Chapter One: Kept
Tang Dynasty Calendar, July fifteenth, the Ghost Festival.
Tomorrow marks the end of heat.
He Chang’an awoke gently, eyes still closed, as an unfamiliar, subtle fragrance drifted to him—sweet, astringent, tinged with the salt of sea breeze.
This is... wait! This is not the Super 8, nor any familiar inn, and certainly not his bachelor’s apartment. His limbs felt weak, the bedboard beneath him was so hard it bruised his kidneys... No, not the scent of X Lili either.
Moreover, a jumble of strange memories had appeared in his mind—what were these? Tang Dynasty... Weiyang County Office... constable... scattered silver coins... protection fees... temporary staff, listening to music in taverns, habitual freeloading?
No, last night he drank alone, having bought a packet of peanuts, two duck eggs, and a half-pound sausage... How could he have gotten so drunk?
This must be a crossing—he had crossed over.
‘Fortunately, it’s the Tang Dynasty, where aesthetics remain unspoiled, with curvaceous, full-bodied beauty...’
But this slight body was hardly robust, unfit for storms and hardship, as skinny as a monkey—how did he become a county constable? Handsome looks meant little in a world where faces weren’t currency.
Did he have connections above?
Right, in Tang custom, the so-called constable sounded glamorous, but in truth it was just a catch-all for low-ranking staff at the county office—temporary workers, badly paid, with minimal entry requirements, making it an ideal haunt for local ruffians.
From tomorrow onward, he must be a man who trains—breaking bricks and riding horses, as in his days of special forces training, determined to build strong muscle in half a year!
A man must never admit defeat.
Besides, being a quick-hand had its own pleasures.
...
After a dozen breaths, He Chang’an opened his eyes.
A single lamp glowed dimly.
What greeted him was a shabby, low-roofed thatched house, the roof and walls stained black from years of cooking smoke.
A dignified county constable, living in such poverty? The scattered silver coins he took in every month should amount to one or two taels—enough to support a humble family for months. Had it all been spent at Emerald Red Pavilion?
Indeed, that place was a bottomless pit...
But that was not the main issue.
The real matter was that this constable, He Chang’an, had not yet married—and the village girl who nearly killed him on this Ghost Festival night, slipping away over the wall at dawn—who was she?
---
Could it be that village girls in Tang times were so wild?
And she even paid him?
He recalled her tender gaze as she left—while he was barely conscious—how she took ten taels of silver from her bosom and shyly tucked them under his pillow. He almost felt like helping himself to stand up...
The only flaw was the cold—damp and chilly.
Feeling tired, He Chang’an wrapped himself tightly in the quilt, lost in fanciful thoughts of past romance, and soon drifted back to sleep...
...
When He Chang’an rose, the sun was already high, well past the hour for reporting to the county office.
He wasn’t worried, though.
In his memories, He Chang’an the constable frequently arrived late and left early, relying on a ruthless, reckless fighting spirit to earn the county magistrate’s grudging favor—his wages were rarely docked.
Besides, the atmosphere at the county office was slack; everyone seemed lazy, many constables and clerks wore perpetual dark circles, especially the young and strong.
So, the legendary Tang Dynasty’s freedom was real.
After a quick wash, He Chang’an lay back on the hard wooden bed, slowly digesting the original owner’s main memories—colleagues, family, friends—finding no glaring flaws. Only then did he stroll outside.
The sun hung high, dazzling.
He adjusted, squinting as he surveyed his “new home.”
It was an ordinary, even rather shabby courtyard, with three low rooms, blue brick foundation, earthen walls topped with pale thatch—a plain style.
In the middle was a small vegetable patch—cabbage, radishes, chives. To the left of the gate stood a large locust tree, its broad, dark leaves rustling in the breeze; to the right, another locust tree.
“Ghosts clapping at the door...”
He Chang’an muttered, thinking Tang customs strange. Next time, he’d plant a few ginkgo, osmanthus, or phoenix trees at the gate; perhaps some peonies in the garden.
One should seek comfort, wealth, and prosperity in life...
Arranging flowers, drinking wine, enjoying the moon?
Since fate had granted him a fresh start, he must seize it—never again to waste his skills in grappling and hard qigong, only to end up as a bodyguard...
And not just any bodyguard, but that of a decrepit old man.
He Chang’an smiled, steadied himself against the wall, and took a few steps. His legs felt less weak now, so he carefully descended the steps.
That village girl was fierce.
He vaguely remembered she was rather pretty, delicate and lovely, though a bit thin—the feel was not great, a bit more force and he might touch bone...
---
Well, better than too much flesh.
Let’s call it a little welcome gift from the system.
His “cheap father” in this life was the county office’s old cook—by now, probably already finished with kitchen duties and squatting against a sunny wall.
He lost his mother young; father and son shared little affection—that was He Chang’an’s family situation.
He returned indoors, took his waist knife from the wall, fastened it carefully, and drew the county-issued blade, flicking his finger to produce a crisp clang.
Good steel.
Just as he was about to leave, he sensed something missing and began rummaging through the original owner’s belongings—nothing but scattered silver, a neighbor’s red underclothes, a few handwritten novels.
He shook his head and smiled wryly.
No wonder this fellow let a village girl toss him around for ten taels of silver in a single night, with such peculiar tastes...
Distinctive hobbies, to say the least.
He gathered all the scattered silver, tossed the rest into the kang with a pinched nose, dusted off his hands, and stood up.
Discarding the useless, carrying all valuables—this was He Chang’an’s long-standing habit. In days when life danced on a knife’s edge, one never knew if they’d make it back...
“In my last life, I was a bodyguard for a decrepit old man; now, a constable in the Tang, truly fate’s plaything.”
“What era of Tang is this? Could it be before or after the An Lushan Rebellion, when years of war left too few men, and such customs of women keeping men arose?”
“Looks like I, He Chang’an, have landed in a good age.”
...
Locking the battered wooden door, He Chang’an made his way slowly toward the county office.
He looked pale, his steps light, but his heart was at ease.
Because now he carried eleven taels and three coins of silver—enough to be considered wealthy in the simple, backward Weiyang County.
One or two taels could keep a family of three fed and clothed for a year.
Eleven taels and three coins, if he gave up tavern music and extravagant tips, could let him spend ten years at home, happily enjoying the company of that village girl, with no worries.
Ah, at last no longer a mortgage slave;
At last, he could lie down and strive...
Sister village girl, though you’ve kept me, as a man of the Tang, I, He Chang’an, hold grand ambitions and roam far—I cannot simply live off your kindness.