Chapter One: An Eternal Farewell to Future Generations

“Xiaobao, Xiaobao… wake up, wake up!” Someone was calling his soul back.

“Who… who… who is calling?” The voice seemed both distant and near, a demonic echo drilling into his mind. With a violent shudder, Hong Lei opened his eyes.

Before him appeared the honest, weathered face of a middle-aged man, wrinkles etched deep, his eyes brimming with worry and care.

“Who is he?” Hong Lei wondered, only to glance down and nearly cry out.

“Huh? Why am I so small?” Tiny hands, tiny feet, a little body—he had become a child.

He looked at his clothes: a faded tunic, so washed it was nearly white, old-fashioned and rustic, nothing he had ever worn before.

Dazed and heavy-headed, Hong Lei forced himself upright and looked around.

The man’s attire was ancient as well, and the two of them were inside a dilapidated temple. One glance at the cobweb-laden, battered mountain god statue and the archaic wall patterns—Hong Lei had studied architecture—was enough to shock him. This was nothing like a modern structure.

Tang dynasty architecture!

Was this a dream of the Tang dynasty?

And with a burly, affectionate man calling him “Xiaobao,” everything pointed to one conclusion: he was dreaming.

Hong Lei lay back down, closed his eyes, and silently chanted, “Bad dream, go away, bad dream, go away!”

But the middle-aged man’s voice buzzed relentlessly in his ears. Hong Lei pinched his thigh with his small hand—pain shot through him!

Forced to open his eyes again, he propped up his little body and asked, “Uncle, who are you?”

A look of astonishment swept across the man’s face, his voice laden with sorrow as he replied, “My son, I am your father, Feng Dabao!”

“What?!”

Feng Dabao sadly wiped his tears and sighed, “It’s all my fault, I didn’t protect you well. And now you wake up not even recognizing your own father, speaking such nonsense…”

He’s my father? I’m his son?

Heaven, what is going on?

Could it be that I’ve reincarnated, or… transmigrated?

I have transmigrated! Just like that?

But transmigrating into this? Other people become princes, officials, rich heirs, their very presence enough to command respect, beauties flocking to them at a glance. But me? I wake up in a broken temple with a ragged “father” by my side?

Suddenly, Hong Lei was gripped by unprecedented fear… Would he never return to his past life, forever separated from everything he once knew?

His small body sensed the turmoil of its new master, and the instinctive reaction was—tears!

Feng Dabao watched anxiously. When he saw Hong Lei’s little mouth quiver and heard him burst into tears, he was actually relieved. “Crying is good, crying is good,” he muttered, thinking this calmness had been unnatural; now, this was the proper reaction.

But as Hong Lei’s crying grew ever more heartbroken, Feng Dabao became flustered, not knowing how to comfort him.

Crying, Hong Lei’s head was suddenly wracked with pain, and he fainted again.

In the haze, scenes flickered and memories surged like a tide. He understood now: this body belonged to Feng Xiaobao, an eleven-year-old boy from Longzhou in the Great Tang. The exact year was unclear; he only knew the emperor’s surname was Li. Xiaobao’s mother was missing, with not even an impression of her in his mind, and he had grown up wandering with his father Feng Dabao, earning a living by performing martial arts, selling injury ointments, and strength pills.

That morning, the father and son had gone to Fufeng to sell medicine. Because they’d failed to pay the local “dues,” they’d offended a local thug named Zhou, who had brought men to wreck their stall. In the chaos, Xiaobao was shoved hard, struck his head against the wall, and lost consciousness—never waking until now.

When he awoke, he was Xiaobao! (From here on, “I” refers to Feng Xiaobao.)

“Heavens!” Feng Xiaobao wailed inwardly. To think such things could happen—was there no justice in the world?

“Pandora!” In his mind, Feng Xiaobao raised a middle finger.

When he finally came to again, dusk was falling. Feng Dabao was busy by a small fire, a clay pot simmering and filling the air with the scent of porridge.

Seeing Feng Xiaobao awake and staring blankly at him, Feng Dabao smiled with relief, “Come, let me wipe your face!” He approached with a damp, coarse cloth.

His movements were clumsy and the rough fabric stung Feng Xiaobao’s “delicate” little cheeks, but he was filled with a warmth and deep sense of love.

The porridge bubbled and boiled. Feng Dabao ladled some into a large rough bowl and handed it to Feng Xiaobao. “Eat up.”

Holding the bowl, Feng Xiaobao sneaked a glance—this was already two-thirds of the little clay pot’s contents!

His nose tingled. Instinctively, for the first time, he called out, “Aye (Father)!”

Hearing his son’s voice, Feng Dabao beamed. “Eat while it’s hot, my son.”

The porridge was indeed fragrant. Feng Xiaobao was famished and ate greedily. When he finished, Feng Dabao took the bowl, ladled out the rest, and handed it to him again. “Have some more.”

By now, Feng Xiaobao had inherited all his memories and knew that this little pot of porridge was the entire evening meal for both father and son. He quickly declined, “Aye, I’m full.”

He jumped up to stretch his limbs. This body, he discovered, was tall for its age, big-boned and strong, with resilient skin—only a bit thin and dark.

He felt reassured. With such a foundation, there was nothing to fear. As for being thin: when he grew up and became a high official in the court, he’d never lack for food again. (After all, high officials were usually plump and well-fed.)

He wandered out the temple door. It was a mountain god’s temple, perched halfway up the slope. Outside, darkness blanketed the wilds, with only a few scattered lights in the distance.

Above, the stars shone with a brilliance unseen in the electric-lit nights of his previous world. The night air was fresh and fragrant, the cool breeze stirring, insects chirping in chorus, and occasionally a bird’s cry. It was the ideal of environmental purity; if the green activists of his time saw this, they would be so delighted they might wet themselves.

He gave a bitter smile. What use was such environmental purity? He would rather have the bustle of the modern world—cars, airplanes, yachts, shopping malls, the Internet… Even the most ordinary things: ballpoint pens, a VISA card, Coca-Cola, cell phones, television… All of modernity was now forever lost to him.

Others bid farewell to their past life; he had said goodbye to the future.

Overcome with sorrow, Feng Xiaobao slumped to the ground, head in his hands.

Behind him, someone patted his back, muttering, “Xiaobao, be careful—there are wolves out here!”

Wolves? Heavens! With no choice, Feng Xiaobao followed his father obediently back into the temple. Feng Dabao propped the door shut with a stone.

For the first time in his life, the night-owl Feng Xiaobao—who never slept before midnight—found himself lying down to sleep at only seven or eight in the evening.

The so-called “bed” was nothing more than a layer of dry straw on the ground, poking painfully through his clothes into his flesh.

As the fire died down, a faint rustling came from the floor. By the waning glow, Feng Xiaobao opened his eyes wide. “Oh no, rats!”

A huge rat, fat as a pig, strutted out beside the wall. Feng Xiaobao grabbed something at hand and threw it; the rat merely hopped aside, looking back at him with utter disdain. Squeak, squeak, squeak—how infuriating!

With nightmares of rats crawling over his face, Feng Xiaobao spent his first night in this new world.