Chapter One: The Spring Thunder Awakens the Slumbering Earth

In the twenty-fourth year of the Tianqi era, on the seventeenth day of the first month, the day of Awakening of Insects, when the first thunder of spring rumbles and all things come to life...

Bang—

The rickety door was kicked open with force, and the sudden clamor jolted Feng Jingzhe awake from his stupor on the bed.

The moment he opened his eyes, he was greeted by four fierce and menacing faces. The four men wore blue uniforms with black trim and red boots—clearly the attire of yamen constables.

“Feng Jingzhe, of Sweetwater Alley on the southern bank of the Bian River, Widow Wang has accused you of breaking into her home last night and violating her. We are here by order of the county magistrate to arrest you and bring you to trial…”

Before the words had fully landed, the still-dazed Feng Jingzhe was yanked violently out of bed. Shackles were snapped onto his wrists and ankles, and he was dragged outside.

Feng Jingzhe—the name was correct, but why did the room look so strange? Was he roleplaying some murder mystery script? That made no sense! Last night, he’d still been weaving through the rainforest, locked in a deadly game with those damned Seals; how had he suddenly ended up in this bizarre scenario…?

As a king of special operations, Feng Jingzhe’s instincts screamed for him to subdue the four men in front of him.

But—

The moment he tried to move, his muscles cramped and spasmed, pain shooting through his body and forcing sharp, ragged breaths from his throat. He couldn’t even stand, much less fight.

“Damn, I’ve been poisoned! Tonic spasms, opisthotonos—it’s the Drawstring Toxin!”

His training in toxicology allowed him to instantly identify the type of poison from the symptoms wracking his body.

“Water, give me water…”

His voice was hoarse, his stomach burning as if set ablaze. Forget the situation—he mustered every ounce of strength to lunge toward the teapot on the table. Only by forcing himself to vomit with copious water could he hope to relieve the poison.

“Hmph! You think you can act up in front of us?”

The lead constable swung his baton down hard. The blow knocked Feng Jingzhe sideways, sending table and chairs crashing to the floor.

He barely registered the pain in his back before a sudden, splitting agony tore through his head, as if his skull might crack open. A flood of foreign memories was forcibly crammed into his mind, so overwhelming that, for a moment, he forgot even the physical torment of the poison.

“Chief, did you hit him stupid? He looks off…”

“Nonsense, scum like this deserves a beating! Quit gawking and haul him up; the magistrate’s waiting!”

As they dragged the muddled Feng Jingzhe outside, a man entered through the main gate, carrying a bowl of medicine.

“Who are you people? Release my young master at once!”

Crash—the ceramic bowl shattered on the ground, but Li Changsheng, undeterred, rushed forward. Two constables crossed their batons, blocking his path.

“How dare you! I am the Constable of Chang’an, here by order of the magistrate to arrest the villain Feng Jingzhe. Interfere, and you’ll be charged as well!”

“You’ve got the wrong man—my young master could never be a villain!”

“We’ll see about that after the magistrate’s heard the case! Out of the way, or you’ll be arrested with him!”

“You’re overreaching! My young master’s future bride is General of the West, Beiming Xuanyue. Try anything, and you’ll pay the price!”

“Heh… The imperial marriage decree hasn’t even been issued and you’re already waving the general’s name like a banner?”

The lead constable scoffed with disdain.

“Widow Wang of Sweetwater Alley accused Feng Jingzhe of breaking in and violating her last night, and sounded the drum of justice this morning. The Bloodhand Butcher, General Beiming, is a hero among women—what does your pathetic young master have to offer, especially after such a vile crime…”

The constables glanced at Feng Jingzhe, now a limp heap on the ground, their faces twisted with revulsion.

Everyone knew the story: the war-god who shattered a hundred thousand Western Qiang with just eight thousand cavalry was now, because of a drunken jest made by her father years ago, perhaps to be betrothed to this wastrel—a man infamous for every vice under the sun.

The day the news leaked from the imperial city, the court had erupted. Led by the second and fourth princes, ministers had rushed to the palace that very night, and for a month the court had been in uproar.

Whether his young master was worthy of Beiming Xuanyue was one thing, but when Li Changsheng heard that the accuser was Widow Wang, his former fury evaporated. Others might not know, but he did: ever since his young master had returned to Chang’an and learned of Widow Wang’s reputation, he’d pestered her endlessly, though he’d always come back empty-handed.

“Oh no, did the young master really let his lechery drive him to force himself on her…?”

Li Changsheng recalled carrying someone home by the Bian River last night—the spot was less than half a stick of incense from Sweetwater Alley. The more he thought, the more panic gripped him. Given what he knew of Feng Jingzhe, a few cups of wine and he was capable of anything.

Thinking this, Li Changsheng didn’t dare interfere further. With the old madam and young lady still at their home in Pingyang, he turned and sprinted out the gate without a backward glance.

The constables’ contempt only deepened. Losing a servant was a mere trifle. Soon, they had Feng Jingzhe, limp as a dead dog, slung between them on the way to the county office.

Meanwhile, as the two souls fused into one, Feng Jingzhe’s mind began to clear. The searing pain in his head subsided, and even the spasms in his muscles eased.

In any world, those struck by the Drawstring Toxin died without an antidote. Even if death wasn’t immediate, he shouldn’t be in such good physical condition.

Even more astonishing, as time passed, Feng Jingzhe could feel a surging energy coursing through his body, nourishing his every limb. His bones and tendons itched, but in a warm, comforting way.

As he was dragged along, he quietly made fists, testing his strength. To his surprise, his current body could muster almost half the power he’d had before crossing over—a body honed by years of grueling special forces training, easily able to take on seven or eight men at once.

In other words, in this strange world, he at least had the means to defend himself.

He boldly guessed that his miraculous recovery and newfound strength were linked to the red fruit he had swallowed in the rainforest.

But before he could feel any relief, someone struck the back of his knees, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Instinctively, he rolled to his feet, only to look up and see, looming above the main entrance, the great sign inscribed “Justice Hangs Like a Mirror”—and beneath it, the county magistrate in his somber black robe…