After the rain cleared, the morning in Dujiawa was exceptionally crisp. Crystal-clear dewdrops hung on the tips of the grass, and when the wind blew, they rolled down into the soil; the air was full of the fresh scent of earth and grass mixed together, and when he took a deep breath, even his lungs felt refreshed. The thunderstorm with lightning and torrential rain last night seemed to have washed away the dust of the past and also opened a brand-new chapter for Du Heng’s new life in this era.
He got out of bed at daybreak and carefully copied the “Two-Year Revival Plan” that he had revised again and again in the mud last night onto a flat wooden board with the leftover charcoal stick. He had picked this board out from a pile of broken firewood; it was the best piece he could find, with no major cracks and a surface that was still fairly smooth. Even though he had no paper or ink, as a science-and-engineering guy, Du Heng simply could not stand “acting without any plan at all”; having a clear, orderly plan was a habit engraved in his bones. He hung the board on the most conspicuous spot on the earthen wall; the characters written with the charcoal stick looked dark and smudged, but every stroke showed his seriousness and were laid out in an orderly fashion:
First-year goal: self-sufficiency: grain: plant sorghum and legumes, use crop rotation methods to increase yields; protein: raise chickens, catch mountain fish by the river, go up the mountain to gather wild eggs; seasonings: make soy sauce himself, brew vinegar, go to the salt flats to dry some salt; tools: repair that rusty hoe, find a way to cast an iron pot, weave a few bamboo baskets to hold things.
Second-year goal: a small surplus, launch a workshop.
“Step 1: take stock of the family assets.” He muttered under his breath, looking just like he was chairing a project kick-off meeting at a company, solemn and earnest.
He squatted in the corner of the house and took out everything in the home to count them one by one, afraid of missing anything: half a bag of millet, which he estimated was only about 15 jin or so; 3 copper coins, one of which had its edges worn smooth, nearly losing its pattern; a hoe so rusty it was almost unrecognizable; a clay jar that had cracks but, after a close look, could still barely be used; half a scroll of Qimin Yaoshu, with pitifully few pages left; a linen shirt patched all over; a pair of straw sandals whose soles had long worn through so that his toes were almost sticking out, and walking in them would probably make his feet hurt from the stones.
“There are no debts at least, but the money on hand is not even enough to count as a negative number; there is basically no cash flow.” He could not help but give a bitter laugh. “I have to solve the food problem first, otherwise no matter how good the plan is, it is just empty talk and cannot be put into practice at all.”
He was just about to go out to gather some wild greens to fill his stomach when the courtyard gate creaked open, the sound especially clear in the quiet morning.
He saw an old woman with white hair standing at the door, leaning on a cane. The clothes she wore had been washed so often they had turned white, and the edges were a bit frayed, yet they were very clean and neatly arranged; at a glance, she was clearly someone who loved cleanliness. The old woman held a small bowl of millet rice in her hands, with a steamed wild egg resting on top, still steaming hot; the aroma drifted into the yard on the wind and made Du Heng’s stomach growl.
“Little Heng, the thunder was so loud last night that I was afraid you might be frightened staying home alone, so I got up early to bring you something to eat.” Granny A Ruan walked in unsteadily and forced the bowl into Du Heng’s hands. “Hurry and eat it while it’s hot, don’t starve yourself; this is exactly when you need to grow.”
Du Heng felt a warm rush in his heart. Granny A Ruan was a lonely old woman who lived at the east end of the village and usually made a living by going up the mountain to collect medicinal herbs to sell. Her own days were already extremely tight, yet she always kept this child with no one to look after in her thoughts. The villagers all said that Granny A Ruan had a stubborn temper and did not like to interact with people, but toward him, she was even more affectionate than toward a real grandson.
“Granny, you should keep this for yourself. I… I can still go pick wild greens, I won’t starve.” He tried to push the bowl back, feeling truly ill at ease.
“Nonsense!” Granny A Ruan glared at him, the wrinkles on her face squeezing together, yet radiating an unquestionable authority. “When your father was alive, he often helped me repair the roof, carry water, and chop firewood; he treated me better than a real son. Now that he is gone, looking after you is my rightful duty! If you refuse to eat, that means you don’t acknowledge me as your Granny, and I will never bother with you again!”
Du Heng’s eyes grew a little red. He knew Granny A Ruan truly cared for him; if he kept refusing, he would be too ungrateful. He lowered his head and started wolfing down the food. The millet was a bit coarse, and it scraped his throat and hurt a little when he swallowed, but that wild egg was so fragrant it nearly brought him to tears. This was the first bite of high-quality protein he had eaten since he crossed into this era, and it was also the first bit of warmth given purely out of concern, with no trace of pity.
“Granny, can you read?” He suddenly remembered his doubts from last night about his own origins and put down his chopsticks to ask.
“I can recognize a few characters.” Granny A Ruan nodded, a hint of recollection flashing in her eyes. “When I was young, I worked as an apprentice in a medicine shop in Chang’an’s West Market. I learned to recognize the names of medicines and remember prescriptions from the shopkeeper, so I know a few characters.”
“Then do you know if my family… left behind anything else? Like land deeds, letters, or old belongings of my father and mother?” Du Heng held a bit of expectation in his heart. Maybe he could learn a bit more about the past of this body’s original owner from old belongings.
Granny A Ruan stayed silent for quite a while, her gaze falling on the old locust tree in the courtyard. Only after a long time did she slowly speak. “Before your father died, he entrusted me to keep a wooden box for him and said I was to give it to you when you turned 14. Yesterday just happened to be your 14th birthday, and I was going to bring it to you today.”
As she spoke, she took a copper key from her bosom. Although it was covered in rust, it had been polished smooth, which made it clear that Granny A Ruan often wiped it. “That wooden box is buried under the third bluestone at the roots of the old locust tree; if you dig there, you will find it.”
Du Heng’s heartbeat suddenly sped up. He quickly put the bowl down, thanked Granny A Ruan, walked her to the gate, and watched her slowly walk off, leaning on her cane, before turning around, grabbing the newly sharpened iron hoe, and hurrying toward the old locust tree.
The old locust tree was especially thick and robust, its bark cracked like dragon scales, clearly showing its age. Du Heng quickly located the third bluestone at the roots of the tree; half of the stone was buried in the earth, and its edges had been worn smooth and rounded by the years. He used the iron hoe to carefully dig away the damp soil around the bluestone, and before long, a cypress-wood box about 1 chi square appeared. The copper clasp on the box had turned green, but it had not rotted, clearly having been treated with tung oil to resist moisture and decay.
He carefully opened the wooden box, both nervous and expectant, but inside there was none of the gold or silver treasures he had imagined, only 3 items:
A roll of yellowed household registration bamboo slips, on which was written: “Du Heng, father Du Zhong, mother Lady Liu, in Zhenguan Year 1 died in an epidemic, native of Jingzhao Duling”;
A broken jade pendant made of bluish-white jade, with a very neat break, as if it had been split by a sharp blade; the other half was nowhere to be seen, and on the jade pendant one could vaguely make out the carved character “Ling”;
And a hand-drawn map whose ink had already grown faint, depicting the terrain of a valley somewhere in Zhongnan Mountain, marked with the 4 characters “Du Clan Ancestral Tomb,” with small characters beside it reading, “Gui-water orientation, Mao Mountain facing You.”
“Duling…” Du Heng’s heart gave a jolt and he was somewhat surprised. Jingzhao Duling had been a place where illustrious clans gathered in the Han and Tang dynasties; the founding prime minister Du Ruhui came from there, and even the Poet Sage Du Fu called himself the “Wild Old Man of Duling.” Could it be that the original owner of this body was actually a collateral branch of the Du Clan? But if he really was a descendant of a great clan, how had he fallen to this state, living in such a remote little village? And his parents, did they truly die of an epidemic? Could there be some other hidden story?
He rubbed the broken edge of the jade pendant, his mind full of questions. But he soon calmed down. For now, these mysteries were not important; solving the problem of survival was the key, or else even if he learned his origins, he would have no way to keep living in this era.
“A drifting origin is like duckweed beaten by the rain… but I will not rely on the shade of my ancestors; I will earn my food with my own two hands.” He whispered to himself, then carefully put away the household registration bamboo slips. This was his proof of legal identity in this era, and he would need it in the future to enter a city, buy land, or even take the imperial examination. He hid the jade pendant next to his body under his clothes; perhaps he might someday find the other half of the pendant and solve the mystery of his origins. He rolled up the map and put it away for now as well, planning to wait until he had the ability before going to Zhongnan Mountain to look for the Du Clan Ancestral Tomb.
Back in the house, Du Heng picked up that half scroll of Qimin Yaoshu again and began reading. The book mentioned that “bean-and-wheat crop rotation can make the land more fertile” and “using manure after fermenting it can kill pests.” Although the explanations were brief, they coincided perfectly with principles of modern agronomy.
“Ancient people were not stupid; they just lacked systematic summarization and popularization.” He murmured to himself. “I can turn these scattered bits of experience into replicable, shareable techniques, and maybe I can even help other people in the village.”
He decided to head into the mountains early that very day. First, he could gather some wild greens and pick some wild fruits to fill his stomach; second, he could look for usable plants, such as soap pod that could be used to make soap, mugwort that could repel insects, pine resin that could be used for waterproofing, and kudzu vine that could be used for weaving cloth; third, he could survey the terrain to see whether he could divert spring water from the mountain into his own fields and then build a small water storage pond so that he would not have to worry about his crops lacking water when drought came.
Before setting out, he washed the ceramic bowl that Granny A Ruan had brought clean and then used a charcoal stick to draw a simple coordinate grid on the bottom. The X-axis represented time (counted by days), and the Y-axis represented output (counted by jin or pieces). He planned to record every day how many wild greens and fruits he gathered, what crops he planted, what small experiments he ran, and how much grain he consumed.
“Let the data speak; that is the scientific way. Without data support, all experience is just blind guesswork and mysticism.” He muttered as he drew, looking as serious as if he were recording data in a laboratory.
Once everything was ready, Du Heng slung the torn sack over his back, tucked a sharpened piece of iron at his waist to use as a knife, retied the nearly worn-out straw sandals on his feet with hemp rope so his toes would not stick out as much as possible, and then stepped onto the village’s muddy path toward Zhongnan Mountain.
The mountain breeze blew gently across his face, carrying a unique coolness from the mountains. Crisp birdsong came to his ears along with the rushing “hua-la-la” of a stream, which lifted his spirits. Du Heng took a deep breath and suddenly felt that, though this 14-year-old body was thin and weak, it was full of limitless potential. His bones had not yet set; as long as he ate and exercised properly, he could grow strong. His muscles could be trained bit by bit, and his mind was clear, with all his modern knowledge reserves still intact.
“So what if there is no system? The knowledge in my head is the best system there is. What I learned from history books is my database. This Great Tang is the testing ground for my talents.”
He lifted his head to look at the mist-shrouded peaks of Zhongnan Mountain, and his steps grew firmer. His origins might be rootless and drifting, but his fate was something he would seize with his own hands.
Behind him, thin threads of cooking smoke slowly rose from the chimneys of Dujiawa and mingled with the morning mist of Zhongnan Mountain, forming a peaceful yet vibrant scene.
The path of a young man’s counterattack started from this bowl of wild egg rice carrying warmth, a cypress-wood box hiding the secret of his origins, and a wooden board covered with plans written in charcoal. At this moment, the magnificent scroll of the Zhenguan Golden Age quietly gained its first stroke. That stroke was not drawn by emperors and generals, but by a barefoot boy who used the iron hoe in his hands and the knowledge in his mind to sketch it out line by line with his own hands.
Walking along the mountain path, Du Heng even ran into a few little squirrels foraging by the roadside. They stared at him with big round eyes and were not afraid at all. Du Heng could not help stopping; he fished a small handful of leftover millet from his pocket and scattered it on the ground. The squirrels looked at him warily at first, then bounced over and hugged the millet grains to gnaw on. Watching how adorable they were, Du Heng could not help but smile. In this unfamiliar era, these little bits of kindness and warmth were the strength that supported him in moving forward.
He continued on and soon discovered a slope covered in shepherd’s purse. The shepherd’s purse was fresh and tender, just at its best. He took out his sack and squatted down, carefully digging up the shepherd’s purse, and before long he had half a sack. Besides the shepherd’s purse, he also found a few red wild strawberries in the grass; though small, they were tart and sweet and would make perfect snacks.
As he walked, he saw several soap pod trees, with many soap pods hanging from their branches. He stood on tiptoe and picked a dozen or so soap pods and put them into his sack. With these soap pods, he would not have to worry about washing clothes and hands later. Nearby was also a patch of mugwort, which he cut some of as well, planning to dry it when he got back; it could both repel insects and be used for soaking his feet.
Unknowingly, the sun had already risen to mid-sky. Du Heng looked up at the sky and then at the bulging sack and smiled with satisfaction. He had reaped a great harvest today: not only shepherd’s purse that could be eaten as a meal, but also usable soap pods and mugwort, and he had familiarized himself with the road into the mountains so that next time he could look for what he needed with a clearer goal. With the sack on his back, he hummed a little modern tune as he happily headed home, already planning in his mind to cook a wild-greens soup with shepherd’s purse that evening and boil the remaining millet into porridge, which would surely be especially delicious.