A Life Filled with Errors

With the crackle of firecrackers, a year slips away; the spring breeze brings warmth into the spiced wine.

Song Tusu—his name was nothing particularly special, yet it carried a certain poetic charm.

“Hey Song, I’ll leave the rest of the work to you!” a colleague from the same office called out playfully, tossing over a stack of program code for debugging that was more than three times the workload Song Tusu already had in his hands.

“…Alright,” Song Tusu replied quietly, his head bowed, his tone indifferent.

The colleague picked up his briefcase, slung an arm around another’s neck, and strolled out of the room with an easy air. Faintly, Song Tusu could hear another colleague’s guilty murmur, “Isn’t this a bit unfair?”

But the first merely laughed it off, “It’s fine, it’s fine. The young ones need to do more work, anyway…”

Their voices faded into the distance until they could no longer be heard.

Song Tusu gritted his teeth in silence. His gaze suddenly turned fierce, only to dissolve into resignation a moment later.

He exhaled a heavy breath, shook out his arms that ached from a full day’s labor, rolled his weary neck, and lowered his head to resume his work.

He felt he could not dare to ask for more. A second-rate programmer from a second-rate university—neither at the top nor at the bottom. To hold a formal position at a legitimate game studio, what more could he want?

It was, after all, just an ordinary studio. And people like him had an even more contemptuous and humble nickname in society: “code monkey.”

But he wasn’t some privileged young master. His parents were long gone. What right had he to hope for more?

The sun had long since set; the gentle afterglow that once lingered outside the window was replaced by a silent darkness. When Song Tusu finally came to his senses, the entire stack of code in his hands had been thoroughly debugged. Glancing at the clock’s hands, which had already swept past midnight, he rose slowly, stretched his exhausted body, deftly pulled a blanket from under his seat, spread it out, switched off the lights, and prepared to sleep.

Drowsily, he seemed to see the game he had painstakingly built from nothing over four years at university, using RPG Maker, earning countless praises on Steam, with world-renowned gaming companies vying to invite him to join.

A contented smile broke across Song Tusu’s face, dispelling the gloom that had settled between his brows.

Just before his consciousness faded into sleep, the last image he saw was:

A sixteen-year-old boy, his face flushed red.

A girl of similar age before him, her eyes brimming with shyness.

All around them, a group of lively teenagers cheered in unison, their voices both boisterous and rhythmic:

“Say yes! Say yes! Say yes!…”

…

“Whew—!” Song Tusu sat up with a start, glancing around in bewilderment. The exhaustion in his eyes was almost tangible.

He felt as though he had lived through a long, drawn-out dream.

In the dream, his name was Jiang Yu. He was born into privilege, with doting parents.

Though he had lived in the island nation since childhood, his family insisted that all descendants learn Chinese, so his reading and writing were flawless.

Unfortunately, despite dabbling in many fields and being rather gifted, his lack of diligence meant he achieved little in any.

In his first year of junior high, his mother died in a car accident, nearly breaking him. He stayed home all day, refusing to go out. Eventually, he became deeply immersed in the world of anime and manga, turning into a seasoned otaku.

Upon entering high school, his obsession only grew. His grandfather, losing patience, kicked him out to live on his own.

At first, Jiang Yu didn’t mind at all—he even found the freedom refreshing and continued to spend lavishly. But when his grandfather noticed this, the monthly allowance was slashed to the bare minimum, just enough for him to scrape by.

Forget buying all sorts of figures and limited editions—even a slightly expensive new coat required careful deliberation.

At least he didn’t have to worry about rent; his father had paid three years’ worth in advance for this apartment, ensuring he wouldn’t be homeless.

Song Tusu got up, went to the bathroom, splashed his face with cold water, and rubbed his aching brow, slowly coming to grips with his situation.

First, it seemed his soul had transmigrated.

Second, his predecessor was even more of an otaku than he had been.

Most importantly, when he looked in the mirror, aside from the mess of tousled hair, his appearance was still rather handsome—not much different from before, just a bit younger. But… wasn’t this art style straight out of an anime?

He’d once yearned for the world of light novels and anime. Yet now, actually standing in it, he felt an overwhelming sense of unreality.

He stood before the mirror for a long while, then said, “Since I have no ties left behind, and have awoken here in your place, from now on, my name will be Jiang Yu.”

Looking at his reflection, Jiang Yu suddenly smiled. Whether a dream or something else, he would accept it.

For the sake of both their lives, so full of mistakes.

…

Only now did Jiang Yu have time to sift through the memories in his mind. He discovered that the history of this world was not so different from the one he remembered, save for one crucial turn at the end of the Ming dynasty.

The Tianqi Emperor was not the ineffectual ruler of history, but a man of vigor and ambition. Later generations praised him as the Restorer of Late Ming.

With bold reforms, Emperor Tianqi raised commercial taxes and, on that foundation, launched an industrial revolution. He selected talented officials, developed new firearms, and routed the invading Eight Banners.

Afterward, the power of the Great Ming flourished. Armies were dispatched to conquer many regions. Even the island nation became a vassal state of Ming.

In modern times, Ming too faced aggression from foreign powers, but unlike history, their technological progress was never stunted. The dynasty, with manpower many times that of its enemies, eked out a bitter victory.

Afterward, the Ming emperor changed the country’s name to Huaxia, implemented constitutional monarchy, and relinquished imperial power. A tide of intellectuals, proclaiming “Learn from the strengths of the West to surpass the West,” traveled abroad, returning with advanced Western technologies.

The island nation, as a vassal, was cowed by the pyrrhic victory that nearly destroyed Huaxia, and the Sino-Japanese War of 1894 never took place. Huaxia’s technological development soared, and in a short time, it caught up with the most advanced Western countries.

Without the tragic modern history of his old world, from the turn of the millennium, Huaxia and the American Empire became the world’s two superpowers. Thanks to the path of technological advancement, the island nation became Huaxia’s loyal sidekick.

Jiang Yu’s family, the Jiangs, were one of Huaxia’s great houses—the Jiang clan of Tianshui. In the early 1980s, seeking to expand their business, the family patriarch sent his youngest son to settle in the island nation. Over nearly forty years, they developed into a pivotal force in the local IT industry.

At the same time, the Jiang family maintained close ties with their Tianshui relatives. Their businesses cooperated, making them leaders in their fields in both Huaxia and the island nation.

At this thought, Jiang Yu couldn’t help but smile wryly.

Clearly, his predecessor was the scion of a powerful family—an heir among heirs—with no real faults apart from his otaku lifestyle.

But was being an otaku really a flaw these days?

Probably not, right? Certainly not!

Then a violent cramp seized his stomach, and Jiang Yu’s senses seemed to switch on. Besides the lingering dizziness and weakness, a sense of newness spread through his heart.

Finding the fridge and kitchen empty in a matter of seconds, Jiang Yu grabbed his keys and wallet and hurried to the nearest supermarket.

There, surveying the few discounted items left and feeling the scattered coins in his pocket, his lips twitched, and he muttered the meaningless phrase, “Winner, winner, chicken dinner!” Resolutely, he grabbed a few potatoes, some tomatoes, a pack of eggs, and half a chicken, paid swiftly, and headed home.

Only to discover, after returning, that he didn’t even have any rice at home. So out he went again, coming back with a bag of rice.

After a flurry of activity, Jiang Yu finally produced a hearty potato and chicken stew, a tomato and egg soup, and a fresh pot of rice.

He pressed his palms together, following his predecessor’s habit, and said, with a touch of loneliness, “Let’s eat!” Then quietly began his meal.

He had only his previous life to thank for his cooking skills. Living alone, he had taught himself to cook many dishes for the sake of economy. And because he had lived in Sichuan, most of what he could make was Sichuan cuisine—making it hard to accept the flavors of the island nation’s food, at least as recalled in his memory.

After dinner, having washed the dishes and tidied up the apartment that hadn’t been cleaned in nearly a month, he found himself staring in puzzlement at the unfamiliar collection of figurines, light novels, and manga filling his bedroom—all brought from home.

“Our taste in ACG is really this different?” Jiang Yu muttered, curling his lip.

Then, shrugging to himself, he picked up a light novel from the desk and began to read.