Chapter 1: I Examine Myself Thrice Each Day |
[Third Month, Year 165 of the New Calendar]
The Left Chancellor, Gu Zhizhong, submitted a memorial to the throne:
“Common folk across the realm rest when the sun sets, for darkness renders labor impossible. If Your Majesty wishes the people to devote their full strength to their duties, I humbly request a decree to delay the setting of the sun.”
The Emperor approved.
From that day onward, Xihe[1], driver of the sun, no longer wielded the whip. The Golden Crow lingered in the sky, refusing to fall. Daylight was greatly prolonged, not fading until the Hour of the Pig[2], and midnight itself grew shorter.
---
[Fourth Month, Year 165 of the New Calendar]
The Right Chancellor, Jiang Ta’a, submitted a memorial:
“The yearly cycle contains twenty-four solar terms, and the day should likewise correspond to twenty-four hours. The common folk are dull and cannot manage the complexity of the traditional time divisions. I request that we simply number the hours from one to twenty-four.”
Thus, the ancient terms such as “cockcrow” and “deep night” vanished entirely. Across the realm, only numbers remained.
---
…
Li Shun idly rubbed the sheet of white paper in his hand, his expression thoughtful. Suddenly, a flurry of hurried, chaotic footsteps sounded from outside the window.
A flicker of intent crossed his mind. The paper in his palm vanished without a trace.
“Cripple, something big has happened!”
With a loud bang, the door was violently shoved open as a white-haired old man rushed in, breathless and panicked.
“Bandits have attacked again! This time the commotion is terrifying. Even the Black Armored Army stationed here has mobilized in full…”
The old man gulped, then lowered his voice abruptly. “How about we take advantage of the chaos and run?”
Run?
Li Shun lowered his gaze, his eyes freezing slightly in the dim room.
Twenty-six years ago, he had transmigrated into this world known as Great Qian, becoming a laborer serving in Lengshan County.
Great Qian had ended a thousand years of darkness and chaos. The emperor who trampled seven nations and unified the realm possessed unimaginable power. With a single word, he could interpret the nature of all things. With a single decree, he could delay the setting sun.
Before such absolute power, all under heaven was suppressed into submission.
This suffocating era of peace had lasted over four hundred years. Yet a century ago, the Qian Emperor suddenly withdrew into the depths of the palace, ignoring governance and abandoning worldly affairs.
Though the Left and Right Chancellors governed in his stead, his absence could not halt the rising unrest across the land.
An attack on a county office, for instance, would have been unthinkable ten years ago. But in the past three years, such incidents had become increasingly frequent.
“Old Feng, don’t panic. Who exactly are these attackers?” Li Shun steadied himself, his brows knitting as he asked in a low voice.
Feng Guan seemed utterly on edge, like a startled bird. He stared fixedly out the window and answered with a trembling voice, “They should be… remnants of the former Xiang Kingdom…”
Before he could finish, a deafening explosion erupted from the far end of the long street.
It sounded like thunder splitting the heavens. Even the ground beneath their feet trembled violently.
Li Shun’s expression shifted as he looked toward the source.
In midair, a towering column of murky energy streaked upward, streaked with crimson and ash. At its peak, it burst outward, spreading into a massive canopy that blotted out the sky, radiating a crushing aura of destruction as it surged in all directions.
The daylight dimmed.
A scorching gale howled down the long street, forcing its way through broken doors and windows, making them creak and groan.
Then, riding the wind, a shrill cry echoed across Lengshan Town, sharp as tearing silk:
“Destroy Qian, restore Xiang, the day is today!”
“Destroy Qian, restore Xiang, the day is today!”
In an instant, it was like a stone cast into a thousand waves. From every corner of the county, hysterical voices erupted in response, rising and falling in a frenzy.
“We’re surrounded. There’s no escaping. Let’s hide and wait this out.” Li Shun made a swift decision, grabbing Feng Guan and retreating into the inner room.
He bent down and lifted the heavy bedboard, revealing a dark passage leading underground.
“A tunnel? When did you dig this?” Feng Guan was stunned.
Though shocked, his movements were anything but slow. He immediately crawled into the passage.
Li Shun followed close behind, sealing the bedboard shut with practiced ease.
The two made their way down the narrow, sloping tunnel in darkness. Before long, they reached the end.
It opened into a small underground chamber, about half a zhang in length and width, and roughly six feet high. Though cramped and oppressive, it was more than sufficient to hide two people.
The chamber was not pitch black.
Along the rough earthen walls grew more than a dozen small plants, arranged in a scattered yet deliberate pattern. They emitted a faint, cold glow. The pale blue light pulsed gently, like breathing, dispelling the darkness while also bringing threads of fresh air into the enclosed space.
“This is… Lengshan Grass? You actually hid so many of them?” Feng Guan clicked his tongue in amazement.
Li Shun, however, leaned silently against the wall like a meditating monk, saying nothing, as though rapidly calculating something in his mind.
The tremors from above grew increasingly intense.
Yet the tangled roots of the Lengshan Grass seemed to bind the soil together, turning the loose earth into something solid. No matter how violently the world above shook, this small chamber remained as steady as a rock. Not even a speck of dust fell.
Realizing how unexpectedly sturdy this refuge was, Feng Guan’s pale face gradually regained some color. Still, his murky eyes could not help but flick repeatedly toward Li Shun, sizing him up again and again.
Lengshan Grass was a death sentence for laborers like them in Lengshan County. It had to be nourished day and night with one’s own blood essence, and after an entire year, one could barely produce a single stalk.
Feng Guan had spent his days grinding his bones and draining his marrow, risking his old life just to barely meet the annual quota.
And yet Li Shun, without ever delaying his duties, had secretly accumulated such a terrifying surplus of Lengshan Grass…
Feng Guan’s gaze shifted toward Li Shun. Deep within his eyes, a faint, contemplative glint flickered.
“Old Feng, don’t overthink it. Tell me more about those Xiang remnants.”
Li Shun seemed entirely unaware of the change in Feng Guan’s expression. He suddenly opened his eyes, breaking the silence.
Feng Guan quickly composed himself. As he recalled the scene, he swallowed uneasily and said, “I didn’t get a clear look… but the most striking figure was their leader. Eight feet tall, incredibly imposing, and far from ordinary in strength. I only took a distant glance, yet he seemed to sense it and cast a blade-like gaze straight at me. If his target hadn’t been the county office, these old bones of mine wouldn’t have made it back.”
In the cold, deathly stillness underground, Feng Guan’s voice trembled as he continued describing what he had witnessed.
“It’s said that the people of Xiang practice shamanic arts. That man was no exception. He manifested an eight-armed demonic god, wreathed in crimson flames, his killing aura nearly piercing the heavens.”
“The Black Armored Army may be elite, but before him, they couldn’t withstand even a single exchange!”
As Feng Guan spoke, the commotion from above gradually began to subside.
“They’ve left?” Feng Guan keenly sensed the change outside and lifted his head in delight.
“Not so fast. Better to wait a bit longer,” Li Shun replied, shaking his head, his expression still cold.
The underground shelter fell into silence once more, so quiet that even a pin drop could be heard.
“By the way, Old Feng, don’t you know a few tricks from the Novelists’ school? Send something up and see what’s really going on.”
As he spoke, Li Shun plucked a pitch-black ant from a crack in the earth and held it between his fingers, offering it to Feng Guan.
Feng Guan’s gaunt face twitched. A flicker of hesitation flashed in his eyes, but in the end, he nodded.
“Listening to the Wind, Skimming Shadows…”
He sat cross-legged on the cold ground. With a low murmur, his cloudy pupils suddenly vanished, his eye sockets filling with an eerie, deathly white.
At the same time, the ant in Li Shun’s fingers began to tremble violently, as though intoxicated. After a moment, it steadied itself and darted off with astonishing speed, slipping through the cracks in the soil as it climbed toward the surface.
This investigation took nearly half a day.
When Feng Guan’s pupils finally returned and he regained consciousness, he looked utterly drained, as if his strength had been completely exhausted.
“Good… good thing we didn’t go up recklessly,” he gasped. “The reason things quieted down is because the county office has already been completely overrun. The Black Armored Army stationed there… all wiped out.”
He paused, gulping down air greedily, his chest heaving.
“Those bandits are still gathered around the county office. They haven’t left at all. It seems like they’re digging through everything, searching for something… something called the Lengshan Venerable…”
Hearing this, Li Shun casually plucked a glowing stalk of Lengshan Grass from the wall and handed it over.
“No rush. Speak slowly. Chew this first, it’ll restore your spirit.”
Feng Guan froze as he stared at the faintly glowing grass in his hand.
He had spent half his life cultivating this thing with his own blood essence. Yet he had never once tasted it.
After only a brief moment of bitter hesitation, he clenched his teeth and swallowed it whole.
As he chewed, tears began streaming down his face. His voice turned hoarse and sorrowful.
“A lifetime of toil… so this is what Lengshan Grass tastes like…”
Li Shun was just about to speak—
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Without warning, it was as if heavenly thunder had exploded directly overhead. The underground shelter, buried several zhang beneath the earth, was forcibly torn open by an overwhelmingly brutal force.
Blinding sunlight cascaded down like a waterfall.
But in the very next instant, all the light was eclipsed by a towering figure standing at the edge of the crater, vast and immovable as a mountain.
Backlit by the glare, it was unmistakably the leader Feng Guan had described, the one who commanded the eight-armed demonic god.
It was like being locked onto by some primordial beast. Li Shun felt his entire body freeze. His limbs turned to ice, utterly unresponsive. Even the strength to open his mouth and speak was stripped away by that overwhelming pressure.
The leader looked down upon them like insects. His cold gaze swept over the trembling Feng Guan and the rigid Li Shun.
“Creeping rats, hiding in the shadows.”
“Die.”
A piercing phoenix cry rang out, sharp enough to split metal and stone.
Blazing flames erupted like divine punishment, spreading into a sea of crimson fire that instantly engulfed both Li Shun and Feng Guan.
In mere moments, nothing remained. Not even ashes were left behind.
As if it were nothing more than a trivial act, the leader turned into a streak of fire and departed.
…
Only after a long while did the smoke begin to dissipate. The bandits retreated. The surviving citizens of Lengshan County cautiously emerged from their ruined hiding places like frightened birds. Reinforcements from Lengya Commandary of Great Qian arrived belatedly.
For a time, the shattered city echoed with wailing women and children, the harsh shouts of soldiers, and the chaos of rescuing the wounded.
Amid this hellish scene, Li Shun and Feng Guan were nothing more than two ordinary laborers. Their deaths did not draw the slightest attention.
Night fell, and as the day finally came to an end, Lengshan County gradually returned to silence.
And within the deep crater where Li Shun had perished—The surrounding earth, baked by the searing flames, had hardened into black, crystalline formations.
Above this lifeless ruin, the air suddenly began to twist violently.
A faint, translucent figure slowly took shape.
The figure wore a towering crown and flowing robes. Though its face was obscured by a hazy mist, its outline bore a striking resemblance to Li Shun, perhaps seventy to eighty percent alike.
Standing upon the scorched earth, the figure lowered its head slightly.
Then, a vast voice, neither metal nor stone, neither chant nor speech, resounded into the void:
“I examine myself thrice each day.”
The moment these words were spoken, it was as though they carried the authority of heaven itself.
All things in the world, once in motion, were abruptly halted, as if seized by an invisible hand. Everything fell into absolute stillness.
And then—
Time reversed.
Inside the wooden house, upon the bed.
Li Shun suddenly opened his eyes.
[1]:- In Chinese mythology, Xihe (羲和) is the solar goddess, mother of the ten suns, and driver of the sun chariot who drives the sun across the sky.
[2]:- The "Hai" hour (亥时, hàishí), also known as the "Hour of the Pig," is the final period in the traditional Chinese 12-hour day-night cycle. It corresponds to 9:00 p.m. to 11:00.
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