Chapter One

Yang Man was well aware.

She was dead, as dead as could be.

Just a moment ago, when her consciousness was still clear, she sat by the window on the right side of the plane, savoring the pleasure of traveling alone.

As a full-time novelist, Yang Man could arrange her trips more reasonably; she never chose to travel during school holidays or weekends, when crowds made every destination a struggle and accommodations and airfare soared in price. Those unnecessary expenses, for her, could easily be avoided.

She usually planned her journeys between March and May, or in November and December—cheaper and less crowded.

She lifted the orange juice just handed out by the flight attendant, took a gentle sip, and gazed through the plane window, shaped like a toilet seat, leisurely surveying the white clouds outside.

Suddenly, with a sharp noise, the plane lurched violently.

Yang Man’s body pitched forward unexpectedly.

Fortunately, she was one who obeyed rules, fastening her seatbelt as soon as she boarded, unlike the young man beside her in a black baseball cap who was thrown against his nose.

Still, the remainder of her orange juice spilled onto her jeans.

“Ah, what’s going on?”
“My goodness, that scared me!”
Various complaints filled the cabin, plunging it into brief chaos.

“Attendant!” came a hoarse voice from an elderly man by the left window, fraught with panic and terror: “Attendant, attendant! What’s happening? The engine on the right side is on fire!”

The plane’s trembling and tilt grew worse. Luggage tumbled from overhead bins.

“Ah!”
“Help!”
Passengers scrambled, some gripping armrests and seatbelts tightly, others unbuckling and rushing frantically toward loved ones, as the entire plane descended into pandemonium. Even the announcements from the crew were drowned out by the noise.

Then, with a deafening bang, the wing snapped. The plane flipped abruptly, plunging from the clouds.

The cabin door was blown open in an instant.

Yang Man barely had time to put on the oxygen mask she’d just grabbed before a fierce wind hurled her out the door, spinning and tumbling toward the endless plateau below.

In the last moment before she lost consciousness, she hadn’t given up hope, trying to save herself, desperately searching for a tree to break her fall.

Clearly, she failed.

She fell into darkness.

……

At that moment,

In a cramped room, dim and cold, if one listened closely, the wind howled outside.

The room was bitterly cold.

Yang Man pulled the blanket tighter around herself; it was obviously not a modern comforter, but a cloth quilt stuffed with something bulky and unknown, hardly warm, likely aged and stiff.

But right now, she couldn’t afford to be choosy.

By the faint light from the window, she surveyed her surroundings.

She lay on an old wooden bed, hard and uncomfortable, with only the thinnest mattress underneath. Curtains surrounded the bed, but it was too dark to discern their color or fabric; they were surely nothing valuable.

She was sleeping on the outermost part of the bed; inside, two steady breaths rose and fell. Clearly, she was not alone in this room.

A slight sour odor lingered in the air, mingled with the scent of charcoal and wood ash—a smell from the blankets and the hair of the three people, herself included. The charcoal and ash scents could be recognized thanks to her childhood memories of living with her grandmother in the countryside, often burning firewood in the stove.

It was obvious: she had, as those in time-travel novels often describe, crossed into the body of a stranger after death.

Yang Man hesitated, raised her hand to touch the waist-length hair that was clearly not her own, closed her eyes, and let the unfamiliar memories flood her mind.

Yang Man’s Mother—that was her new name.

Born in Kaifeng, now known as Dongjing Bianliang.

Her parents were commoners of the Song Dynasty, the family surviving on her father’s job as a bookkeeper at the Lin family’s herbal shop.

She had an eleven-year-old brother, Yang Shilin, and a nine-year-old sister, Yang Pan’s Mother. The original owner of this body had just turned fourteen.

A year ago, in summer, her father followed the shopkeeper up the mountain to collect herbs, only to be swept away by a flash flood. Upon hearing the news, her mother fainted and then fell ill, never recovering.

The three siblings nearly spent all the family’s savings, but their mother still passed away that autumn.

Now, only the three siblings remained, dependent on each other.

Bianliang was the capital, where land was precious. Her parents could never afford a house, always living in a public rental near Imperial Street, leased from the official property bureau.

The monthly rent was four hundred and fifty coins.

For the heart of Bianjing, this was already extremely cheap.

However, after spending everything to treat their mother, the family was impoverished, on the brink of bankruptcy, and could no longer afford even the public rental.

Thus, the siblings gave up their old rental and moved to a more remote area near Nanxun Gate, in the Little Fish Lane by the city wall, renting a cramped private house with two and a half rooms.

Little Fish Lane was named simply: it lay near the Bian River, and in spring, when the water rose, many small fish would be washed ashore. People sold these fish for a living, and the lane was named after them.

These private houses, though dilapidated and far from the city center, were more expensive than public rentals.

But the house the Yang Man’s Mother family rented was infamous—a haunted house. Years ago, a local troublemaker was found hanged from a beam in winter, his death horrifying, and the authorities never found the cause. Rumors spread that the house was haunted.

Thus, the rent kept falling, now only a hundred and fifty coins a month—a third of the price of a public rental.

Still, no one wanted it.

After all, anyone with slightly better means would avoid such a place, preferring to pay over four hundred coins for a government-provided public rental, which came with maintenance and repairs, and even holiday rent reductions.

But for the three siblings, poverty was scarier than ghosts.

As long as it was cheap, it would do.

One bedroom, a kitchen attached, and a tiny storage room.

Meals consisted only of the cheapest porridge and radish or cabbage—never a hint of meat.

A truly wretched family!

Like a lantern’s flicker, she reviewed the memories in her mind.

In the darkness, Yang Man frowned, exhaling a long sigh.

She turned over, the old bed creaking, squinting to adapt to the gloom and survey the room.

It was clearly a bedroom, not large, perhaps twenty square meters, or even smaller.

There was little furniture—a bed against the wall, and beneath the west window, a chest cabinet.

This was the most common cabinet for ordinary Song Dynasty households, shaped like a table but larger, like an oversized nightstand. The drawers beneath were called storage compartments, with two drawers called a twin chest, three drawers a triple chest, and so on. Regardless of the number of drawers, all were called chest cabinets.

They matched the height of a table and could be used as such, with the drawers below for storage.

Such furniture was essential for commoners, with nearly every family needing one at weddings.

Their own cabinet was made specially for her father’s marriage.

Near the door stood a brazier, made of yellow clay, long since cold and dead, without a trace of warmth.

Yang Man’s Mother pulled the blanket tighter.

For the poor, burning charcoal every day in winter was impossible.

Modern people might say, with mountains full of trees, couldn’t one just cut wood for fuel?

But that was not allowed.

In her memory, all the trees near Bianliang belonged to nobles or the wealthy, and poor families could not cut wood freely.

According to Song Dynasty law, cutting mulberry or jujube for firewood was a crime—if over a certain amount, the leader would be executed, and accomplices exiled.

Ordinary people who dared to cut wood for fuel would be punished! If the amount exceeded a hundred and twenty feet, the main offender would be sentenced to death, and others exiled to distant frontiers.

Besides imperial forests, many hills belonged to officials or temples, and commoners couldn’t cut wood there either.

To collect firewood in large quantities, one had to venture into deserted wilds, inhabited by wolves and tigers.

Thus, charcoal in winter was very expensive, a necessity for every household in Bianjing.

At this season, the people of Bianliang relied on charcoal for warmth. Every morning, charcoal sellers drove ox carts into the city, selling it at sixty coins for ten pounds. Given her family’s situation, they had to stretch ten pounds to last ten days, using only a pound per day, mainly for cooking.

If lucky, after dinner, leftover embers could be stored in ash for the next day.

Any remaining heat would be poured into the brazier and brought into the bedroom for some warmth.

Fortunately, the poor could barely afford food, let alone worry about propriety, and with the siblings all young, they huddled together at night to share warmth and save on charcoal.

Yet, this was not a lasting solution.

Now, she was Yang Man’s Mother.

She wondered if she could adapt to this cold and frugal life.

Turning thoughts over and over, drowsiness gradually overcame her.

Unknowingly, she fell into sleep.

……