Chapter 14

In the divine capital of Luoyang, the snowflakes fluttered, covering the ugliness and pain of the world, as well as the emaciated bodies huddled together for warmth in the corners of the streets.

With the running soldiers on the streets and the cries and curses of families being searched and their homes broken into, the series of events in Luoyang had come to an end for some people, allowing them to return to the false comfort of peace and prosperity. However, for others, with the new order to search for and suppress the rebels, the nightmare and hellish torment had just begun.

In the Sixteen Princes' Residences, which had become cramped and chaotic due to the large number of royal family members living there, Li Rui, the Minister of the Imperial Clan, celebrated his 107th birthday. Despite the city's ruins and chaos, his birthday was particularly cold and lonely, with his children absent and only a group of equally old servants and retainers, who could barely move, serving him with trembling limbs.

They stammered out old-fashioned auspicious words and flattery, and then each received a bowl, which was considered the celebration feast.

His teeth were not all gone, and he could still chew the thick soup of old lamb broth and noodles. In times of peace, he would have been a symbol of longevity, worthy of the emperor's favor and rewards.

As the oldest and most respected elder of the royal family, he had witnessed the rise and fall of at least eleven Tang emperors, with the longest reign being seventeen years of debauchery and the shortest less than six months, during which the emperor died in fear and depression on the throne.

But almost every new emperor's ascension inevitably swept away a large number of royal family members and close officials as sacrifices and burial companions for the deceased emperor.

Despite this, the royal family's population continued to grow like rats in the imperial granaries.

Although his name had been changed multiple times due to various taboos after the emperors' ascensions, from Li Yunrui to Li Mingrui, and then to Li Rui, he was undoubtedly the luckiest in the royal family. His low-key and non-competitive nature allowed him to continue as the nominal head of the royal family.

He was needed by the rulers during the transition of power to legitimize their actions and serve as a somewhat dispensable fig leaf.

During this time, five of his seven sons had died, and among his many legitimate and illegitimate daughters, only one remained. Some of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren had also passed away, but he stubbornly lived on, a witness to the entire era.

In this declining dynasty, being a nominal member of the royal family was a painful and hopeless burden. Many people preferred to leave the royal registry and live in poverty and hardship, becoming commoners they once looked down upon.

But more people lacked the courage to break free from the cage of their royal identity and continued to live in the false security and barely guaranteed protection, sinking day by day.

Not everyone was content with the status quo. However, their fates were either to become missing persons, dried heads hanging from the city walls, or anonymous bodies in mass graves.

But Li Rui had survived all of this, outliving most of his children. If nothing went wrong, as a symbol and figurehead, he would continue to live longer.

He would receive the highest priority in provisions and treatment, sitting in the designated seat at the monthly court meetings, watching the new emperors, who were several generations younger than him, act as puppets under the control of the real rulers, until they were replaced by new ones.

The approaching shouts interrupted his thoughts and memories.

In the Sixteen Princes' Residences, the long-neglected main gate was broken down amidst the roar of armed men, crashing to the ground amidst the dust. The remaining servants, unable to escape in time, were slaughtered in the courtyard and corridors. The noise of countless objects being knocked over and trampled underfoot was deafening.

He suddenly realized that they no longer needed him as a figurehead.

But at least, as the oldest member of the royal family, he tried to use his last bit of resources to make some arrangements for the last of his bloodline. All that was left was to pray and wait.

He heard that a group of people had escaped through the eastern water gate, and he began to worry.

As the raised blades approached, he suddenly remembered the scene where the father of the powerful minister, holding his young son, humbly asked for his blessing.

Tears streaming down his face, he loudly sang the lyrics from the popular play "The Peony Pavilion" from several hundred years ago:

"Flowers fall, covering the moonlight,

A cup of wine is offered on the phoenix terrace.

The imperial princess, with tears, offers incense,

Wishing to return to her parents in death.

Stealthily looking, stealthily watching,

He weeps, his heart heavy with sorrow.

I am half in panic,

Afraid that the prince, cherishing the phoenix and the crane,

Will not willingly join me in the netherworld.

I hope we can be buried together,

Side by side, like mandarin ducks.

In the netherworld, we will set up a new home,

In the underworld, we will find the gate of peace."

He ended his life on his 107th birthday with the last line, "I regret being born into the imperial family."

His story, as a microcosm of the royal family's fate, is recorded in history with just a few words: "The emperor, thinking of returning, had all the royal family members slaughtered."

For others, this marked the beginning of a new era.

...

After eating until I was about 80-90% full, I rubbed my hands in the ashes to clean off the grease, then started doing some simple exercises, gripping the wooden beam with both hands.

With a relatively adequate diet and regular exercise, my body's adaptability and potential seemed to be gradually restored. For example, my mental agility and the control of my strength through nerve reflexes were much improved. I was particularly satisfied with the well-defined abs, rather than the soft belly I used to have.

When I was sweating enough, I started wiping my body with a linen cloth dipped in cold water from a pottery basin.

During my time in Liangshan, I had explored many corners, but I hadn't encountered any hidden grandmasters, dying mysterious figures leaving treasure maps, or the fortuitous sight of a beautiful woman bathing.

Instead, there were plenty of dirty, smelly men with rough manners, and people with yellow teeth and bad breath, who were as common as dirt.

This made me, accustomed to modern hygiene, avoid them like a dog fleeing from a defeat. Therefore, even though the cold made me shiver, I insisted on bathing every day with the clean water source near the storage shed.

Modern people, used to hot water and baths, found the inconvenience and discomfort of returning to a primitive life. The accumulation of dirt and the presence of fleas and lice were enough to leave a lasting impression.

Next to the storage shed was a small mountain spring, which became one of the main reasons I moved there. After all, in Liangshan, bathing was not a luxury, but standing in a water room with a group of smelly, hairy men, or bathing in the cold river with children, while being watched by the locals, was not something I was willing to do.

On the other hand, living close to others meant more interactions, and the differences in habits and language could easily draw attention or cause unnecessary trouble.

Every day, I would boil a pot of water to steam and disinfect my clothes and other items. Without cleaning supplies and limited changes of clothes, this was crucial. I also made homemade drinks to supplement my water intake and for food preparation.

Parasites and infectious diseases were common causes of illness and death in this era of famine and turmoil. Good hygiene and personal habits required a stable social order to maintain.

To avoid standing out, I cut my hair above my temples and wrapped it with a simple cloth, so as not to differ too much from others.

Besides basic sustenance, life in this era was monotonous. I heard that the higher-ups in Liangshan had some captured or bought entertainers to alleviate boredom.

I, however, kept myself occupied by doing simple exercises and calisthenics, pushing my body until it was sore and sweating profusely, to maintain a stable physical condition and reduce the risk of illness. This would also help me endure longer in the future.

I also kept records, writing down the memories of this body and noting things from my future life that I thought might be useful and feared forgetting over time. In this era, besides traditional ink and brush, there were two common alternatives:

Writing small characters with reed stalks or bird feathers dipped in ink, which was said to be imported from overseas; or writing large characters with specially made hard charcoal sticks, which were encased in bamboo to prevent the carbon from flaking. The paper was coated with wax to reinforce it, a technique invented by Tang army soldiers hundreds of years ago.

After finishing these tasks, I had another day of leisure. Winter had arrived, and although the snow had not yet fallen, the cold had greatly reduced outdoor activities, so the business at the storage shed had largely stopped. I started playing "Homeland's Original Scenery" on a whistle made from a rolled-up leaf, one of the few forms of entertainment in the monotonous and lonely life in the mountains.

The cold had even silenced the birds, leaving only the sound of the whistle in the air, creating a moment of tranquility. I thought about my life in Luoyang and the women I had rescued, wondering about their current situations, and my playing became a bit off-key.

But this silence was soon broken by some subtle sounds.

I perked up my ears, hearing the rustling in the grass, and sighed. It was this weather, and they were back. I saw a large mushroom, a large mushroom walking on the path behind the trees, and called out, "Hey, Sunai."

The large mushroom head was actually a veil that covered the entire head, contrasting sharply with the small, delicate figure below, like a two-dimensional mushroom from the Mario Brothers game come to life. So I gave it the nickname "Sunai."

Although I lived in a remote corner, my private cooking occasionally attracted some unexpected visitors. For example, this mysterious pair, a large and a small figure, came specifically to listen to my stories.

Although they seemed harmless and even easy to bully, the person standing next to the "mushroom" was not to be trifled with. He was a robust, dark-skinned old man who exuded a formidable presence even when standing still.

The first time we met, he casually crushed a piece of wood intended for firewood, which was as thick as a bowl, and then broke it into smaller pieces like peeling a sugarcane, providing me with plenty of firewood for the day. I also gained a pair of attentive listeners.

Well, this was a chaotic era, and skilled people were everywhere, I told myself. But I was more curious about how much the human body and potential could be developed and strengthened in this era.

Liangshan was not just a mountain but a small mountain range surrounded by a water moat. Besides the armed and auxiliary personnel and production workers, there were also several special guests.

These guests came from the ancient business of kidnapping. Unlike ordinary bandits, those invited to Liangshan were people of significant status, high-ranking officials, or wealthy merchants.

In a sense, various forms of protection fees and ransom were important sources of income. They would receive preferential treatment, even special meals, as long as they had sufficient power or wealth. Temporary difficulties were just passing clouds.

There were also some business-related VIPs who would stay on the mountain, but not for long, as the main business was still banditry.

However, this master-servant pair was an exception. Their identity was mysterious, and they were treated with great respect and courtesy, far exceeding the standard for ordinary "guests." However, their movements were strictly limited to the back of the mountain.

In my personal perception, they were more like strictly protected VIPs than constrained objects.

Moreover, the young boy, with his pre-teen appearance and demeanor, stood out among the rough and violent people of Liangshan, like a carefully bred koi fish in a pond full of mud eels, or a brightly feathered young peacock among a group of dull quails, playing a game of make-believe.

Especially the "Sunai," who, despite wearing male clothing, spoke in a soft, effeminate voice, more like a feminine or weak young boy.

Before I was assigned to the back of the mountain, they had been in Liangshan for a long time, and I seemed to have become part of their entertainment.

But did this have anything to do with me? At least their presence brought me some convenience and preferential treatment.

The old, wrinkled servant, who was almost mute, had considerable authority in Liangshan. Almost everyone I saw treated him with utmost respect, and he could get anything he wanted, without question.

In this large bandit stronghold, overly curious people didn't tend to live long. I told my stories and made some small, reasonable requests.