Chapter One: I Cannot Write Poetry

Great Song Dynasty, Lanzhou Prefecture

Under the blazing sun, not a single cloud marred the sky. The entire heavens resembled a furnace, scorching the earth so fiercely that even the air was suffocatingly hot. Every breath seemed to burn the lungs.

Of all the cities in the Song realm, Lanzhou Prefecture stood as the most magnificent. If one were to look down from above, one would see the outermost edges encircled by a winding brook, with four main thoroughfares branching out from the heart of the prefecture in the cardinal directions.

Walking along one of these main streets, the bustle was overwhelming—stalls on either side offered dazzling arrays of wares: gold and silver jewelry, jade pastries, street performers, vendors selling candied hawthorn and rouge. The throng made for a lively scene.

“Make way! Clear the road!” a harsh voice suddenly shattered the peace. Following the sound, a line of prison carts rolled by. The prisoners inside had backs lashed raw, fresh blood staining their white garb scarlet.

Terror was scrawled across every face. Some looked vicious, caked in mud, still muttering their grievances through swollen lips. The crowd pelted them with rotten vegetables and spat; children even relieved themselves upon the carts. For those brought to the execution ground were all heinous criminals beyond redemption.

A captain clad in black armor, wielding a broad blade, shouted, “Parade concluded—execution in the street!”

Soldiers opened the carts, dragging the twenty-odd convicts out in pairs toward the execution ground.

In a corner stood a boy of about fourteen, his hair disheveled, eyes tightly closed, his body a tapestry of wounds as if he had endured unspeakable torment.

Behind him loomed a burly executioner, blade in hand, face blank and merciless as he awaited his cue. For more than a decade, this man had fed himself off the blade—swift and unerring, delivering death without pain.

Suddenly, the boy’s eyes flew open. He gasped, the scene before him utterly unfamiliar.

Where am I?

Wasn’t I already dead?

He glanced around. Two other young men knelt nearby, shackled like himself. But unlike him, they were far from composed—one was reduced to sobs, a puddle spreading beneath his knees; the other trembled uncontrollably, nose running, muttering his final regrets.

“The hour has come—execute!” came the command.

On the raised platform stood a man in official robes, his words laced with mockery, holding power over life and death. As he spoke, three command tokens fell to the ground, stirring a cloud of dust—the call for death had sounded.

The clatter of tokens landing was as jarring as shattered glass. Li Pingyang snapped back to his senses.

Wait—have I transmigrated?

He remembered going to worship at the Mountain God’s temple. As he descended, a sudden storm broke overhead, lightning split the sky, and a bolt struck him down. What happened next was a blank.

As he pondered his fate, the first condemned man was beheaded, something rolling to a stop at his feet.

Before he could react, it was already his turn.

Damn it, this is a huge loss. Other people transmigrate and live grand new lives, but me? I die the moment I arrive? What a cruel joke! I hadn’t even held my new girlfriend’s hand yet, and we were supposed to see a movie next week—who knows what the night might have brought! Heaven, must you toy with me so?

“Stay the blade!”

Li Pingyang had already closed his eyes. However unwilling, he knew he could change nothing. Better to end it quickly, perhaps be reborn into a better life.

The executioner’s hand froze mid-swing. Had he hesitated a moment more, not even the greatest physician could have saved the lad. All eyes turned to the source of the voice.

It was a striking young man, perhaps twenty-five or six, astride a white horse, a white folding fan in hand, dressed in finery. At his waist hung a piece of lamb-fat jade and a delicate short sword.

At his arrival, everyone fell to their knees, not daring even a glance. Even the haughty official on the dais scrambled down to kneel before him.

“Rise, everyone!” the young man said. “I’m just out for a stroll today, but you mustn’t speak a word of it! If my father finds out, I’ll be sent back to my tutor—I have no wish to see that old pedant again.”

This was none other than His Highness, the Third Prince, Li Wenjie—the most amiable and well-tempered of the emperor’s sons, beloved by all.

“What of the condemned?” the officer asked, still kneeling, awaiting instructions.

The Third Prince waved his fan. “Let them all go.”

The officer hesitated, but could not defy the order. After a moment’s pause, he signaled his men to release the remaining prisoners.

“Your Highness, your person is too precious to set foot on this ground. You mustn’t soil your shoes,” the officer said anxiously, seeing the prince dismount and stroll toward the bewildered prisoners.

But Li Wenjie paid him no heed, making straight for the dazed Li Pingyang. He had noticed that, unlike the others who wept and wailed, this youth alone gazed calmly into the distance, unmoved by the chaos.

From the look in his eyes, the prince judged he was not the type to kill indiscriminately in pursuit of petty gain.

“Is the massacre of the Li family your doing?” the prince asked gravely, squatting before him.

Li Pingyang, who had only just arrived in this body, hadn’t yet learned the prince’s identity, but judging from the deference shown, he guessed well enough. Only a court minister or royal scion could command such authority.

And by the youth’s age, he was surely either a noble wastrel or some favored scion.

“I did not kill anyone,” Li Pingyang replied, speaking for both himself and the body’s original owner.

Such straightforwardness left no room for doubt. The Third Prince snapped his fan shut and stood.

“I’ll take you at your word. I hear you’re skilled in poetry—would you honor me with a visit to my residence and teach me a thing or two?”

With his back turned, the prince felt uncertain. Rumor had it Lanzhou boasted a poet as talented as Li Bai himself, and the prince, a lover of verse, was eager for a meeting. Besides, his subordinates claimed these prisoners were but scapegoats, poor souls all.

By saving him, Li Pingyang would owe him a favor, and propriety demanded he show his talent in return.

“I cannot write poetry.”

Li Pingyang’s words made everyone break into a cold sweat. It wasn’t reluctance—he truly knew nothing of the art.

He could only wonder at the ill fortune of this body’s former master—framed for murder, and now leaping from the tiger’s jaws into the wolf’s den!