Chapter Three: The Bittersweet Life of a Time Traveler

Only then did father and son truly breathe a great sigh of relief. The little one, still ignorant of danger, was told by Da Bao, “Just a few days ago, when we went to Yanggezhuang, a pack of wild wolves invaded. One child was killed—his insides ripped out by the wolves…”

The mere thought sent a shiver through the boy’s body.

Da Bao then taught him how to distinguish wolves from dogs, and Xiao Bao recalled a joke from the clever Ji Xiaolan of the State of Bianzi: “If the vertical stroke is on top, it’s a wolf; if it’s on the bottom, it’s a dog!” He forced a wry smile, nearly a bitter laugh.

As for why this particular wolf let Xiao Bao go, Da Bao surmised its belly was swollen, and it ran sluggishly—perhaps it had gorged itself, or maybe the child’s audacity had startled it. After all, people usually fled at the sight of wolves, or vice versa, but never before had someone so boldly touched, grabbed, or even pried open a wolf’s jaws!

Once their work in this area was done, they bid farewell to the Mountain God Temple and moved on to the neighboring county to collect and process herbs. Thanks to the stockpile from Fufeng County, they weren’t pressed for time, but a new challenge awaited: Da Bao was determined to teach his son martial arts.

Would there be secret techniques? No such luck. According to the memories Xiao Bao had merged with, the body’s previous owner had no love for martial arts—the grueling summer and winter training, standing in horse stance for hours, repeating moves endlessly day after day, all of it pure hardship.

If mastery meant the power to defeat all foes with a single blow, perhaps it would be worth it. But Xiao Bao knew his father’s skills, while respectable, were far from invincible. Facing two or three opponents might be manageable, but against ten, there would be nothing for it but to flee. In essence, the training was for health, not heroics.

Having lived a life of decadent leisure, Xiao Bao was no fan of this arduous regimen. His small body, already worn out from daily labor, felt perpetually exhausted.

Yet, laziness was not an option. His father, meticulous and strict in teaching, brooked no slack. Life’s comforts aside, discipline in training was rigid. Any sign of slackening, and that large, fan-like hand would be raised in warning. Under his father’s roof, Xiao Bao had no choice but to submit.

Horse stance after horse stance—legs trembling, sweat soaking his clothes, not daring to shift his posture. Blood coursed through his body, stars danced before his eyes, but still he had to endure, or else suffer even more.

Xiao Bao, having been injured before and accustomed to a life of ease, found horse stance a tremendous trial of will—or perhaps an ordeal.

He bewailed his fate: why did others, upon crossing into a new world, get to ride horses while he was condemned to squat in horse stance?

At long last, he made it through, and Da Bao mercifully announced a rest. But the next words made Xiao Bao’s face fall: “Take a break. Soon, I’ll teach you boxing!”

And so the boxing began—one move repeated ten times, twenty times, countless times, until Xiao Bao lost count. By noon, he was a limp heap in the grass, groaning and too weary to eat.

Seeing his son in such a state, Da Bao produced a bottle of medicinal oil and rubbed it into the boy’s aching muscles. The oil brought a cool, tingling burn, but was a balm for the soreness.

Exhausted, Xiao Bao soon fell asleep. Watching his son’s innocent face, Da Bao smiled with contentment.

He slept until nightfall, but after that, sleep eluded him.

They had no money for a decent place to stay. With no village ahead or inn behind, they rested under a great tree. The mountain mosquitoes were a relentless plague, attacking with renewed vigor.

Mountain mosquitoes here were vicious and venomous, rarely seeing humans; when they did, they seized the chance to improve their lot, biting so fiercely that a single welt would rise like a C-cup in size.

Did they have a military tent? A portable net? No. Any mosquito repellent? No. What they had were palms—smack! A bloody handprint.

On top of that, wary of wolves, they had to keep a fire and stand watch through the night.

Da Bao, a good father, not only taught Xiao Bao martial arts but also gathered herbs, prepared medicines, collected firewood, and kept watch at night.

Children of the poor mature early. Xiao Bao, knowing the eight honors and eight disgraces, could hardly let his father stand guard all night. He took the first watch, Da Bao the second.

At midnight, a sudden downpour came, swift and drenching. The towering tree above offered little protection; the rain poured down on father and son, soaking them through, and the fire was quickly extinguished.

Cold and afraid, fearing wolves might strike under cover of rain, Xiao Bao was held tightly in his father’s arms. Wet and shivering, the two huddled in misery until dawn.

They had a waterproof oilcloth, but it was used to protect the precious medicines; at a time like this, medicine mattered more than men.

When day broke and the rain ceased, there was no fire left. Again, they had to seek a flame from a nearby farmhouse—no BMW, just their own two legs to carry them.

Whoever says camping is fun, I’ll have words with them!

…

After several days in the wild, with enough medicine stocked, they set off for town to sell their wares.

What would a Tang Dynasty city be like? Xiao Bao was full of anticipation.

A Tang city—even a small one—was bustling as he had imagined. Rows of ancient-looking houses stood neatly in line; clusters of Tang-style architecture appeared before his eyes, and at first Xiao Bao’s eyes shone with excitement, only to soon dim.

As a former construction engineer, seeing so many ancient buildings was like a mouse falling into a vat of rice—he longed to study their materials, structure, functions, and more. Countless papers and honors seemed within reach… But who would read his research here?

At this thought, he nearly burst into tears.

He forced himself to let go—to stop scrutinizing Tang bricks, stop analyzing the cityscape, stop thinking of papers and daydreams, and instead, to walk carefully and not bump into anyone.

He followed his father, Da Bao, through the crowded streets, marveling at the lively throngs of the Tang golden age. People lived in peace and contentment. Along the street, vendors hawked their wares with loud cries, and the countless Tang curios dazzled Xiao Bao’s eyes—the streets were lined with treasures.

Jade, ceramics, vessels, books (some on paper, others on bamboo slips dating back to Qin and Han), coins—even a single Tang brick was an antique. The whole street bustled with walking relics; in modern times, they would be worth a fortune.

But could he go back and sell antiques? No.

He took a deep breath and calmed himself.

Xiao Bao raised his eyes, looking around with a calm gaze. No longer merely a spectator, he began to think as a participant: “How can I survive better in the Tang Dynasty?”

Father and son walked on. Da Bao surveyed the area, searching for a suitable spot. At last, he found one by a busy intersection—spacious enough, with good foot traffic. (Too crowded or too many buildings would bring trouble; a gathering crowd could block the street and draw the authorities.)

They set down their bundles, Da Bao helped Xiao Bao lay out their goods, and with a word—“Watch the stall”—he went off to arrange matters.

Even a good spot had its master. From the emperor’s throne down to the street corner, someone claimed the right to profit. Da Bao was an old hand—he knew that to trade here, he had to pay “protection money” to the local toughs.

He returned shortly—after all, paying respects to the local gang was no big ordeal, just a matter for the minor bosses.

His face relaxed; it had gone smoothly. The other side took the money and let them be.

They spread out their wares, arranged the medicines in neat rows, and set up two small flags: “Ancestral Remedies” and “Curing the World’s Ills.”

Da Bao struck the gong—its sound rang out, and he began hawking with practiced skill: “Friends passing by, come and have a look!”

“My father and I have brought secret ancestral remedies, passed down for three generations! If you’re ill, we will cure you; if you’re healthy, we’ll strengthen you! If you have money, show your support; if not, lend us your presence!”

“Bang bang bang!”

The thundering gong soon drew a crowd.

In those days, entertainment was scarce—no internet, no TV. Even reading was a privilege for scholars; for the common folk, a stage play was a rare treat. Anyone performing would be well received.

As the audience grew, Da Bao signaled to Xiao Bao, who braced himself and performed three neat somersaults, the last a hollow flip, landing firmly on his feet.

Yes, three somersaults in a row—smooth and seamless. The audience applauded, “Bravo!”

Xiao Bao himself was surprised at his own agility; it was pure muscle memory. He joked to himself, “With these flips, I could win Olympic gold! All those Li brothers—Li Xiaoshuang, Li Dashuang, Li Ning—can step aside!”

Yet, he felt a touch of sadness. In his past life, he’d been a strategist, a master of the mind, not “winning wars from a thousand miles away,” but “furrowing a brow and devising a plan.” Now, his body was faster than his thoughts; if he bulked up any further, he’d be a muscleman.

Landing nimbly, he struck a pose and performed three sets of boxing routines—wild and unpolished, but with enough flair to draw the crowd. His punches flew like the wind, his kicks were strong; the audience was dazzled, thinking this young man, though youthful, had some real skills.

When he finished, and after rounds of applause, Da Bao and Xiao Bao began to sell their medicine.

Showmanship was merely the prelude; the real business was in the remedies.

Da Bao stepped forward, calling out, “Come one, come all!”

“In my left hand is Dogskin Plaster, in my right, Strength Pills. We’ve traveled the world to heal the sick, crossed the rivers and lakes to aid the wounded!”

He held up the Dogskin Plaster for all to see: “Good for aching backs and sore legs, for pain in the muscles and bones…” (and so on, at great length). His words spilled forth, extolling the virtues of the medicine. He tore off a piece, handed it to Xiao Bao, who dashed to the crowd so they could see and smell its rich herbal aroma—genuine and unmistakable.

“Give me one!” “I want ten!” “Me too!”...

The crowd responded generously, and soon a small pile of copper coins filled the gong.

Da Bao handled the medicine, Xiao Bao the money, making change with practiced ease.

Inwardly, he laughed wryly: “A dignified CEO reduced to a cashier!”

…

After selling Dogskin Plaster for a while, Da Bao stepped down to demonstrate his staff skills. His technique was solid and measured—fierce when attacking, ironclad when defending—clearly above the average street performer.

Then he performed three rounds of boxing, including the set Xiao Bao had just demonstrated. Compared to his son, Da Bao’s movements were more powerful and steady—a solid, if not outstanding, practitioner. Anyone with an eye for martial arts would nod in approval.

Experts watched the technique; laymen watched the spectacle. The crowd, seeing Da Bao’s skill, knew he wasn’t a charlatan, which made it easier to sell the remedies.

He spoke in a deep voice:

“As the ancients say:

Illness strikes like a mountain falling, but with the right medicine, health returns.

The moon waxes and wanes; people grow old or suffer new injuries.

Time’s passage ages us; the pursuit of fame and fortune destroys the loyal.

Wine is poison to the body; lust is a deadly trap.

Rage can choke you; wealth brings no courage.

Drinking, gambling, and vice bring no blessings; cheating and trickery shorten one’s life.

If you’re ill, seek treatment; if you’re well, take precautions.

Here I have the Divine Strength Pill—take one, and your body becomes strong as an ox, your bones and muscles are fortified, your wishes will come true, and you’ll be capable of anything!”

Xiao Bao listened to his normally honest father’s lively pitch, so full of wit and persuasion, and could not help but admire him.

Unlike other street performers, they didn’t charge for their martial displays—it set them apart. Their livelihood depended on selling medicine, and when it came to marketing, Da Bao was more than competent.

The so-called Divine Strength Pill was actually the Strength Pill—a secret recipe that street charlatans often faked with flour, but the one they sold was genuine: made from dog and chicken kidneys, goji berries, polygonatum, poria, yam, and other ingredients, prepared according to the ancestral prescription—a pure herbal remedy with no side effects.

By modern standards, its effect was to regulate immunity, improve health, and enhance physical function.

After taking just half a pill, Xiao Bao had felt his spirits soar, and dreamed of glamorous models from his previous life, only to wake and find his trousers soaked.

He held up an opened Strength Pill for the crowd—a large, glossy black ball the size of a longan, with a strong medicinal fragrance that invigorated all who sniffed it. Young men felt a surge of energy, the old prepared to “raise the flag.”

Da Bao thumped his broad chest, guaranteeing that after taking the Divine Strength Pill, one would become as robust and muscular as he was—enough to make the lady of the house both delighted and alarmed.

“Come, come!”

“Give me three!” “I’ll take ten!”...

The scene was lively, and many pills were sold.

Compared to Dogskin Plaster, the Strength Pill appealed to a wider audience, cost about the same to make, and fetched a higher price.

After a while, Xiao Bao took the stage again, this time demonstrating his staff skills. When he’d finished a few moves, Da Bao joined him, and the two sparred—father and son giving their all, blending performance with salesmanship. By the end of the day, when the crowd had dispersed, they counted their earnings: almost all the medicine had sold, and besides a heap of copper coins, there were even a few silver ingots—worth a total of three thousand cash!

Given Tang Dynasty prices, three thousand cash was a substantial sum.

Xiao Bao, with his newly acquired memories, knew they’d struck it rich!

He took out a cloth pouch to store the money, but just then, a rat-faced man slunk over from the shadows, boldly reaching out his hand.

“What do you want?” Xiao Bao demanded. To his astonishment, Da Bao divided the money in two, put the larger share into the pouch, and handed it to the man, bowing and scraping, “Thank you, brother, for your support!”

The man took the money with arrogant indifference.

At that, Xiao Bao finally understood—they’d just paid “protection” to the local gang.

For doing nothing, they scooped up half the day’s earnings—harsher than any modern tax collector!

All that effort, all that sweat for their first big take, and in the end, half was gone. For the foreseeable future, they would merely scrape by.

His face flushed red with anger and frustration—and he promptly fainted.

…

The goddess Pandora, smiling with clenched teeth, declared, “You’ve made the protagonist suffer so much; readers are not pleased. Be careful or I’ll punch you back to the Stone Age to live with the apes!”

The author replied, deadpan, “I wouldn’t dare. At your command, I’ll send him straight into capitalism!”

With cajoling and coaxing, Pandora finally relented, tossing over a pile of recommendation tickets that nearly flattened the author even more.