Chapter 12: The Ancient Road Home (Part One)

The jubilation on Earth was by no means exaggerated. Teams of strategists from various nations had run countless simulations; the most pressing and severe problem facing Wu Qingchen upon entering the medieval world was the language barrier.

On this point, the strategists of Z Country had been forthright with Wu Qingchen. So now, when the “father” of the medieval world took the initiative to explain why he was not feigning ignorance, Wu Qingchen finally allowed himself the faintest of smiles.

That smile lasted less than two seconds. The moment he thought of what lay ahead, the slight ease he had just felt was swept away, and the heaviness returned to his heart.

The next step was work.

A great deal of work. An overwhelming amount.

The first and second times he entered the dream world, Wu Qingchen had stood outside the thicket of crops, on higher ground, and the fields had not seemed so large. Now, actually standing within the crops, he finally understood what his agricultural instructors had meant when they told him to prepare himself mentally.

Crops shoulder-high surrounded him on all sides, and as far as he could see, pale green fields stretched onward, layer upon layer, until the view was blocked by the same pale green, spiky leaves.

Twenty-seven meters long, forty-three meters wide, for a total area of 1,161 square meters. This was a figure a military officer had repeated three times, pointing at a massive projection.

To put it in perspective, another three plots of this size would be enough space for two teams to play a standard football match.

Worse still, Wu Qingchen and his two medieval relatives were only standing at the edge of the field. This meant that, in this quarter-football-field-sized expanse, the portion of ground that had already been tilled could be all but ignored. From the most optimistic estimate, Wu Qingchen would need to labor over at least 300 square meters.

Three hundred square meters...

Good heavens... He had never, in all his years, swept even a fraction of such a vast area.

He weighed the slightly improved hand rake in his grip, then squatted down with resignation.

----

At least five hours later...

The labor ended.

Sitting—or rather, collapsed—on a small ridge of earth, Wu Qingchen was drenched in sweat, his clothes soaked through, his eyes vacant, his mouth half open as he gasped for breath. The hand rake lay discarded at his side. His hands and feet trembled uncontrollably.

With a steady, rhythmic tremor.

Rake once... then again, and again... shuffle forward a step...

Rake once... then again, and again... shuffle forward a step...

Rest after finishing a row...

This was the rhythm of Wu Qingchen’s shaking limbs, and the entirety of his activity for at least five hours.

There were no drinks, no snacks, no cigarettes, not even a word of conversation.

There were no watches, no phones, no computers, and he couldn’t interpret the shifting shadows of the sun. Even the “at least five hours” was deduced from the instructors’ estimates and the visibly dimmed sky.

The words “very tired” were woefully inadequate to describe how Wu Qingchen felt.

His mind was a complete blank as he sat atop the earthen ridge. There was scarcely any strength left in his body; even swallowing required summoning up every last scrap of energy.

Yet, despite all this, of the 1,161 square meters of work, Wu Qingchen had barely managed a fraction—not even enough to round up to “161.”

The result: the other two resting beside the ridge—his “father” and “elder brother” of the medieval world—had not only expressed frequent impatience during the work, but their faces now were equally unsightly.

----

A confidential city, a confidential location, a confidential room.

Within the meeting room, the tea had gone cold, the ashtrays were piled high with cigarette butts, and a haze of smoke hung in the air.

From the moment Wu Qingchen began his labor until he collapsed boneless atop the ridge, the General Secretary had remained silent, watching every step intently.

“General Secretary…” It was Li Ziping’s voice, a few paces behind, sounding hesitant. “Mr. Wu… has done his best.”

“It’s not his fault.” The General Secretary shook his head and moved his gaze from the central live feed to the slow-motion screen on the left.

In the footage, slowed thirty times, beads of sweat rolled from Wu Qingchen’s brow to his eyelids. Wu Qingchen did not lift his trembling arm to wipe them away, nor did he shake his head to fling them off. He simply closed his eyes, waiting for the sweat to pass before opening them a sliver again.

From this alone, it was clear how utterly exhausted Wu Qingchen was.

“It’s not his fault; he’s a diligent young man… Didn’t the Ministry of Education just launch another initiative to encourage thrift and hard work among youth?” The General Secretary turned. “I think there’s no need for summer camps or field trips to old residences. Where conditions permit, let students experience farm work; where they don’t, invite a few farmers, or simply screen these five hours of footage…”

He gestured at the display. “Let the students see for themselves what it means when we say ‘Each grain in your bowl is earned by bitter toil.’”

At that moment, a middle-aged man pushed open the door, holding a document. “Comrades, the latest report.”

The General Secretary nodded. A secretary on the right took the document and read, “PLA Academy analysis: The subject of the celestial phenomenon’s first agricultural activity in the medieval world achieved approximately 60% of the effectiveness of subject number two. Based on analysis of expressions, movements, and actions of medieval subjects one and two, this level of performance does not present significant risk. Any negative effects are expected to dissipate, with no indication of long-term impact.”

There was a collective sigh of relief in the room, and the tension melted from their faces.

“We’ve crossed another hurdle. Director Li, tonight’s training was very effective.”

The man to the General Secretary’s immediate left habitually stubbed out his cigarette. Before the pleased Li Ziping could demur, he turned to a less optimistic note. “But, General Secretary, I’m afraid this can’t be a long-term solution.”

“Indeed, passive coping is not our tradition. Labor is honorable, but there are many forms it can take.”

The General Secretary nodded slightly, then looked down the table to the fourth seat. “General Sun, as for easing the young man’s physical burden, I believe his increased status should become a focus moving forward.”

----

The PLA Academy’s analysis proved accurate. After resting for a dozen minutes or so, the three men sitting atop the ridge began to breathe more easily; their bodies were no longer on the verge of collapse, and the “father” and “elder brother” had regained their composure.

After a bit longer, the “father” said something, and the “elder brother” stood up. Wu Qingchen quickly imitated his tone and response as best he could and stood as well.

The father’s utterance meant “go home,” and the elder brother’s was “all right.”

Deducing the meaning of the father’s word was simple: labor was done, night was falling, the next step was to go home.

As for the elder brother’s word, “all right,” Wu Qingchen had heard him say it several times during the five hours of labor, so he could now mimic it fairly closely.

The path was hard to walk—dense grass, narrow trails. Wu Qingchen carefully parted the branches, following the footfalls of his father and brother, and soon lagged behind.

Just as Professor Wang had predicted, the newly cultivated field where Wu Qingchen labored was far from their dwelling.

They crossed a long stretch of flat land, climbed over two hills, and, heart pounding, tiptoed across two single-log bridges spanning streams. After at least half an hour, the outline of buildings finally appeared before Wu Qingchen.

Here, the road widened considerably. Having spent half an hour with his head down, Wu Qingchen’s neck was sore, but finding his footing was no longer difficult, so he lifted his gaze.

On either side, vast fields stretched out, a mosaic of green and blue, with patches of unknown plants blossoming with pale yellow flowers. A few meters away, a clear stream wound its way through the land, little fish and shrimp darting among the weeds, water birds swooping back and forth, eyeing the water hungrily, waiting for a careless fish to surface.

Such a scene, if set on Earth in the twenty-first century, would be a beautiful portrait of nature’s harmony.

But here, in this unknown medieval age, the same scene exuded an indescribable air of desolate wildness.

At this moment, as Wu Qingchen passed by, he saw a pitiful figure plowing the fields. The man wore rough, indeterminate wool, his hat full of holes with tufts of hair poking through. His thick-soled, homespun shoes were so worn his toes showed; from his top to his ankle-length socks, every inch of him was caked in mud.

When Wu Qingchen looked up, the man was ankle-deep in mud, driving two emaciated cows, their ribs visible beneath their hide. Behind him stood a woman grasping a long stick, likely meant for driving the cattle, though she never had the heart to use it.

The woman wore an ill-fitting short skirt, hitched up high yet still inevitably stained with mud. She was barefoot, her feet callused and sore. At one end of the field sat a battered wooden bowl filled with gruel; near it, a ragged cloth wrapped a baby, while a toddler of two or three stood close by. The man and woman breathed heavily as they worked; the baby and child cried intermittently, their wails weaving a mournful, plaintive melody.

This was the world where I am to live.

This, perhaps, is the life that awaits me.

With that thought, Wu Qingchen’s heart pounded with a nameless, overwhelming dread.