Chapter 1

Yu Shensi regained consciousness to the sound of weeping.

The first sensation he became aware of was that he was lying in an embrace that was not particularly warm. The feeling was strange: after years of illness, he was a thin, grown man, yet now someone was holding him like a child—it was awkward, something no one around him had ever done before.

Amid the sobs, he caught a faint scent of rice. The pain in his stomach, twisted from hunger, made him instinctively swallow. Something warm and thick slipped down his throat, settling into his stomach and bringing immediate relief.

"He swallowed! Yang’er swallowed! Big Sister, did you see? Yang’er took it down!" a boy’s tearful voice cried out in delight.

"Hurry! Give him a bit more. If he can eat, he can live."

Yu Shensi thought, Wasn’t I already dead? Are they calling to me—Yang’er?

Another spoonful of hot rice porridge came to his lips. The fragrance was too tempting to resist. As he greedily gulped it down, his eyes slowly opened.

Before him was a boy, just into his teens, face sallow and thin, hair tied up with a rag, dressed in a patched, ill-fitting cross-collared jacket. In his hands, he held a chipped earthenware bowl, loading thick rice porridge onto a rough wooden spoon and feeding it to him.

"Yang’er’s awake! Big Sis and Big Brother are both here. You’re safe now. Once you finish this porridge, the sickness will pass. You won’t feel bad anymore." The boy straightened in excitement, coaxing him gently as he raised the spoon to Yu Shensi’s lips.

Still dazed, Yu Shensi swallowed another mouthful and looked around, trying to discern whether all this was real.

The house was built of adobe bricks, crude and dilapidated, with not a scrap of furniture in sight. Beside him, a fire burned, branches crackling and popping. A clay pot rested over the flames, sending up wisps of steam. In the corner was a heap of rotting wood and dry grass. A cold wind whistled in through the broken window, and beyond, the snow on the trees sparkled painfully bright under the sun.

Holding him was a girl of eleven or twelve, her cheeks hollow, hair disheveled, her face stained with tears. She grinned through her sobs, overwhelmed with relief. “Yang’er has come back to life.”

Just as Yu Shensi was about to speak, a sharp pain pierced his head. Every nerve felt as though needles were stabbing into them, and suddenly, a flood of fragmented memories that did not belong to him surged into his mind.

He grimaced in pain but understood clearly: he had transmigrated.

This body’s name was Gao Yang, not yet four years old, the youngest son of this year’s top scholar, Gao Mingjin. The girl and boy before him were his elder sister Gao Nuan and elder brother Gao Zhao.

The reason the three siblings had fallen into such dire straits began eight months prior.

At that time, their father Gao Mingjin had won the national examination, his future blazing bright. He immediately brought his wife, Madame Yu, and their four children from the village to the capital to enjoy prosperity. The villagers envied Madame Yu, saying she was blessed; she would become a government lady, and her children, sons and daughters of an official household.

Madame Yu believed it as well. On the journey to the capital, she dreamed of a life of silk and fine meals, determined to ensure her children studied hard, hoping they too would become scholars like their father. But fate took a cruel turn: soon after arriving, Madame Yu fell ill from the change in climate and water. Her condition worsened, medicine did nothing, and when it became clear she would not recover, Gao Mingjin hastily arranged for her to be sent home to convalesce. Yet, on the day before their departure, Madame Yu passed away.

Gao Mingjin was devastated. He said his wife had suffered too much in the capital; he could not bear for her to endure further indignity after death. Barely a week after her passing, he sent the children home to mourn, weeping bitterly as he did so. To console his grief, he left his most beloved second son in the capital, sending his eldest daughter, eldest son, and youngest son home for mourning.

On the journey home, the siblings were abandoned by their uncle. They had no idea why. With only the youngest in tow, they begged their way home, escaping death more than once, surviving only thanks to the kindness of strangers who gave them rides, and eventually reached their native county.

When their uncle saw them, he scolded them for running off and getting lost, then drove them into the old country house, ordering them to keep vigil for their mother, study, and reflect.

They did not object to mourning; it was their duty as children. But only upon reaching the old house did they grasp the reality.

The ancestral house was three wide rooms of mud and stone, with a side room and a yard, but it was nothing but an empty shell, its doors and windows broken, wind whistling through the cracks. The monthly ration from their uncle was only enough for one person to eat. In the dead of winter, all the bedding and clothing they had were discarded rags, under the pretext that “mourning must be austere to show proper filial piety.”

Within days, the youngest fell ill from the cold. With no money for medicine, the eldest sister walked dozens of miles to the county seat, begging their uncles for help, but none would lend a hand. By chance, she overheard the truth.

Madame Yu had not died of illness from the climate, but had been poisoned.

Word was, Gao Mingjin’s talent and appearance had attracted the attention of a high official’s daughter, though the exact reason remained unclear. Gao Mingjin himself was eager to climb the social ladder, but he already had a wife and children. If he divorced his wife, his career would be in ruins, and he would become the object of lifelong scorn, cut off from the powerful connections he craved. So, to protect his ambitions and reputation, he devised a cruel plot.

He pretended to be a loving, devoted husband, publicly seeking treatment for his wife, while secretly bribing the doctor to sabotage her medicine so her condition worsened. As for leaving his second son in the capital, perhaps there was some affection, but more likely it was for show—to craft the image of a loving father and husband.

Everything was for his career, for his name, for his rise.

Their uncle had abandoned them on the road at his instruction, hoping they would die unknown, ending the problem. But the siblings survived and made it home. Their uncle, under the guise of mourning, dumped them in the country house, hoping hunger or cold would finish the job. There would be explanations enough when the time came.

Knowing their father was heartless, their uncles complicit, the siblings lost all hope of help. They sold off what little food and clothing they had, begging from every neighbor, known and unknown, scraping together enough for medicine.

But country folk were poor; medical expenses were high, and charity could not last. It was a drop in the bucket, and eventually, the youngest could not withstand the cold and hunger and died.

After sorting through these memories, Yu Shensi was so furious his chest ached and he could barely breathe.

Gao Nuan, seeing his condition, turned pale with fright and stroked his back, her voice trembling with tears as she soothed him, "Yang’er, don’t scare your sister..." Her tears fell on his chin.

Sensing her fear and helplessness, Yu Shensi steadied his breathing and forced a reassuring smile. "Yang’er is fine."

Gao Nuan sniffled, and perhaps believing that as long as he could eat he would recover, quickly had her brother feed him more porridge. There was nothing else left in the house—just half a bowl of overcooked brown rice porridge.

Yu Shensi was indeed famished, and still sick; the porridge was a lifeline, and he finished every drop. Seeing his appetite, both siblings smiled. One stoked the fire, the other laid him on the bed and coaxed him to sleep.

The “bed” was just a few planks covered with straw. The quilt was worn and patched, a gift from their neighbor, the fourth granny, who took pity on them. At least it was thick.

With the fire burning, the room grew warmer, and Yu Shensi, unable to fight his body’s exhaustion, soon drifted into sleep.

When he woke again, night had fallen. Gao Nuan and Gao Zhao sat by the fire, wrapped in a single quilt they had given entirely to him. The siblings huddled by the flames to keep warm. Thankfully, there was plenty of wood to gather in the countryside, though in this frozen world, even that was not easy.

Once the water in the clay pot boiled, Gao Zhao poured a bowl and handed it to Gao Nuan, then took one for himself, sipping from the rim as he breathed into his hands, discussing, “Tomorrow, I’ll go to Uncle’s house.”

“No!” Gao Nuan objected at once. “Uncle’s health is poor, and after mother died, he was so grief-stricken he nearly fell ill himself. Now Aunt is about to give birth—we can’t trouble them more. Besides, their family has it hard. Just a few days ago I saw Aunt Gui taking embroidery to sell. Tomorrow I’ll ask her. I can embroider too—maybe I can earn something.”

Gao Zhao sat up straight and insisted, “I’m the man of the house. I should be earning money. Tomorrow I’ll look for work in the village. Big sister, you stay and take care of Yang’er.”

“All the work in the village is hard labor. What could you do?” Gao Nuan retorted.

Gao Zhao shrank his thin wrists into his sleeves. The most strenuous thing he’d ever done was study, or help his mother carry a table or chair. After so much hunger, he had no strength left. But his sister was a girl, and his younger brother was too little. He was the only laborer left, so he stubbornly insisted, “There must be something light I can do.”

The siblings argued over how to survive the coming days.

Yu Shensi sighed inwardly. Neither was the type to submit to fate; both were willing to endure hardship. If not for the youngest’s long illness, they would not have been reduced to this state—drinking hot water to stave off hunger.

But he was too young now, barely of age to speak, not yet taught anything. He dared not offer suggestions, and could only pretend to be an ignorant child.

But he was not truly ignorant.

He let out a little sound and climbed down from the bed, his stomach rumbling—the noon porridge already spent.

Hearing him stir, Gao Nuan quickly came over, sat by the bed, felt his forehead, and found his fever had gone. She excitedly wrapped him in the quilt, tucking it in, hugging him tightly as if afraid a single chill might reach him.

He had been feverish for days, always worse at night—this was the first time the fever had not returned after dark, a hopeful sign.

Hearing his stomach growl, Gao Nuan, ashamed, stroked his head and had Gao Zhao bring hot water to him, coaxing, “It’s night, sleep a little more. When day breaks, Big Sister will make you something good to eat.”

It was a comfort for a child, but nothing more. At this rate, even another bowl of brown rice porridge tomorrow would be a miracle.

They had nothing left. Even if she could help Aunt Gui with embroidery, there was no guarantee she’d be chosen, or that the work would sell, and their hunger could not wait. Gao Zhao, offering himself as a laborer, was even less reliable—a boy of ten, thin as a reed, couldn’t carry two bushels of rice. Who would hire him?

Not wanting them to worry, Yu Shensi nodded obediently. He glanced out the window, unsure what day it was, but from his memories, the New Year was approaching.

For a child, the New Year meant eating, drinking, and playing. For an adult, it meant much more.

He furrowed his brow. “Yang’er just dreamed of Mother.”

The siblings’ smiles froze, sorrow slowly clouding their faces. They followed his lead and asked, “Did you talk to Mother?”

“Yes,” Yu Shensi replied obediently. “She said she misses us very much. She also said, Big Brother, that she heard your memorial speech. Big Brother, what is a memorial speech?”

His words brought tears to their eyes again. Gao Zhao stroked his head, unsure how to explain to a three-year-old, and did not answer.

Yu Shensi, affecting confusion, asked, “Do memorial speeches cost money?” He subtly guided the conversation.

In his memories, Gao Zhao was a student, halfway to being a scholar. In this era, learning was a luxury; seven or eight of every ten country folk could not read. At best, they could recognize a few words. On holidays, for weddings or funerals, people always needed a scholar to write couplets or memorial speeches.

Gao Nuan was quick-witted. At her little brother’s question, she immediately had an idea and grabbed Gao Zhao’s sleeve. “The New Year is coming—every family will be honoring ancestors. The more refined households will surely want proper memorial speeches.”

Gao Zhao caught on. “I can write for them.” The pay for such work was usually generous. If he could write a few, they might just get through the New Year.