Chapter Twenty-Nine: Reading Your Words Is Like Meeting You

Taking advantage of Li Zhongting’s death and the ensuing chaos within the Li family of Yangzhou, Li Yu seized the opportunity to absorb the entire Yangzhou branch under the protection of the Li family of Chang’an. Li Yu had long planned for this, knowing that even a powerful dragon needs the aid of a local serpent. Yet Li Zhongting was a sly old fox, always making grand promises but rarely delivering substance. Removing him was a great boon for Li Yu’s control over the Yangzhou Li family.

In doing so, Li Yu had also done Yu Lang a favor. With the Yangzhou Li family’s hidden threat eliminated and now leaning on the mighty Washmoon Academy, Yu Lang’s situation had become far safer; he was unlikely to fall into a deadly predicament again.

To eliminate any excuse for outsiders to stir up trouble, Yu Lang decided to sell off his other properties, keeping only two residences in Jixian Lane and Ping’an Lane. The rest he converted to ready cash—about three thousand taels of silver, heavy enough to fill a large chest. Since the Tang dynasty had no banks, and both Yu Lang and Qingqing were about to enter Washmoon Academy as students, they could not bring servants along. Thus, what to do with Obaba and the chest of silver became a pressing issue.

Du Fu, ever smiling, volunteered to take care of this task. The academy permitted instructors to have attendants, so Obaba would henceforth follow Du Fu. It was fortunate that the two got along well, both sharing a fondness for squatting and watching ants battle.

Qingqing, however, was reluctant to hand all three thousand taels over to Du Fu. Though he was honorable, he could be unreliable.

Yu Lang explained with a smile, “You don’t understand his ambitions. He’s not the type to spend silver on wine and women. His dream is for every poor man in the world to have a roof over his head. If these three thousand taels can further his ideals, it’s worth it. Besides, think about it: could you buy the Boundless Relic or the Dragon-Tiger Elixir for three thousand taels? He must have paid dearly for those. Even if he spends it all on pleasure, I’d have no complaints.”

Qingqing widened her eyes. “Let’s see if you complain when you can’t afford a meal!” Though her words were sharp, she dropped the matter after Yu Lang’s explanation.

The next day was the grand entrance ceremony for Washmoon Academy. Qingqing went ahead early. Yu Lang watched as Obaba carried the chest of silver, trailing behind Du Fu, who walked ahead with his hands clasped behind his back, gradually disappearing into the distance. Yu Lang felt a hollow emptiness in his heart.

Such a large house, and now he was alone.

Returning to his room, he retrieved a tightly locked small box from beneath the bed.

The box had been left behind on the day Liang Chaoran knocked Yu Lang unconscious and sent him to Beigu Mountain. A note was wedged in the box’s crevice: “Only Lang’er may open this upon seeing my corpse. Top secret.”

The handwriting was not Liang Chaoran’s, and the paper’s oxidation suggested it was years old. Who could have penned and left this note? A name emerged—Yu Jiao.

From the modern era to the Tang dynasty, Yu Jiao had always been Yu Lang’s father. Though Yu Lang had heard many tales about this name, he had never interacted with the man.

Only now did Yu Lang muster the courage to open the box, sensing that whatever lay inside might prove either blessing or curse, like Pandora’s box from western myth—both fearsome and seductive.

Yu Lang took his familiar short blade, gathered his strength, and struck the copper lock, breaking it but dulling the blade. He felt a pang of regret; he had found this blade months ago in a blacksmith’s shop and grown attached to it.

The lock was gone, but the box still would not open. On its other side was a combination lock.

A three-digit lock—the sort used on diary books in his previous life. Even with brute-force permutations, it wouldn't take long.

Within the time it takes to burn a stick of incense, Yu Lang unlocked the box.

Seeing the combination lock, Yu Lang steeled himself. Perhaps his father, Yu Jiao, was a transmigrator as well.

He opened the box. On the cover of a thick, long letter, in simplified characters, was written: “The transmigrators of this world are far more than just you and me.”

Yu Lang felt thunderstruck. No wonder Washmoon Academy’s architecture was so odd, and though the historical timeline largely matched the chronicles, myriad details diverged.

His mind was in turmoil. His greatest advantage in this world had been his partial knowledge of future history. If he wasn't the only transmigrator, everything might be upended. And Yu Jiao said “far more than you and me,” which meant it wasn’t just a handful—perhaps dozens, even hundreds.

Hands trembling, Yu Lang unfolded the letter.

—Son, whether in the modern world or here, this is my first letter to you.

I estimate you’ll open it around the end of the Kaiyuan era.

If you’re reading this, I must have been defeated; allow me a moment of sorrow.

As I wrote on the envelope, the transmigrators of this world are far more than just the two of us. I’ve slain several myself—Cao Mengde from the Three Kingdoms, Huang Chao from late Tang. Not because I’m stronger than them, but because our era gave us the advantage; our thinking always stayed ahead.

There’s a significant marker for transmigrators—their names, almost always matching their names from previous lives. So if you ever meet a man with a toothbrush mustache named Hitler, don’t hesitate—kill him.

That’s another advantage we share; we weren’t famous, so we face little risk of exposure.

By my analysis, though there are many transmigrators, few can stir up real trouble. You must know that aside from those born with extraordinary might, most heroes are shaped by circumstance. After ten years or so in Tang, most forget where they came from; many don’t even understand what transmigration truly is.

So don’t panic. Follow the timeline, avoid making enemies of those blessed by fate, and you’ll achieve something. I’ve never met anyone from an era more advanced than ours. We’re a pair from the twenty-first century—let’s not disgrace our origins.

One more thing to remember: these twenty-odd years have not been wasted; I’ve figured out some of the game’s rules. With so many transmigrators arriving together in this age, there seems to be a guiding hand behind it all. I searched long and hard, but never found it. It seems delighted to watch transmigrators slaughter each other. With every transmigrator you kill, your power surges. This world is, in essence, a battle royale for transmigrators. Hide yourself well, but be ready to bare your blade when it matters and eliminate the others… The rest, you must discover for yourself.

Finally, I’ve left you some things. You must be furious—how can a transmigrator lack a cheat? As a second-generation transmigrator, these must be inherited from me.

First, a short blade. There’s nothing in this world it cannot cut. Even more miraculous, it can store some of your inner energy—think of it as a portable expansion for your dantian. Impressive, right? Of course, it’s only useful in the lower realms; later on, it’s rather trivial. Not that you’d understand, you weakling.

The blade has no name; I dislike naming things. If you wish, name it yourself.

Also, there is a photograph—though there are no cameras here, it’s actually a painting. I held my blade to the neck of Wu Daozi, the Saint of Painting, to make him paint it. The likeness is good. You’ve never seen what your mother looks like, have you? Poor child.

Though I love this painting, I leave it to you. I am, after all, not a good father.

Yu Lang gently stroked the painting, trimmed to photo size, his eyes growing damp. It was the first time he’d seen his mother. Her chin was softly rounded, her expression gentle.

“I am not an orphan.” Tears welled up. He remembered how, as a child, he’d always grit his teeth and refuse to cry when bullied, but whenever others mocked him as an orphan, he couldn’t help but crumble.

Yu Lang gently caressed the pitch-black short blade; its icy coldness brought him a sense of calm. The rest of the journey, he would walk for them both.