Chapter One: The Disciples of the Mohist School

Moton was an ambitious young man of the twentieth century. Although he came from a poor family, his roots were pure, being a third-generation son of impoverished peasants—a classic penniless nobody.

Yet this did not dampen Moton's determination to strive for a better life. He resolved to start from scratch and fight his way to a fortune of five million.

Today was the moment that would decide his fate. Moton lingered for a long time in front of a bank he had scouted several times before. The area was safe, and there were few passersby.

Pulling the brim of his hat low, Moton felt the contents of his pocket, steeled himself, and walked into a shop next to the bank.

"Boss! One ticket for the Double Color Ball."

Moton took out two one-yuan coins and set them before the shopkeeper.

"The draw is tonight. Good luck." The shopkeeper expertly printed out a lottery ticket and handed it to Moton with a smile.

Night fell, and soon it was nine twenty. Moton refreshed his phone over and over, waiting for the results. His five-million fortune hung on this moment.

Each time the numbers were drawn was agony for Moton, watching as his five million slipped away before his eyes—no, five million and two yuan, to be precise.

But for the sake of his dreams, this pain was something he had to endure.

Ding!

A notification popped up from the lottery app: the results were in.

"No—"

A cry of anguish burst from Moton's rented room.

"My five million and two yuan!"

At that moment, across the land, countless waves of bitter resentment rose skyward—over ten million in all. These resentments, drawn together by some mysterious force, gathered in the sky to form an enigmatic pattern, which flashed a few times before vanishing without a trace.

...

Moton felt as if his head was splitting. He tried to open his eyes, but they would not obey. In the darkness, scenes flickered through his mind like a dream, yet everything was strangely vivid.

In this dream, he had become a man of the Great Tang. His father was named Mo Lie, a disciple of the Mohist School and commander of Li Shimin's Divine Works Battalion. Throughout the wars that unified the empire, Mo Lie carved roads through mountains and built bridges over rivers, always at the forefront, helping Li Shimin seize every advantage and earning great merit.

Alas, Mo Lie's fortune was shallow. When the wars ended and the empire was unified, he did not live to enjoy the glory. Years of battle left him with hidden injuries, and he died young, leaving behind a hollow noble title for Moton—this man who shared his name.

"Wait." Moton suddenly awoke with a jolt.

How could these memories be so clear, as if he had lived them himself?

He sat up abruptly and tore the sheet from his head. The sight before him left him stunned.

The rented room he once lived in was gone. In its place was a classical chamber—wooden doors, wooden bed, wooden windows, wooden walls.

In other words, the style of the room was, well, ancient!

Moton's mind raced. Everything was unfamiliar yet familiar. Memories flashed before his eyes, the scenes from his dream now vivid recollections, the souls of two men merging and becoming one.

"Could I really have traveled to the Tang Dynasty?" Wild hope swelled within him.

It seemed impossible. Moton was trembling with excitement, unable to believe it. He had lost five million and two yuan, but somehow hit the universe’s biggest jackpot—time travel.

He had crossed into the Tang Dynasty, becoming a fallen noble during the Zhenguan era.

Gazing into the bronze mirror at the face so like his own, Moton still felt as if he were dreaming.

At length, he calmed himself. Since he was here, he might as well make the best of it. Besides, this was the height of the Tang, one of the greatest eras of the Chinese nation—not such a bad fate.

As if to prove his suspicions, the door creaked open and a young girl of fifteen or sixteen entered, dressed in purple. In Moton's memories, she was his personal maid, always clad in purple, which earned her the name Zi Yi—Violet Robes.

She had grown up with Moton, caring for him with great devotion. Alas, Moton had always been distracted by the beauties of Chang'an and had never paid her much attention.

From Moton's perspective now, Violet Robes was already at least an eight out of ten, even though she had not yet fully matured. In a few years, she would surely be a true beauty.

He had gained a noble title for nothing, and now had a lovely maid to attend him—Moton's happy life seemed about to begin.

But his sweet dream lasted less than a second before Violet Robes mercilessly shattered it.

"Young master, something's wrong! Second Uncle Li is at the gate. You need to hide or you'll be beaten again!" The girl’s face was filled with panic.

"Beaten?" Moton's face fell as a flood of fearful memories about Second Uncle Li surged through him.

"Once, twice... many times."

He had lost count.

"Don't be silly. Second Uncle Li cares for me—how could he bear to beat me?" Moton forced a laugh, though his body shivered with dread.

"Master, have you forgotten? This year, our Mo Village suffered a disaster and the grain harvest was halved. Everyone is counting on you to bring back the noble's stipend from Chang'an to get us through. But you squandered all the money! Second Uncle Li must have found out," Violet Robes said anxiously.

"Ah!"

The tangled memories returned. Moton's father died early, leaving him little inheritance.

Many soldiers who had followed Mo Lie in the wars retired and settled in Mo Village, causing the population to swell.

As Mohists, they were naturally at odds with the Confucian officials, and those in charge of granting noble titles played tricks—assigning all one thousand households as Mo Lie’s fief. Thus, while his rank was not the highest, he was the only minister with a true thousand-household fief.

A large population should be good, but the land granted was barren, thanks to those same tricks. In this era, grain yields were low, and Mo Village lay near Shibie Valley, a low-lying area plagued by drought and flood—a typical salt-alkali wasteland. Even in good years, the harvest was meager; in this year of disaster, production was halved and could not possibly feed over a thousand households.

The entire village relied on Moton to bring back food and provisions from Chang'an, but Moton, ever vain, fell in with a group of idle friends in the city and squandered the stipend—returning home drunk and empty-handed.

"Moton, you wastrel! Get out here!" came a furious shout from outside. Moton shuddered at the familiar voice—it was Li Yi, his father's former deputy.

...

After Mo Lie's death, Li Yi managed the entire village, Moton included. He was notably strict with Moton, who had always feared him most.

"Calm down, Brother Li. The young master is still a child—no need for such anger," came the voice of Uncle Fu.

Uncle Fu was a veteran of the Divine Works Battalion, who retired due to injury and became the Mo household’s steward, loyal as ever.

"Brother Fu, don't stop me. Today I must teach this brat a lesson! He risked the whole village’s lives, squandering all our provisions!"

"Master, what do we do? Now that Second Uncle Li knows, he’ll definitely punish you. You must hide!" Violet Robes said in alarm.

In the past, Moton would have fled as far as he could, returning only when Li Yi’s anger had cooled.

But Moton was no longer the timid youth he had been. Instead, he straightened his clothes and strode out the door.

"Master!" Violet Robes cried in alarm, hurrying after him.

Outside stood a lean, middle-aged man in washed-out clothes, trying to push his way inside. Uncle Fu was attempting to restrain him, but when they saw Moton come out, both froze in surprise.

"Uncle Fu, Second Uncle!" Moton greeted them, his breath visible in the cold air.

Not until Moton bowed did the two men come to their senses.

"Young master," Uncle Fu replied.

"You little scoundrel, do you know what trouble you’ve caused?" Li Yi shouted, raising a bamboo rod but not yet bringing it down.

He saw something different in Moton. The boy, once cowering in his presence, now stood calm and collected, without a trace of former fear.

"Second Uncle, perhaps you haven’t heard—grain prices in Chang'an have risen by fifty percent. Even with my stipend, it would have been a drop in the bucket, nowhere near enough to feed the entire village," Moton said quietly.

"That’s no excuse for squandering it. Even a little grain would be some hope," Li Yi retorted angrily.

Uncle Fu opened his mouth, looked at Li Yi and then at Moton, and finally sighed bitterly.

The title of county marquis was not high but not low; in Chang'an, it hardly stood out. When it passed to Moton, it dropped a rank—now only county baron. The stipend was reduced, and with the village’s swelling population, the grain was far from enough. Besides, the stipend was Moton’s by right—if he spent it, what right had they to blame him?

Li Yi lapsed into silence, his heart heavy. The thought of thousands of villagers facing hunger and cold as winter approached tormented him. But then Moton spoke, startling him out of his gloom.

"Since this is my mistake, I will make it right. I promise you—not a single villager will starve or freeze this winter," Moton declared solemnly.

"Now, I need to know—just how poor is Mo Village?"