On an autumn morning, the eastern sky had just begun to show the faintest glimmer of light, milky mist drifting through the ancient city. Pleasure boats moved slowly along the Qinhuai River, half-hidden within the layered fog, like jeweled palaces floating on the horizon.

In the deep autumn haze, Ning Yi jogged along the road by the Qinhuai River, humming to himself. This morning exercise routine had become a fixture by now — time, after all, was something he had plenty of. Along the way, the old brick-and-timber buildings on either side thinned and thickened in turn, various trees lining the path, pleasure boats drifting on the Qinhuai, occasionally a boatman or a weary courtesan visible at the bow.

This time of morning was, in fact, the most interesting stretch of Jiangning’s daily cycle — the previous night’s bustle and extravagance had entirely dissipated, and fresh vitality had only just begun to stir. The city gates outside had already opened, vegetable farmers and small vendors trickling in for the early markets, heading off toward one marketplace or another. Few people to encounter at this hour, but everyone he passed carried a sense of freshness and vitality about them. Occasionally he’d spot someone looking exhausted, hurrying along the roadside, clothes in disarray — most likely someone who’d spent the night at some brothel and was rushing off early to attend to business elsewhere, near certain odds. Shops were only half open; the beggars hadn’t yet risen.

Happiness, more often than not, comes from contrast with unhappiness, and prosperity likewise from comparison — to Ning Yi, who’d seen the great modern metropolises firsthand, Jiangning, however prosperous, amounted to little more than that. But such things weren’t worth dwelling on too seriously; that simple, natural flavor of life here was genuine enough, and the people living here were, on the whole, easily satisfied — get enough to eat and stay warm, and they’d smile without a care.

Ning Yi occasionally discussed such things with Old Qin. Jiangning counted as a fine city by the standards of the age, but in truth, beggars wandered everywhere here too, in droves, and selling off children wasn’t an uncommon sight either — though of course, with so many wealthy households around, if a child could be sold into some decent household as a servant boy or maid, they’d never want for food again in their life, counted as good fortune earned by the family’s accumulated virtue. Thanks to the flourishing pleasure quarters along the Qinhuai, pretty but poor girls had another path open to them as well — if they could learn poetry and song, a capable madam might turn them into a genuine courtesan, one who sold performance rather than her body, and with enough good fortune, might even marry into some grand household as a concubine. But for the great majority whose luck ran less favorably, a lifetime of selling themselves was all there was — though at least, once age and beauty faded, a kind-hearted madam might set them free; fortunately such districts were common enough that a certain code of conduct had formed around them, and if one abided by the rules, one could generally scrape through life without it being either especially good or especially bad — “good” and “bad” being relative terms here, of course. Aging courtesans without means were, more often than not, kept on by the brothel to do odd chores and cleaning for the remainder of their years rather than simply cast out. Having lived together so long, that much decency and welfare, at least, tended to remain — though outside cities like Jiangning or Yangzhou, even that much couldn’t be guaranteed.

Whenever flood season came, refugees would inevitably show up in the city — fewer in good years, but always some; and in bad years, say when the Yellow River flooded or some other disaster struck, as happened every few years, the city would tighten up for a while, soldiers posted at the gates to keep refugees from entering, the prefect calling together the wealthy merchants to discuss matters — which in practice meant soliciting donations, everyone chipping in to hand out porridge and rice… Winters always claimed some lives too, depending on the year — fewer deaths in good years, and in bad years, it went without saying. Beggars struggled hardest through winter; if it snowed, the next morning would often reveal people frozen together in each other’s arms, a common enough sight.

Seeing such things often enough, one grew used to it, though Old Qin would occasionally remark: “Not a good year, this one.” Good years did happen too — the Wu dynasty’s earliest years had, by all accounts, been an age of peace and plenty, Emperor Wuheng and Emperor Wuhuizong hailed as brilliant and visionary rulers and so on — Ning Yi’s head always spun a little hearing this sort of thing, though every dynasty, he supposed, had its share of prosperous years. The Wu dynasty at this point closely resembled the late Northern Song — beyond this relatively prosperous region south of the Yangtze, several peasant uprisings were brewing, and bandits and strongmen were hardly rare. To the north, a state called Liao, ruled by the Yelu clan, had encroached on the border several times — encroach, then negotiate peace, encroach, then negotiate peace again — a treaty had been signed a few years back, the two sides now calling each other brother states, though “Liao elder brother, Wu younger brother” or not, skirmishes continued regardless, small-scale border incursions never fully ceasing.

Ning Yi wasn’t worried about any of this — the humiliation of Jingkang hadn’t happened yet, and even if it did, with a different emperor things would surely play out differently; the capital hadn’t even been moved to Jiangning yet. The nation still had some strength left in it — if it came to war, it could hold out for a good while yet. Even if the capital were eventually moved and the Wu dynasty ended up following the Southern Song’s model, well, the Southern Song had held on for quite a long stretch too — by the time the Jin came knocking again, he’d likely have long since lived out his life. Four hundred and eighty temples of the Southern Dynasties, how many towers and terraces lost in mist and rain — wait, that probably wasn’t even about the Southern Song, Ning Yi thought for a moment, came up with nothing conclusive, and set it aside. Whatever — life in the Southern Song had been perfectly livable, after all, so it should be fine.

He had no ambitions of saving the nation or building some grand legacy just because he’d landed in ancient times — he was simply too tired for that, as if he’d already set down the burden of youthful passion. He’d seen enough injustice and darkness already in his time; the modern world had plenty of darkness too, and even if the people of this world suffered, it failed to stir much sympathy or resonance in him — not that there was none, just not enough. As for grand ambitions like becoming emperor — a man who could only expect to live sixty years scheming for something spanning a hundred and twenty was simply being naive. That said, in other idle moments — like now, freshly done with his run, sweating all over, standing to rest in a relatively secluded bend of the Qinhuai — Ning Yi did sometimes indulge in thoughts that others might consider, irresponsibly, somewhat constructive.

For instance, if he really wanted to accomplish something, being a live-in son-in-law was admittedly inconvenient, but not an insurmountable problem — business opportunities abounded in this era. Food here lacked MSG; he knew roughly how MSG was made — sounded simple, but was actually rather involved — though with perhaps a year’s effort, mass production seemed plausible. Combine that with some new dishes and modern culinary concepts, put together a food court of sorts, and there was money to be made there.

No music in this era either — anyone who’d lived in a world where you could download and listen to endless music every single day could easily imagine just how dull that would be. The performances at the brothels weren’t necessarily any good to watch, the courtesans’ singing not necessarily pleasant to hear — but if you’d never heard anything at all, even a passably decent tune would sound like heaven’s own music by comparison. If he could set up some kind of entertainment complex, there was plenty of potential there — songs, dances, all sorts of acts. Modern song lyrics obviously wouldn’t translate, but the melodies and vocal styles, localized appropriately, would work fine — tasteful dance concepts suited to the era’s aesthetic, or perhaps adapting existing poetry into songs for people to sing.

He’d simply been bored long enough that his mind kept circling back to food and entertainment and simple pleasures.

As for setting aside such trivial pursuits and spending decades laying the groundwork for an industrial revolution with guns and cannons, staging a rebellion to become emperor so that people two hundred years down the line could ride airplanes — none of that, one way or another, was something he’d live to enjoy himself, and the thought of pursuing it struck him as simply foolish. Better to open a food court and an entertainment complex — far more meaningful.

The morning breeze carried a slight chill. Standing there by the stone-lined river bend, he tossed pebbles into the water one by one, turning these ideas over in his mind.

In truth, for the time being, none of it was even feasible.

As a man married into the Su family, opening a brothel was pretty much off the table — set that one aside for now. The Su family ran a fabric business; setting up his own tavern would be its own kind of trouble. Say, for instance, he offered a few ideas to improve the Su family’s fabric business, proved his worth that way — and then, well, he’d probably just get shipped off to manage some branch shop as its steward, and after proving himself further, end up right back in the same line of work as his previous life. From there, he might get to use some capital to open a tavern, and under their bewildered stares, explain to them that this was actually quite profitable — and then he’d need to find people to build a whole set of equipment, rack his brains running all sorts of experiments, work out a proper production line — all because he simply missed having a pinch of MSG in every meal. Wasn’t that just asking for trouble?

Humming the tune of “La Mer” under his breath, Ning Yi couldn’t help laughing at his own idea. In practice it probably wouldn’t be quite this complicated — though the thought of it alone was rather amusing. Might as well just buy a few hundred pounds of kelp, boil it down, and let it crystallize — kelp was easy enough to come by, but if he actually tried running experiments like that, on one hand they’d accuse him of wasting resources, and on the other, someone would probably tell him a gentleman keeps his distance from the kitchen…

He hummed the opening bars of “La Mer” and then, having forgotten the rest, drifted into “Two Tigers” instead. By the second round of “two tigers running so fast,” the sound of a chicken’s squawking came from the road ahead.

“Come heeeere, come heeeere…”

“Ba-gawk, ba-gawk, ba-gawk…”

Two voices — one a woman’s, one a hen’s. Turning to look, through the faint drifting mist he saw a hen darting frantically back and forth among the road and trees, followed by a woman in a grey-white cloth skirt, kitchen cleaver in hand, chasing the bird down with dogged persistence — woman and chicken spinning wildly through the fog together, now visible, now vanishing from sight.

Ning Yi stood under a tree by the riverbank, chin propped in hand, watching the scene unfold.

In theory, clucking like a hen was supposed to reassure the bird, lure it closer — but the poor thing was already scared out of its wits; calling “come here” wasn’t going to help now, “sister” or otherwise.

As he thought this, watching the man-versus-hen battle unfold for a while, and just as he was noticing the woman had a rather nice figure, the hen suddenly changed direction and came sprinting straight toward him, dashed right past, and decisively leapt into the river.

The woman came chasing hard after it, an anxious look on her face. The morning fog had been thick, and Ning Yi, standing under a tree, hadn’t been especially noticeable — she clearly hadn’t spotted him nearby. Seeing the riverbank right ahead, she swung the cleaver down with all her might, letting out a sharp “hmph” as she did — but missed entirely, and the cleaver flew clean out of her hand, sailing splash into the water.

Startled by the sheer decisiveness of that swing, Ning Yi then realized the woman’s body had already pitched forward, arms flailing as she began to topple into the river. Instinctively, he shouted “Hey!” and reached out, catching her by one hand. She spun around, her other hand grabbing at him reflexively; just as Ning Yi was about to pull her back with some force, the stone beneath his feet gave way—

“Ah— glub—” A brief, startled cry.

Splash—

Then came the frantic thrashing of water, churning and splattering, the river’s surface roiling beneath the thick fog.

Ning Yi had been a fairly strong swimmer in his previous life — pity that particular skill hadn’t carried over. This body had originally belonged to a frail scholar, none too strong a swimmer to begin with, and weak besides from an old injury; though Ning Yi had spent months conditioning it with exercise, a few months’ improvement could only go so far. The woman, it seemed, wasn’t much of a swimmer either, and the two of them thrashed desperately in water that wasn’t even particularly deep. Several times Ning Yi tried to calm down enough to speak, only to be dragged back under each time by her panic.

“You… glub glub…”

“Hey… glub glub glub…”

“Don’t… glub glub glub glub…”

They say many a strong swimmer, attempting a rescue, has been dragged down and drowned along with the panicking victim they tried to save.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before Ning Yi finally managed to drag the woman up onto some steps along the riverbank, dozens of meters downstream. Soaked through and thoroughly bedraggled, he collapsed at the water’s edge, coughing up mouthfuls of water several times before he could catch his breath, then turned to check on the woman he’d rescued — she’d already swallowed enough water to pass out cold, utterly still.

“Hey!” Ning Yi slapped her face several times. Her long hair lay plastered like waterweed, and she looked thoroughly wretched — no response.

“Three lotus roots float on the jade pool… living right by the Qinhuai and you can’t even swim…” Ning Yi sighed helplessly, laid her body flat, and began performing the emergency steps he’d once learned.

Even with the other party being a woman, this rescue was hardly anyone’s idea of a pleasant task — this wasn’t some swimsuit model, after all. The woman’s clothes clung to her in wrinkled folds, her hair a tangled mess making her look like something out of a ghost story about drowning victims — thoroughly pathetic. Anxious, Ning Yi performed several rounds of chest compressions, getting her to bring up more water, then slapped her cheeks again — still no response — and finally pinched her cheeks and began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

After a good while at this, the woman groggily began to stir. Just as Ning Yi leaned in again, a slap rang out sharply across his face, crisp and clear in the morning air. The woman, her voice tinged with tears, cried out plaintively: “You lecher, you… cough… what do you think you’re doing…” She hugged her chest and scrambled backward desperately, her clothes now plastered entirely against her body, her long legs kicking against the ground — bedraggled and thoroughly pitiful, yet with a certain fragile, sympathetic quality to her all the same.

Had any other passerby happened by at that moment, Ning Yi might well have found himself on the receiving end of a beating over the scene.

“Knew it’d go like this…” Ning Yi tilted his head for a long moment, shoulders slumping, let out a long breath, and sat back on the road behind him. The two of them stared at each other by the riverbank for a good while before Ning Yi raised a hand: “You’re alright now?”

The woman glared at him, saying nothing.

“Good, if you’re fine, then.” He answered his own question, hauling himself up off the ground with some effort. Pulling a face, Ning Yi turned and walked back the way he’d come. The cold wind blew — truly freezing.

Behind him, the woman sat curled up where she was, watching his figure recede down the road until it disappeared from sight…

Poor woman — lost her hen and her cleaver both, Ning Yi thought, rather gleefully, as he made his way back soaked to the bone. Being cold and wet under these circumstances was a rather miserable business, but thinking of someone even worse off than himself took the edge off his own misery just a little.

For life’s small annoyances, he’d always had his own way of taking things in stride — since the matter couldn’t be undone, he might as well use whatever means available to cheer himself up a little, for the time being.