Chapter One: Vibrant Life

As soon as Wei Renshi stepped outside, a gentle, warm current of air slowly rippled around him, brushing past his fingertips and skimming his hair, gliding serenely over the tender shoots of spring grass that had quietly sprouted all around. A shaft of sunlight, piercing the clouds, filtered through the branches, scattering specks of pale gold and carrying a soft, gentle warmth.

Wei Renshi drew a deep breath and slowly surveyed his surroundings. The courtyard, though small, was bathed in sunlight; the house, though humble, was clean and orderly. The only maid left in the household hurried inside with a wooden basin, then rushed off toward the kitchen fire. As she passed Wei Renshi in the tiny yard, she flashed him a smile as warm as the morning light falling from the sky.

The matron of the house, her clothes a bit worn but spotlessly clean from repeated washing, was strict as ever. She stepped out and addressed Wei Renshi, “Come, my son, go wash up and don’t delay your morning reading!”

Wei Renshi answered her with a smile and walked to the cramped study. The collection of books was modest, but every volume bore the marks of frequent use—testament to the diligence of the body’s previous owner, a studious and earnest scholar.

It had been a week since he had inexplicably become the master of this body, and at last, he was slowly growing accustomed to life in this time and place. The household was that of a once-prosperous, now-declining minor landowner; the body was young and not yet fully grown, the daily fare meager, the clothing thin, and the family reduced to a stern matron and a frail little maid. The comforts and variety of modern life, now far behind him, were sorely missed, and yet, in another sense, all those dazzling distractions were gone too, leaving life simpler and purer.

Wei Renshi consoled himself with these thoughts and opened a book, reading a few lines only to realize, with a lifted corner of his mouth, that it was a text he had once taught in a classroom in a future age. The magic of these characters: even after twelve centuries, they brought kindred spirits together.

But his ruminations on time and fate were soon dispelled by the wafting aroma of millet porridge in the small courtyard. There was little point in lamenting the caprice of destiny that had cast him into the twilight of the Tang dynasty. On the bright side, at least he now had three meals a day, better than the times further past when there were only two.

So he picked up his bowl and addressed its maker: “Xi’er, your cooking is getting better and better. It smells wonderful!”

Without further ado, he devoured the bowl of millet rice in great mouthfuls.

“Slow down, young master, there’s more,” Xi’er said, beaming with pleasure at his praise, her voice gentle as she pushed another bowl toward him.

He nearly bit his tongue at the address—“young master”—which, though he knew was merely a term for the family’s son, felt oddly intimate to someone from the future, where it bore a more limited meaning. Especially so for a man who had been single for what felt like ten thousand years!

Wei Renshi waved her off. “No, I’m full.”

He knew there were only three bowls in total. If he took another, someone else would go hungry.

Yet this was hardly enough to deter a modern man with a hearty appetite—especially one who had grown up in the fields and, after graduating college, returned to teach in a rural village.

It was spring, after all; wild greens could be found outside, and there were small fish to be caught in the river for fish soup. Even without salt or pepper, the nutritional value far surpassed a bowl of millet rice—and this young body was in dire need of nourishment to grow strong. And in these times, the rivers, save for mud and silt, likely knew nothing of pollution. There would be no shortage of fish.

Many rivers flowed through Fuchang; one ran not far from the front door of Wei Renshi’s home.

The waters of the Dao Yuan Creek were still chilly, but they flowed into the Luo River with a clarity unseen for years in the world he had left behind.

The fish could be seen frolicking on the riverbed; the pure water was truly enticing. If the weather were just a little warmer, Wei Renshi would have waded in barefoot without hesitation.

At the riverbank, wild greens abounded, though many showed signs of having been picked before—yet plenty remained. Shepherd’s purse was a fine thing, with its antibacterial properties and good flavor. Wild cress was delicious and nutritious, and finding field garlic was a true delight—it was so wonderfully fresh…

Before long, Wei Renshi had gathered great handfuls of various wild greens. He also snapped off a few branches, planning to rig a fish trap.

“Renshi!” came a sudden call from behind. Wei Renshi didn’t respond at first, but when the voice called again, he suddenly remembered that he was, indeed, now called Wei Renshi.

Turning, he saw another youth, about his own age, riding a donkey. The boy jumped down and walked over, asking as he came, “What are you doing here, Renshi?”

In that instant, memories of this person flooded his mind. Wei Renshi stood dazed for a moment, lost in a sense of temporal displacement.

Seeing Wei Renshi unresponsive, the youth joked as he approached, “What’s wrong, Renshi? Don’t you recognize me?”

“You…” Wei Renshi’s mouth felt dry; a strange sense of centuries colliding swept over him, as if time itself was folding here.

The boy, seeing him still distracted, smiled and asked, “Have you written any good lines recently, Renshi?”

In that moment, a succession of poem titles surfaced in Wei Renshi’s mind—“The Lord of Yanmen at the Pass,” “Li Ping Plays the Konghou,” “Bitter Day Short,” “Farewell to Han,”… “Black clouds crush the city, the city is about to fall,” “If heaven has feeling, heaven must grow old,” and there it was—“Sending My Brother Wei Renshi to the Frontier”!

“Li He, Li Changji…” Wei Renshi tried calling out softly.

“What’s come over you today, Renshi?” the youth asked, puzzled.

Li He—his childhood friend was none other than Li He!

The legendary “Demon Poet” Li He!

Facing a living, breathing historical giant—one who had even written a poem with his own name as the title—how was one supposed to react? Urgent! Advice needed!

Wei Renshi—such an ordinary, unremarkable name, and yet, thanks to a famous poet, his name had been inscribed into the flood of history by a single, celebrated verse.

“Sending My Brother Wei Renshi to the Frontier”—in some year, some month, some day, before he was ever called the Demon Poet, Li He had penned a farewell for his childhood friend, and so this utterly ordinary name was granted a small place in history.

Only because the poet was Li He did the name Wei Renshi endure in the annals of time.

Wei Renshi couldn’t help but find it amusing. He had once analyzed the deep affection of brotherhood in this very poem when teaching literature, and now here he was, the subject of the poem, with its author standing before him.

After a while, he shook off that disorienting sense of time’s caprice, composed himself, and replied with a smile, “Catching fish. Millet isn’t filling, so I mean to catch some fish, add wild greens, and make a fish stew.”

“Catching fish!” Li He’s interest was instantly piqued. He called over his servant, who was holding the donkey, handed off a brocade pouch that was already looking a bit worn, and rolled up his sleeves.

A slave since childhood, riding a big donkey, carrying an old brocade pouch—whenever he found inspiration, he would jot down a line and toss it into the pouch… Wei Renshi suddenly recalled future scholars’ accounts of Li He. This must be that famous brocade pouch for collecting poetic lines!

As Li He began to take off his shoes, Wei Renshi stopped him. “No need to get in the water—the river’s still too cold. Watch me!”

He hitched up his robe to avoid the mud and stepped down to the riverbank, where he saw the fish were about a finger’s width. He took the branches he had broken and stuck them into the riverbed, making a narrow ellipse just smaller than a finger’s width, drawing the ends inward to leave a small opening.

He then took a few earthworms he had collected while gathering greens, crushed them lightly with a stone, and tossed them into the elliptical cage of branches.

Li He eyed the branches with curiosity. “Aren’t you here to catch fish?”

“Soon the fish will swim in on their own and won’t be able to get back out,” Wei Renshi replied.

“They’ll swim in by themselves?” Li He was intrigued and leaned in to watch the fish, intent on seeing one enter the trap.

As he watched the river, he said, “Have you heard? The great prime minister of Tibet has been captured—the army routed completely!”

“And then?” Wei Renshi replied, continuing to sort the wild greens.

“What do you think—the court will surely seize the chance to deal with Tibet, won’t they?” Li He turned, eyes shining with excitement.

Wei Renshi smiled. “You think too much. Compared to Tibet, the Tang has bigger troubles right now… But never mind, you’re still young; there’s no need to worry over such things.”

“A true man should care for the affairs of the nation, share the burdens of his ruler,” Li He declared fervently, waving his hand. “Moreover, I am… all the more reason to keep the country in mind.”

Wei Renshi glanced over at him—the boy was likely his own age, with the same slender frame. Thoughts of Li He’s fate in history came unbidden.

In history, Li He was a prodigy, renowned throughout the capital at fifteen. Yet when he sought the imperial examination, his father’s name, Li Jinsu, was considered a homophone with “Jin Shi” (the degree), and jealous rivals accused him of violating a naming taboo, barring him from the exams. Though Han Yu tried to defend him with legal arguments, it was to no avail, and Li He left the exam hall in frustration, denied the highest office for life.

Though later Han Yu cherished his talent and Li He joined the bureaucracy as a minor functionary, he never fulfilled his ambitions. With no hope of advancement, his sense of frustration and alienation deepened into depression. He died young, at twenty-seven.

Thus, history lost a potential statesman but gained a poet whose legend endures for a thousand years.

Wei Renshi looked at the still-hopeful Li He, reflecting on his fate, and was filled with pity. Yet, he thought, for all Li He’s disappointments, he fared far better than Wei Renshi, whose name would have been utterly forgotten if not for one poem by his illustrious friend.

But then again, better a humble life than an early grave. This was already the sunset of the Tang dynasty, its golden age long past, its stability gone. If he could carve out a peaceful, comfortable life in these twilight years, free from want and worry, what did posthumous fame matter? Even if, in the future, not even his name survived, as long as he lived well in the present, that was enough.

To die young from anxiety and frustration over a stalled career—Wei Renshi now saw how little that was worth.

What was posthumous fame, what was a failed career? The true goal was to survive, to live well, to live with quality.

Li He was the Demon Poet who would be remembered for ages; he, Wei Renshi, was a man living in the present.

With a release in his chest, the haze of temporal confusion began to lift.

He stood up, feeling the earth beneath his feet grow soft, the sting and hardness of winter fading. The bed of life was so plain, yet every dormant seed could germinate here, each growing into something unique, bringing forth a riot of life—whether breaking through the soil or awaiting bloom, whether slowly unfurling or gently flowing, whether in silent secrecy or lively birdsong, whether plain or eye-catching.

Each one was a vibrant life.