrase, the middle-aged man and the burly man understood at the same instant. "What Dr. Wang just spoke was Mandarin!" the middle-aged man exclaimed.

Ever since waking in the grass, all four had been speaking with an intonation they had never heard before. It was unfamiliar and awkward, utterly different from modern Mandarin pronunciation. Yet they had only just noticed this glaring problem!

"Are we... still speaking Chinese?" the youth asked Wang Yang in horror.

Wang Yang considered it. "Yes. We're speaking Middle Chinese. Its pronunciation differs greatly from modern Chinese. For example, the 'peach' in 'peach blossoms' begins with the aspirated voiceless consonant t in Mandarin, but in Middle Chinese, it has a voiced initial and a level tone! And 'fade' has an unaspirated voiceless initial in Mandarin, but in Middle Chinese, it has a voiced initial and an oblique tone. Another example-"

"Stop showing off your book learning!" the burly man interrupted anxiously. "Say something useful. Just tell us what that 'Middle' means!"

"Han through Tang," Wang Yang answered succinctly.

Scholars of literature and history generally called the period encompassing Wei, Jin, the Northern and Southern Dynasties, Sui, and Tang "medieval," distinguishing it from the "early modern" period following the Tang-Song transformation.

"So we've transmigrated to some dynasty between Han and Tang?" the middle-aged man asked.

Wang Yang nodded. His main areas of study were pre-Tang literature and Tang-Song intellectual history, though he had also researched the cultural history of the two Han dynasties. In terms of historical facts alone, he was most familiar with Han and had the deepest expertise in Tang. If this truly was an irreversible transmigration, he hoped it would be one of those two periods. At least he understood their historical details well enough to seek advantage and avoid disaster.

"We didn't inherit the original owners' memories, but somehow we inherited their accents?! Still, none of that matters!" The handsome youth waved a hand, delighted. "What matters is that we can copy Song Ci! Whichever dynasty between Han and Tang this is, Song Ci definitely doesn't exist yet!"

"How many Song Ci poems can you even recite?" the burly man asked. "Split between the four of us, how many would each person get? Doctor, you know more poems and lyrics, right? You'll have to contribute them. No keeping them to yourself!"

Wang Yang gave no answer. Even in Tang, he thought, lyric writing had been a minor art. Trying to establish oneself with a few Song Ci poems was sheer fantasy. Even in Song, Liu Yong and Jiang Kui had been superb lyricists, yet one had languished for half his life and the other had spent his entire life in poverty. No. My mother's still in the modern world. I have to find a way back!

"What we should be thinking about isn't which Song Ci poems to copy, but how to get back!" Worry filled the middle-aged man's face. He had none of the handsome youth's enthusiasm. His wife and child were still back home. How could he possibly stay?

"Back? I'm not going back! Transmigration's rarer than winning the lottery! Especially into a body this handsome! That's definitely a protagonist's destiny! Here, we can summon wind and rain, hold the world's power when awake and rest drunkenly on a beauty's knees! Isn't that better than going back to slave away?!" The handsome youth grew more spirited with every word.

The burly man looked at the middle-aged man and laughed. "Of course he wants to go back. He didn't get a young body. Anyway, how old were you before transmigrating?"

Unwilling to engage with this contrarian, the middle-aged man walked over to Wang Yang and asked anxiously, "Dr. Wang, what do we do? I have a wife and child at home. My daughter's only five. I have to get back!"

The handsome youth also asked Wang Yang, "By the way, was there a limit on how many concubines you could have in ancient times?"

"What the hell good is asking him?" the burly man jeered.

"Better than asking you!" the middle-aged man retorted despite himself.

The burly man shrugged. "That's hilarious. Someone like you-"

Wang Yang stopped them from continuing their quarrel. "Let's discuss what matters first. Do you remember what happened before we transmigrated?"

He looked at the middle-aged man. "I remember we were in the museum. You and I were looking at a Soul Bottle excavated from an ancient tomb..."

"Right! There was a porcelain bottle! I was looking at it too!" the handsome youth said.

"So we must have transmigrated while looking at that Soul Bottle together," Wang Yang said thoughtfully. "Which means..."

The middle-aged man slapped his thigh. "I remember! There were five of us around that display!"

The four exchanged looks, only then remembering the person still lying in the grass. They hurried over to check on him. He was struggling to sit up, and at the sight of the four approaching, his long, cucumber-thin face went stark white.

The handsome youth smiled warmly at the skinny man. "Buddy, I've got good news. We transmigrated! From now on, this whole world is ours!" Then he let out an exaggerated "Hohoho!"

The burly man curled his lip. "Edgelord."

Neither noticed that the skinny man was trembling slightly.

Wang Yang patted his shoulder. "Are you all right?"

The skinny man's face was deathly pale, his expression dazed. He trembled even harder.

"Your nerves are pretty damn weak!" the burly man mocked. "No wonder you were the last to wake."

Wang Yang glanced at the skinny man. "Let's return to the positions we were standing in when we looked at the Soul Bottle in the museum."

Except for the skinny man, who remained huddled where he was with his hands over his head, the other four returned to their places and discovered that they coincided exactly with where they had awakened. In the center of the five stood the woven-grass basket.

Wang Yang stepped forward to examine it. The burly man darted ahead, and together they lifted the lid. The middle-aged man and the handsome youth gathered around as well.

Wang Yang and the burly man lifted out the object inside.

It was an exquisite celadon jar, its body decorated with molded relief figures and its lid crowned with pavilions, terraces, and towers.

The middle-aged man's eyes lit up. "It's the Soul Bottle! The one we saw in the museum! Could this be what made us transmigrate?"

"What's a Soul Bottle?" the handsome youth asked.

"Soul Bottles were funerary objects buried with the dead," Wang Yang explained. "They were said to gather and soothe souls."

"What are funerary objects?" As he spoke, the handsome youth reached out to touch the relief figures on the bottle. "Are these birds carved on it?"

Wang Yang did not answer the question about funerary objects. His gaze was fixed entirely on the reliefs.

"This is the Vermilion Bird. 'Let the Vermilion Bird fly ahead as my herald; ride in the figured carriage of the Great One.' The Vermilion Bird on the Soul Bottle might be meant to guide souls. The secret of our transmigration could lie in it."

He tried to take the Soul Bottle into his hands for a closer look, but the burly man clung tightly to one end and refused to let go.

"If the Soul Bottle brought us here, it must be able to take us back!" The middle-aged man's voice trembled slightly. This was his only hope of going home. As though trying to bolster his confidence, he asked Wang Yang, "Right?"

Although Wang Yang was far from certain, he nodded to reassure him.

"Let me look. The Soul Bottle's secret is actually hidden on its body." The burly man pulled it toward his own face.

"You know about Soul Bottles?" the handsome youth asked in surprise.

"Of course. I read an online post specifically about them. Look, there's writing here! Little doctor, let go so I can take a closer look."

Wang Yang released his grip and leaned forward, but saw no writing. The handsome youth and the middle-aged man leaned in too.

"Where's the writing?" the handsome youth asked.

"You have to wash it with water. Then you'll see it." With an air of complete assurance, the burly man carried the Soul Bottle straight toward the river.

Wang Yang's expression sharpened. He quickly followed. "I'll go with you."

"No, no. Just wait here. I can manage alone," the burly man said with unusual politeness.

"It's fine. I'm not doing anything anyway." Wang Yang quickened his pace.

The burly man suddenly broke into a sprint!

Wang Yang chased close behind!

Slow to realize what was happening, the handsome youth and the middle-aged man ran after them as well.

Just before reaching the river, the burly man raised the Soul Bottle high. But rather than throwing it into the water, he smashed it hard against the ground!

There was a resounding crash.

The Soul Bottle shattered!

Everyone froze. The middle-aged man let out a cry.

While the others stood stunned, the burly man swept his foot across the ground, kicking most of the fragments into the river!

Ignoring the burly man, Wang Yang rushed straight to the bank. The river stretched wide, its current racing past. Not a trace of the Soul Bottle's fragments remained!

The middle-aged man tried to leap into the river like a madman, but Wang Yang held him fast. "Editor Xu! Calm down!"

"You... are you fucking insane?!" The handsome youth stared at the burly man in shock.

"Are you stupid?" the burly man said. "What if those two figured out how to use the Soul Bottle and took us back?"

The handsome youth faltered, his voice weakening. "But... you still shouldn't..."

"You bastard!" The middle-aged man's eyes turned red, and he lunged at the burly man.

"Stop!" Wang Yang suddenly shouted, his voice and expression fierce. The middle-aged man instinctively halted, only to see Wang Yang hurry past him toward the skinny man, who had already stood up in the grass.

Bewildered, the others followed.

"Where are you going?" Wang Yang asked.

The skinny man forced a smile. "Nowhere... nowhere..."

Wang Yang stared at him, then suddenly asked, "What's your favorite movie?"

"What?" The handsome youth was utterly confused.

"Lost his damn mind," the burly man muttered disapprovingly.

"You fucking idiot!" The middle-aged man seized the burly man by the collar of his ragged hemp tunic.

"Let go." The burly man's face darkened.

Under Wang Yang's stare, the muscles in the skinny man's face trembled even harder.

"Any movie will do. You just have to name one." Wang Yang moved closer.

Sensing something amiss, the other three all looked at the skinny man.

The skinny man suddenly shoved Wang Yang. He stumbled backward and stepped squarely onto the vinegar bowl, overturning it. Most of the dark vinegar splashed onto his trouser leg, thoroughly soaking a large patch of fabric.

The skinny man turned and fled, screaming hysterically, "Ghosts! Ghosts! Evil spirits have possessed them!"

With no time to wipe himself off, Wang Yang shouted, "After him! He isn't from the modern world!"

Notes: ① The saying "Each age has its own field of excellence" originated with the Qing scholar Jiao Xun and was later adopted and developed by Wang Guowei, Hu Shi, and others. It holds that literature changes as time passes and the world transforms, and that different ages excel in different literary genres.

② The use of the term "medieval" is by no means fixed in academic circles. One very interesting phenomenon is that researchers of the Wei, Jin, and Northern and Southern Dynasties habitually describe their field as medieval, while over the past decade, scholars studying the Song through the Ming have also increasingly used "medieval" to describe their field. This follows the concept of the "Middle Period" in Western sinology, which some scholars translate as "middle era" rather than "medieval."

Still, the broadening of the concept of the medieval period is indeed a trend. For instance, at the third Middle Period China conference held at Yale last year, scholars studying the Song and later periods actually made up well over half the participants! Its chronological range was set at 220-1600. Such broad parameters may break down barriers, but they sacrifice the deeper significance of using the concept of the medieval period.

③ The understanding that confines literature to a limited set of genres, such as poetry, lyric verse, and fiction, actually derives from the modern Western concept of belles-lettres represented by the word "literature." China has had a broad conception of literature since antiquity. Zhang Taiyan explained it thus: "Literature is called writing because it consists of written characters set down on bamboo and silk; when discussing its forms and rules, it is called literature." By his definition, the word "literature" casts a very wide net.

Today, a few departments that serve as major centers for the study of classical literature still uphold this tradition, giving equal weight to textual scholarship, the study of characters and their meanings, history, and other subjects, rather than restricting themselves to belles-lettres alone.

④ The medieval period was the age of hereditary aristocratic clans, lasting through the end of the Tang. From the Song onward, these clans died out, fully ushering in the commoner society that has endured to this day. To use the Yellow River as a metaphor, the medieval period was like a bend in the river: great waves, swift currents, and complex waters. After that, the Yellow River changed course, and its entire character changed dramatically. A saying in circulation goes, "The affairs of the Tang were closer to antiquity; the affairs of the Song were closer to the present." It does a fine job of reflecting the medieval period's position as a watershed.

But this saying is an academic rumor. Those who spread it repeatedly attribute it to Chen Yinke, and it has even been cited in academic papers-a truly astonishing oddity. To the best of my limited knowledge, Chen never said this. I suspect the original behind this rumor may have been Liu Boji's statement in History of Song Dynasty Politics and Religion: "The governance of the Tang was closer to antiquity; the governance of the Song was closer to the present."

In short, the medieval period was a fascinating age. Its civilization and barbarity, splendor and darkness, greatness and insignificance were intertwined and inseparable, mud and sand swept down together to form a single current. And watching a modern person stumble into that age's mighty torrent, splash up little bursts of spray, and ultimately create towering waves is an even more fascinating prospect.

I will try my best to recreate the true historical circumstances of the time. There will be no secret manuals or supernatural martial arts, no mantle of fortune-just a modern person transported straight into the treacherous, ever-shifting world of the Northern and Southern Dynasties. To survive, he can rely only on himself.

Once realism enters the picture, many things cease to be easy. Leaving aside everything else about traveling into the past, the language barrier alone is difficult enough to overcome. The vast majority of modern people cannot understand ancient pronunciation, let alone communicate with people of the time. Then there is household registration, for instance. China's ancient household registration systems were highly developed; getting by as an unregistered person was no easy matter.

Why do some time-travel novels with even a little seriousness begin with the protagonist inheriting the original body's memories, or pick up the story several years after his arrival?

Because a completely blank slate at the outset is genuinely difficult to handle. Once he inherits those memories, the question of identity is easily resolved, and he can easily fit into the ancient world.

But the problem is that fitting into the ancient world has never been easy.

I know writing this way may mean a great deal of effort for little appreciation, and many readers may not care about these details. Even so, I want to carve out the finest intricacies. I want to throw a living, breathing modern person into a real, vividly realized historical world and see how he survives and how he solves his problems.

I will depict this process carefully and in detail. Now, please join me as we enter this medieval age, dense with hidden currents and magnificent, surging waves!