Prologue: The Person Least Willing to Traverse Worlds
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Zhang Sifan had always felt that his name was a curse upon his fortune.
Sifan, Sifan—who would long for the mortal world? Only immortals pining for life among mortals, or remarkable figures yearning for ordinary days. Those are dreams reserved for the truly extraordinary!
But what about himself?
He was always average, perfectly ordinary. To put it nicely, he carried on the fine tradition of moderation championed by the Chinese people; to say it bluntly, in a crowd so nondescript, even his parents might not pick him out.
He was the kind of pauper who schemed about how to spend a fortune he didn't have. With such a life, what business did he have yearning for anything extraordinary at all?
Still, he was at least a modern university student, a blossom in the garden of the motherland, perhaps a little wilted, but with a few hobbies and talents to his name—one could even call him a young man of the arts.
He had, for instance, a penchant for writing, though after a string of “surefire masterpieces” had flopped, he’d put his literary ambitions on strategic hiatus.
He loved music—an old soul in the world of traditional melodies.
He wrote poetry, even once winning a city-wide prize for his verse, the sole honor of his student days.
He was a voracious reader, especially of the “Three Kingdoms.”
That wondrous classic had awakened his curiosity early. While his first-grade classmates still frowned over flashcards, Zhang Sifan was already engrossed in a phonetic edition of “Romance of the Three Kingdoms,” so much so that his teacher considered him a prodigy.
Yet, after he finished the “Three Kingdoms,” none of his textbooks inherited his passion for reading.
So he always believed the reason he finally faded into mediocrity was this: “Romance of the Three Kingdoms” was simply too short.
Zhang Sifan particularly loved history, though he always skimmed the surface.
He could readily recount amusing tales from every dynasty, but if you asked him to list the emperors of the Qing, he’d be stumped for a while.
Even with his beloved Three Kingdoms, he could name every character with ease, but if you asked him when the first year of Zhongping was, he might answer, “Isn’t that a Wei dynasty era?”
Most history lovers have fantasized about traveling back in time, especially young men brimming with energy.
Who hasn’t dreamed of galloping across the battlefield, fighting for glory among kings and generals, rising from humble beginnings to rule the world?
To wake with a sword in hand, to sleep on a beauty’s lap. A lovely companion by one’s side, every spring night worth its weight in gold.
A man should be born in troubled times, to win fame and merit, to defend his country and protect its people, and then marry a few clever, gentle wives to live a life like that of the immortals.
Zhang Sifan had these dreams too.
How wonderful it would be to wake from a dream and find himself in the Three Kingdoms!
To spar with Lü Bu, Zhao Yun, Guan Yu, and Zhang Fei; to match wits with Kongming, Zhou Yu, Sima Yi, and Guo Jia; to win both beauties of Jiangdong for himself...
But after the third grade, he stopped dreaming that way.
The reason was simple: why should he?
“Lü Bu, take this—ah!”
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“Kongming, you are nothing special.”
“Guards! Take this raving fool away and behead him!”
...
“Housekeeper, please, let me see the young miss just once.”
“Out of my sight!”
...
During Zhang Sifan’s middle school years, time-travel dramas were all the rage, and his classmates often discussed what they would do if they went back in time. Zhang Sifan observed their antics with a cold eye, finding it all rather silly—he had no interest in such fantasies.
If you love something, just read books and play games. There were plenty of good novels about traveling to the Three Kingdoms; even though the Three Kingdoms games were getting worse, they were still fun to play.
Only a lunatic would actually want to travel back in time!
As he grew older, this belief became ever more firmly rooted.
To actually cross over would be certain death, wouldn’t it? Not even counting the top-tier science students, what could he possibly accomplish himself?
Forget about advancing technology—he’d even be stumped by printing or papermaking, things any liberal arts student should know.
His physique, though not without some muscle, probably wouldn’t rate higher than a twenty in practical combat. He thought of the blood-soaked brutality of ancient battlefields, the cunning of strategists who decided victory from a thousand miles away, and then compared it to how overwhelmed he felt just trying to join a student organization—his intelligence and political skill would be, at best, a paltry dozen.
Could he really be the legendary “Jack of all trades, master of none”?
Even when it came to the time-travelers’ favorite trick—plagiarism—Zhang Sifan had little confidence.
Even if he could remember a few poems by Li Bai and Du Fu, poetry needed to suit the moment. He couldn’t just quote lines everywhere he went. The common folk of that era would understand nothing, and he’d never be invited to gatherings of the elite.
Besides, he didn’t believe a single poem about “the bright moonlight before my bed” would make his name resound through the ages.
To be honest, with no real talents, he’d be nothing but a speck of dust in history—vanishing without a trace at the slightest breeze.
Another weekend arrived. Zhang Sifan, not one for sleeping in, sat on his bed, heart still racing from his latest dream.
“In humble self-introduction, I am Zhang Sifan, known as the Hermit of May Day. My highest ambition in this troubled era is simply to survive.”
...
“Sifan, what rare talent you possess!”
“I wonder if you would serve under me?”
“To gain Sifan is like the Emperor Gaozu gaining Zhang Liang!”
...
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“My lord, I greet you. Today I am rather weary and hope you will retire soon.”
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“Master, I truly admire you. Please accept my bow!”
“What do those stuffy scholars know? I heed only Master Sifan!”
...
“Even if it’s just a dream, this kind of time travel feels amazing,” Zhang Sifan thought, spirits high as he climbed down quietly from the top bunk and turned on his computer—first checking the stats on his latest 40,000-word masterpiece on Qidian: still three favorites and ten clicks.
All as expected; aside from his two alternate accounts, at least someone was paying attention.
He closed the browser and returned to his desktop, double-clicking the icon for “Romance of the Three Kingdoms 13: Power-Up Kit” with practiced ease. Only when the hourglass appeared did he notice something was off.
“Why does the icon now say ‘Return to the Three Kingdoms’?”
Just as he wondered, the screen went black. Instead of the familiar animation, a purple vortex appeared.
Zhang Sifan instantly felt his whole body constrict, followed by a dizzying vertigo—and then—
He lost consciousness.
Bang!
“Holy crap!”
“What’s going on!”
“Oh my god!”
An explosion startled the three other roommates in dorm 204 awake. A faint ripple seemed to shimmer through the room.
“Zhang Sifan’s computer exploded! That’s dangerous!”
“Where’s Sifan?”
“Who’s Sifan?”
“Whose computer is smoking?”
“What are you guys talking about?”
“Who woke me up! Let me sleep!”
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