Chapter Ten: Ren Yingying? My Buddy Is Linghu Chong

“Bastard! Worthless mutt with no parents! You must have stolen Wang Qian’s Lego! Confess now!” A gang of little tyrants cornered seven-year-old Zhang Qian behind the school building, whipping him with willow branches. He swung his schoolbag desperately to defend himself, yet his thigh was still struck again and again, each blow searing with pain.

Suddenly, someone tripped him, and he fell flat on his back. The bullies cheered and surged forward. But at that very moment, a voice as pure as a choir’s rang out above them: “What are you doing? What are you doing here? Want me to call your parents?!”

The bullies scattered at once. A moment later, Aunt Liu, the director of the orphanage, walked up to Zhang Qian and gently helped him up, brushing the dirt from his clothes. “Enough, don’t cry now. Be a man—bleed, sweat, but never shed tears!”

“Auntie, I’m not a worthless mutt!”

“Of course you’re not!”

“Where are my mom and dad? Why don’t they want me?”

“No one would ever willingly abandon their child. They must have lost you by accident. Right now, they’re probably searching the world for you. Study hard, get into a good university, become a graduate student, a doctor. Someday, if they see you on TV, they’ll come find you themselves!” Aunt Liu’s words were always so reasonable, so warm, as comforting as cough syrup. Soon, his tears were gone.

A gust of wind swept by, and suddenly Aunt Liu vanished.

Uncle Zhang from the gatehouse suddenly rushed up to seventeen-year-old Zhang Qian, thrusting an old AoPai cellphone into his hand. “Your aunt’s in the hospital—she wants to see you. What’s wrong with you, boy? Don’t you care at all? Do you see how sick she’s gotten?!”

“Aunt?” Hesitant, he looked at the phone; the screen showed the haggard face of Aunt Liu. All around was a field of white, as thick as autumn morning mist.

He tossed the phone back to Uncle Zhang and ran to a bicycle, leaping on and pedaling madly.

The hospital grew closer and closer—then, out of nowhere, a wolf lunged at him, its bloody jaws wide, aiming for his thigh.

The bicycle crashed to the ground. The hospital, like a domino chain, collapsed before his eyes, then blew away in the wind like paper.

A photograph floated by on the breeze, showing Aunt Liu before she fell ill—kind eyes, short hair brushing her shoulders. Yet around the photo’s edge was a stark black border.

“Aunt Liu—!” Zhang Qian shouted, reaching for the photo, but it shattered at his fingertips, scattering like a shower of falling blossoms.

The wolf lunged, maw gaping for him.

“Ah—!” Zhang Qian cried out, jerking upright, opening his eyes.

The wolf, the bicycle, the drifting petals—all had vanished. Only the four walls, bathed in dawn’s early light and the bronze-carved wooden window, remained.

The sun shimmered, shining through a thin layer of linen paper on the window, painting a beautiful scroll of light on the bronze-colored wooden floor.

“Sigh—” He slapped his forehead and got out of bed, sliding his feet into a pair of wooden clogs, indistinguishable left from right.

This was his fifth day in the Tang dynasty. The wound on his thigh, left by the wolf’s claws, had scabbed over, yet he still woke from nightmares just like the ones he had in college.

The bullying he endured as a child, the loss of his only family in middle school—these were scars on his heart, like the knots on an old tree. He couldn’t bear to think of them; whenever he did, his chest ached and tightened. Yet he couldn’t forget, for every so often, the memories haunted his dreams, tearing open the wounds again, leaving his heart bloody.

“If only I’d traveled back to six years ago, not the Tang dynasty,” he thought wistfully, stretching his stiff joints.

If that were the case, he could have spent more days with Aunt Liu, maybe even urged her to have surgery earlier, instead of waiting for him and the other orphans to finish the college entrance exam. In the end, she didn’t wait for them to step into the exam room; Aunt Liu, the kindest and most beautiful woman in the world, left them forever!

A hot, burning sensation stung the corners of his eyes. Sniffling hard, he swallowed his tears and began to tidy his clothes.

Aunt Liu had taught him: a man sweats and bleeds, but never cries. She’d told him to stay strong, no matter what life threw at him. She’d said, “Never rely on others—rely on yourself.” And she’d taught him, wherever he went, never forget his dignity as a human being—stand tall and proud.

Zhang Qian would never forget these lessons, for he knew, somehow, that Aunt Liu was always watching over him. Even though he had traveled through time, more than thirteen hundred years back to the splendor of Tang.

“Young master, are you awake?” A soft, sticky-sweet voice suddenly sounded at the door, breaking his reverie and regret.

A girl of about one meter forty-five, with an oval face, hurried in on tiptoe. She greeted him, then quickly shook out a freshly ironed robe to help him dress.

“I’m not a master!” The Tang dialect, belonging to the Sino-Tibetan family, was much easier to learn than English. In just five days, Zhang Qian could already manage basic conversations. He stepped back half a pace, correcting her in a low voice. “Don’t call me master. Just leave the clothes on the bed, I’ll dress myself.”

“Yes, Immortal Teacher!” The girl obediently switched her address, but still insisted on helping, smoothing his robe and fastening a belt inlaid with amber and colored glass.

“I’m not an Immortal Teacher either! Just call me Mister Zhang or Young Master Zhang.” Not daring to push the girl away, Zhang Qian blushed and continued to correct her. “Just leave the rest, I’ll handle it!”

“Your servant wouldn’t dare! I was assigned to serve you by the young master. It’s my honor to take care of you!” The girl knelt without hesitation, explaining as she picked up a pair of freshly laundered cloth socks. “Please, sir, sit down and let me help you with your socks.”

The natural reaction of a young man in the morning had yet to subside—it pointed straight at the girl’s forehead. Guilt surged through Zhang Qian. He snatched the socks, stepped aside, and insisted loudly, “Put them down, I’ll do it myself. I keep saying, I’m not a master—just a guest staying here!”

“Forgive me, Immortal Teacher, forgive me!” The girl thought she had used the wrong address and upset the honored guest, her face turning white as she knelt and knocked her head to the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Zhang Qian’s scalp tingled from her weeping. Helpless, he sat on the edge of the bed and handed back the socks. “Fine, you do it, you do it. It’s not like you’ll have to serve me for long anyway.”

“Thank you, Immortal Teacher!” The girl looked as if she’d been pardoned, quickly wiping her tears away and gingerly holding Zhang Qian’s big foot in her lap to slip on the socks.

“I’m not an Immortal Teacher…” Zhang Qian tried to correct her, then gave up with a sigh. “Forget it, call me whatever you want. Immortal Teacher it is! Not that ‘young master’ sounds much better anyway!”

“Mm!” The girl replied softly. Though confused, she dared not ask anything further. She gently took his other foot, put on the sock, then knelt to help him into soft deerskin boots.

“My shoes… aren’t dry yet… oh well, go ahead.” Zhang Qian wanted to ask if his sneakers had dried, but the words died in his throat.

The kneeling girl looked only thirteen or fourteen. In the twenty-first century, unless she was as unlucky as him to be an orphan, she would surely be her parents’ precious jewel.

Here in the Ren Family Manor, though, she was among the lowest of the low. Her body and all she owned belonged to the Ren family. Eating, walking, working—all followed strict rules. A single misstep could earn her a whipping!

Zhang Qian’s sneakers, jeans, blended shirt, vest, underwear, and other clothes had all been collected over several days by the steward, Ren Fu, under the guise of helping wash them. Servant girls like Zijuan had no right to question or even inquire about them.

At first, Zhang Qian hadn’t minded. But starting yesterday morning, he’d begun to suspect something was off—their washing and drying seemed to be taking far too long.

After all, it was autumn and dry. Even jeans, the hardest to dry, should be done by now—let alone cotton vests and underwear!

Still, Zhang Qian didn’t really care where his clothes had gone. From what he’d gathered, the Ren family, though outwardly devoted to farming and study, actually made most of their money through business. The old master, Ren Qiong, was a shrewd merchant with many shops and apparently dealings in jewels and spices with Western traders.

So Zhang Qian figured it was only natural for the steward to be curious about his jeans and sneakers, to study their make, materials, or origin. Deep down, he even hoped Ren Fu would find similar products elsewhere in the Tang realm. That would mean he wasn’t the only one to travel from the twenty-first century—others might have arrived before him and adapted better to this society.

Of course, if chubby Ren Chong would just discuss things with him or explain afterward, Zhang Qian would feel much better about the Ren family.

Yet, from his observations, chubby Ren Chong, though the young master, held little real power at home. He couldn’t call the shots on much, and few truly listened to him. Even Ren Quan, Ren Wu, and Ren Liu only respected him on the surface.

As for Ren Fu the steward and the other senior servants, they were even more perfunctory with Ren Chong. They wouldn’t openly defy him, given their respective stations, but each ran their own business and didn’t allow him to interfere.

The root of Ren Chong’s awkward position lay with his father, Ren Qiong. According to what Zhang Qian had gleaned from the boy, Ren Qiong, the true head of the manor, rarely stayed there, preferring the family’s city mansion.

Ren Chong’s mother had died soon after his birth, and his father quickly remarried a woman named Lady Xue. Not only was she skilled in running the household, she was robust and soon bore a daughter and three more sons.

So, since Ren Chong hadn’t offered any explanation about the missing jeans and sneakers, Zhang Qian didn’t blame him. In any case, after half a month, the steward would have to return the clothes, and by then, Zhang Qian would have mastered the Tang dialect and could leave, using the travel pass Ren Chong had promised to arrange.

“Immortal Teacher, the water is ready. Let me help you wash your face!” The girl’s soft voice pulled Zhang Qian out of his thoughts.

“Mm,” he agreed, resigned. He got up and hurried to the washstand.

A brass basin, half full of water, had already been prepared. Not wanting to take advantage of a young girl, Zhang Qian blocked the basin with his body and quickly washed his face himself, finishing in a flash.

“Immortal Teacher, let me help you brush your teeth!” Zijuan, unable to compete with his speed, tiptoed to his other side and offered a willow twig covered in salty foam and a bamboo cup of water.

The cup was already filled, and the tip of the willow twig, carefully chewed soft by Zijuan’s teeth, was ready so it wouldn’t hurt the “Immortal Teacher’s” gums.

Though this wasn’t his first time using a willow twig, the faint taste of her saliva still made Zhang Qian queasy. He had no interest in tasting anyone else’s saliva, no matter how lovely the girl.

He was wondering how to break off and discard the chewed end without hurting Zijuan’s feelings when a sharp voice rang in through the window.

“Where’s the fraud? Take me to him so I can teach him a lesson! Ren Quan, Ren Wu, Father told you to watch over the eldest son and stop him from indulging in nonsense! Is this how you do your duty?”

“Please, young mistress, calm down! This time the master really is genuine. If you don’t believe it, ask the steward. Young mistress—ah!” The slovenly doctor Ren Quan’s explanation was followed by the sound of a body falling and cries of alarm.

“It’s the young mistress!” Zijuan, who was attending Zhang Qian, turned pale with fright, pressing her fingers to her cherry lips and whispered anxiously, “If the young mistress comes, please don’t be angry, Immortal Teacher. She’s reasonable, just worried the young master is neglecting his duties. Please, bear with her. Once the young master hears, he’ll come and take care of everything!”

“This young mistress, is her name Yingying?” Zhang Qian had already heard from chubby Ren Chong that he had a sister called Yingying. He’d even secretly thought, “Too bad this Ren Yingying isn’t that Ren Yingying—otherwise, I’d have to befriend her, and maybe get sworn brothers with Linghu Chong!” Who’d have guessed, Ren Yingying would show up so soon!

“Your servant wouldn’t dare speak the young mistress’s given name!” Zijuan covered her mouth and backed away, eyes wide and shining like a startled fawn.

Bang! Before Zhang Qian could comfort her, the door to the outer room was kicked open. A girl in red, like a flame, swept in!