Chapter 1

1

Wen Yan was a little dazed.

He remembered finishing tomorrow’s diagnostic test papers at two in the morning, preparing to open his English textbook, and drifting off to sleep from sheer exhaustion.

But what on earth was going on now?

“Third Master, why don’t you try this Rose Dew? It’s Fairy brand, brand-new on the market!”

“Young Master Shen, we’re not any worse than Mary, are we? You think of her every day, but that heartless thing would never hold you dear like we do.”

The beauty on his left offered him a lit cigarette she had taken a few puffs from. She had only just pulled it from her blood-red lips, between which the nimble flick of her soft tongue was faintly visible.

The beauty on his right was also dressed in a qipao that hugged her exquisite curves. Wen Yan had never seen anyone wear a qipao so seductively. Even with the collar buttoned all the way up to her neck, it still left his mouth feeling dry.

These two stunners, the kind you would normally only see in movies or television dramas, were now clinging to his arms on either side, acting coy. Even through the fabric, he could feel the soft, supple curves of their bodies, as though they would not rest until they pressed themselves right into his heart.

Wen Yan began to think back carefully.

Had he been too busy with work lately, leaving him completely sexually frustrated?

Or had he watched some Republic of China era drama or read a novel before going to sleep?

Neither seemed to be the case.

He looked down at what he was wearing.

It had clearly started as a three-piece suit, but the jacket was already gone, leaving only his vest and dress shirt. His tie was still neatly tied, suggesting he had just sat down and nothing had had time to happen yet.

A faint scent lingered in the air, a blend of mint and rose mixed with other indescribable fragrances, whether from the cologne on his own body or from the two women beside him. Wen Yan clenched his fist and pinched his palm with his fingernails. It actually hurt. This dream was far too realistic. Could he have transmigrated?

Steadying his nerves, Wen Yan felt through his pockets and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, a handkerchief, and a wallet.

Full of hope, he opened the wallet, only to find a stack of green US dollar bills and some loose change.

There were also two photographs of women.

Where was his ID card?!

…Oh, right. People in the Republic of China certainly didn’t have the habit of carrying ID cards around.

Then who in the world was he?!

“Why is Third Master still carrying around photos of other women?!” the beauty on his left pouted. “It’s one thing that you always prefer to ask for Mary, but could the two of us really not compare to wild flowers and weeds like these?!”

“Exactly, Young Master Shen. I heard that new photo studio you opened uses the latest cameras imported from Germany. The photos turn out gorgeous, and once they’re hand-colored, they’re nothing like those beauty posters outside. Won’t you take one for us too?”

Vying for his favor, one called him Third Master while the other called him Young Master Shen, each trying to show she was special. But at least Wen Yan now knew the surname of this body.

Preoccupied with heavy thoughts, he felt zero reaction to the seductive heat pressing against him. Instead, their relentless chatter only irritated him. He stood up and said, “I have things to attend to. I’m leaving.”

Without waiting for the two women to react or for the floor manager who hurried over to persuade him to stay, Wen Yan strode straight outside.

The brisk, biting wind hit him in the face, blowing away most of the decadent music and perfume from inside, instantly clearing his head.

A new problem presented itself.

Having left this place, where was he supposed to go? Where could he go? Where did he come from?

Wen Yan looked around, then turned his head to glance at the nightclub’s sign behind him.

Shanghai New World Ballroom.

Well, another mystery solved. He was in Shanghai.

Shanghai during the Republic of China, and dressed like this, he was clearly a respectable, well-to-do figure, so he shouldn’t be homeless, right?

As he hesitated, a car pulled up below the front steps. A young man stepped out, opened the rear door, and greeted Wen Yan, “Young Master, you’re leaving so early today?”

He even had a chauffeur?

Wen Yan’s eyes brightened. He got into the car first, not specifying a destination, and simply told the driver to cruise around. Through subtle probing, he finally managed to piece together most of his background and “glorious achievements.”

Shen Po. His family was in commerce, having started with foreign trading firms before branching into textiles and matches, and later opening banks. The family business was currently run by his father. He had an aunt who was a socialite, not the derogatory kind from later generations, but a genuine high-society lady of noble upbringing. Rumor had it that this aunt was also quite a well-known literary talent who frequently serialized novels and poetry in newspapers. His uncle did business alongside his father. In addition, he had an elder uncle with an even more formidable background: the current Vice Mayor of Shanghai.

Good grief, he had transmigrated into a wealthy, well-connected second-generation scion of high society in the Republic of China.

Shen Po ranked third in his generation, which was why people called him Third Young Master Shen or Third Master. Unwilling to study abroad, this Young Master Shen attended the School of Theology at local St. John’s University^[1]. His family wanted him to at least scrape together a college diploma so he could help manage the family business later on, but as it turned out, Young Master Shen lived a life of vibrant indulgence, and his daily schedule had never once included the option of studying hard.

He would sleep until midday, get up to take a leisurely bath, eat his lunch, or rather, breakfast, and by then it would already be three or four in the afternoon. He would stroll out for a turn; if in a good mood, he might show up at school just to check in, and if in a foul mood, he would meet friends for tea or attend a salon. Once the sun went down, his life exploded into full color. Fair-weather friends took turns inviting him out: going to one private ball or another ballroom, hitting the casino for some casual gambling, or taking a taxi dancer home… No, he didn’t dare bring a taxi dancer home, at most taking one out for a joyride. In short, drinking, feasting, whoring, gambling, and smoking; everything he should and shouldn’t do, Young Master Shen had checked off nearly all the boxes. The only thing he never did was anything productive.

Although known as the third son, the eldest had been born early and went abroad to study years ago, having yet to return, existing as a mere phantom. The second son had died in an accident a few years back, making Shen Po the family’s sole remaining heir in practice. Deeply doted upon by the women of the household, he had grown up clothed in silk, fed on delicacies, and bathed in sweet indulgence. It was only natural that his life path had turned out this way.

When the driver, Xiao Wu, asked whether they should head to Young Master Zhou’s ball next or go support the taxi dancer “Little Sai Jinhua^[2],” Wen Yan was utterly at a loss. Having lived an orderly, rule-abiding life for over twenty years with nothing but study and work in a simple environment, being suddenly thrown into this world of dazzling debauchery felt just like asking someone who had been destitute for years to spend ten billion US dollars overnight. Even a poor man would be at his wits’ end.

Wen Yan took a deep breath. “Let’s go. Home!”

He had none of Shen Po’s memories and had no idea what the Shen family was like. Feeling a bit apprehensive, he worried he wouldn’t be able to handle it, but the moment he stepped through the door, Wen Yan realized he had worried over nothing.

Four beautiful, middle-aged women were playing mahjong in the parlor. The clatter of tiles drifted over, accompanied by lighthearted chatter and laughter. When Madame Shen heard her son return, she was immediately stirred and came out in person to greet him.

“My sweet boy, why are you back so early? Are you feeling unwell?”

Madame Shen touched Wen Yan’s forehead first, then hurriedly called out to the servants.

“Quick, quick! Boil some hot water, wring out a towel to wipe the young master’s face, and bring over a bowl of that simmered pigeon soup!”

Wen Yan didn’t get a chance to speak from start to finish, and was greeted in turn by his mother’s mahjong partners.

Those who could play mahjong with Madame Shen naturally came from prominent backgrounds; they were either wives of police chiefs or female relatives of Ministry of Finance officials. Sitting there without having to lift a finger, Wen Yan watched a dazzling Republic of China period drama unfold before his eyes.

Shen Po was undeniably handsome, as was evident from Madame Shen, so the ladies lavished praise on his looks and asked Wen Yan if he was engaged yet. The veiled hints in their words made Wen Yan’s scalp tingle with anxiety, and he finally managed his first words to his mother since walking in the door.

“You keep playing. Mom, I’m heading up to my room first!”

With that, he fled in a hurry. Fortunately, he had gathered where his room was from the servants’ chatter when he first arrived.

Even from a perspective a century later, the room’s furniture and decor were not out of date. Wen Yan flopped right onto the Simmons mattress of the Western-style carved four-poster bed. But a second later, as if fire were scorching his backside, he sprang back up and hurried over to the desk in Shen Po’s room, which looked like it hadn’t been touched in ten thousand years.

It wasn’t that Wen Yan disliked this pampered life of having clothes and food handed to him, but everything had happened so suddenly that it felt unreal, as though it could be snatched away at any moment. Besides, time travel usually needed a trigger; other people died in accidents, while he had simply crossed over after falling asleep and having a dream. Surely he wouldn’t just wake up and go back?

Regardless, he needed to find something tangible to dispel this dreamlike sensation.

Wen Yan opened the books on Shen Po’s desk.

The moment he picked one up, he was dumbfounded.

What was this?

French?

And this one… Latin?

What did Xiao Wu say Shen Po was majoring in earlier?

…A seminary?

Wen Yan’s lips twitched. He quickly flipped through the pages. They were filled entirely with symbols he didn’t recognize, which Shen Po likely didn’t understand either, seeing as the textbooks were practically brand-new; Shen Po probably hadn’t even opened them himself.

Wasn’t there a single thing in Chinese?!

Wen Yan was on the verge of losing his mind, yet he didn’t want to call a servant in to ask, as that could easily expose his ignorance and arouse suspicion.

He went through the books and notebooks on the desk one by one, then searched the nearby bookshelf. The shelves were filled entirely with English books, all brand new. One look was enough to tell Shen Po had never flipped through them either; they had definitely been bought just for show.

Wen Yan spotted an original English copy of 《A Tale of Two Cities》, but he remembered it had been published back in 1859, well before the Republic of China, so it couldn’t prove what year he was currently in.

After searching for a long time, he finally found one in Chinese.

To be precise, it was a diary written by Shen Po himself.

Though this diary only had two pages written in it.

The first page read: Saw a very beautiful woman at school today. Heard she’s in the law school and named Zhang Ming. Heard she only talks to good students. Maybe I should put in some effort too? Starting tomorrow.

The second page read: Forget it. I’m not cut out for this.

Wen Yan: “…”

Black lines ran down his face, leaving him utterly speechless.

These two diary entries gave him a much more complete picture of Shen Po.

Born into wealth, indulging in pleasure, lacking perseverance, and never doing an ounce of actual work.

Shen Po had wanted to make an effort for a pretty girl, but that resolve had been a three-minute burst of enthusiasm at most.

Suddenly, Wen Yan’s eyes locked onto a spot in the diary.

Year 21 of the Republic of China, January 3rd, Sunny.

The handwriting still looked fresh, so it couldn’t have been written very long ago.

Just then, a servant knocked and entered with the pigeon soup.

Feigning casualness, Wen Yan asked, “What date is it today again?”

The servant replied, “Young Master, today is the twenty-ninth, Lesser Cold^[3].”

Wen Yan couldn’t directly pry out the exact date without raising eyebrows, so he let it go.

He paced his room like a caged beast for a long time, deciding that first thing tomorrow morning, he would have Xiao Wu drive him to school. Shen Po hardly went to school a handful of times a year anyway, so his classmates probably wouldn’t even recognize him, which made it the perfect opportunity to ask around.

Wen Yan flipped through more books on the shelf, finding nothing new. But because this body was used to staying up late, he tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Only after who knew how long did he finally drift into a hazy slumber.

It was a restless sleep.

Scenes flashed before Wen Yan’s eyes in the dream like a revolving lantern. One moment Shen Po was talking past everyone at school like a chicken talking to a duck^[4]; the next, Wen Yan himself was being notified during the day that he had to teach Latin. The dream was chaotic and disordered, like an explosion of anxiety, culminating in a dizzying cacophony that buzzed in his ears.

Wen Yan jolted awake!

He instinctively pushed up against the desk beneath him and looked around in a daze, only to find that he was still slumped over the desk where he had been preparing lessons before bed. His surroundings were cramped and rundown. Where was there any carved bed or Latin textbook?

The taste of pigeon soup still lingered on his tongue, but last night’s experience seemed like a phantom bubble, popped the moment he woke. Yet the touch and voices of the two beauties in the ballroom, the laughter of Madame Shen and her card-playing friends, and everything he had seen in Shen Po’s room, all of it felt so real, too real for him to believe it had just been a dream.

Wen Yan checked the time. Six in the morning.

Shoot. In just over an hour, he had his first-period class.

Yesterday, the principal had asked him to temporarily cover English class for a semester starting today. The previous English teacher couldn’t stand the harsh conditions here and had quit even if it meant breaking the contract. Unable to find a replacement on short notice, the school had roped him, a Chinese language teacher, into filling the gap.

But Wen Yan had never taught English before. Even teaching elementary school students made him feel insecure, so he had planned to prepare thoroughly last night, only to accidentally fall asleep…

He opened the textbook, preparing to cram at the last minute.

The next moment, Wen Yan’s vision went black.

The textbook was covered in crooked, scrawled annotations strewn all over the pages.

I know this word, hahaha!

What the hell is this???

I hate foreign devil language the most!

What godforsaken place is this where birds don’t even shit? I want to get out!

The textbook was brand-new, completely untouched before Wen Yan received it, and besides, handwriting this ugly wasn’t his!

Who played a prank on it?!

Wen Yan suddenly realized that all of these characters were written in traditional script.

Deep in the mountains, the students could barely recognize common characters, let alone traditional ones.

Nowadays, traditional characters remained in common use only in a few regions.

And in that dream… the Republic of China?!

As if struck by a thought, Wen Yan quickly opened the perpetual calendar on his phone.

The 21st year of the Republic of China, which was 1932.

Back then, the diary had been dated January 3rd, while the Shen family servant said that day was the 29th of the lunar month, Minor Cold.

Wen Yan’s swiping finger abruptly stopped in place, and the expression on his face froze.

January 3, 1932. Three days later, January 6, was indeed the 29th day of the lunar month that year, the Minor Cold solar term.

Could it be that he hadn’t been dreaming last night?

Or was there a ghost from Republic of China-era Shanghai who had traveled thousands of miles just to possess him and swap lives?

*