Hearing the voice calling by his ear once again, Brian Clark suddenly felt a cool liquid flow into his mouth. He couldn’t quite tell if it was sweet or had some other taste; before he even had time to react, the liquid had already slid straight down his throat. With each involuntary swallow, he gradually began to feel sensation returning to his hands and feet, and his eyes slowly moved twice. When he finally saw the face so close to him clearly, he couldn’t help but let out a silent sigh in his heart.

So, this really isn’t a dream, and no amount of strong stimulation can send him back to his original world.

“Young master, you scared me to death!”

Looking at that face streaked with black and white—whether it was from not washing properly in the morning or the aftereffects of a recent crying fit—Brian Clark couldn’t help but let out a laugh. But that laugh tugged at some wounds, making his smile look all the more pitiful: “A real man… why cry? I’m a dragon crossing the river—I won’t die!”

However, these words didn’t help at all; instead, they made the servant boy even more agitated: “Young master, you’re still talking like that! If it weren’t for Grandpa Grant, how could you still be here talking?”

Just then, another head poked over from the side: “Seventh young master, forgive this old man for being blunt, but you were far too reckless. Your body’s covered in injuries, yet you still jumped into the water to save someone! If I hadn’t happened to arrive just in time, and if my hands weren’t quick, your ‘dragon crossing the river’ would have turned into a drowned bug! There are so many people fetching water here, and none of them went to help—why did you, with such poor swimming skills, jump in?”

The old man speaking had a head full of messy, graying hair and a face covered in deep, chiseled wrinkles. At this moment, his chest and belly were bare, water droplets on his chest not yet wiped dry, a gray-brown single-layer robe draped over his body, and his hair still wet. As he spoke, he cheerfully wrung out a soft towel. Seeing Brian Clark look over, he smiled, tossed the towel over his shoulder, and nodded slightly: “It’s getting late, I have to hurry and deliver water to the households. I’ll be off now!”

“Thank…”

Seeing the old man stride quickly to a water cart, give a light shout, and push the heavy cart away, Brian Clark, sitting in the shade, propped himself up and tried to call out his thanks, but his voice seemed blocked, and he couldn’t get the words out. After a while, he finally leaned on the servant boy and slowly got up, letting the boy wrap his outer robe around him.

“Young master, please don’t be so impulsive again. We really have to thank Grandpa Grant today!” The servant boy carefully supported him while grumbling angrily, “You don’t know, young master, you nearly lost your life saving that person from the water. But when I arrived, I couldn’t find anyone around. According to Grandpa Grant, that person was dressed quite well. He saw the guy wake up and didn’t pay much attention, but in the blink of an eye, the man was gone—didn’t even say thank you! No conscience at all! If I ever find out who he is…”

Brian Clark didn’t hear a word of the servant boy’s indignant complaints. He shielded his eyes and glanced up at the blazing sun overhead, then looked again at his still-trembling arms and legs. Feeling utterly weak, he simply let all his weight rest on the servant boy’s shoulder. Even though the sun was rising higher, a cold wind made him sneeze several times in a row. By the time they reached the door of the house, a jumble of chaotic fragments suddenly flashed before his eyes, and he blacked out and fainted.

Chapter Two: The Prodigal

Outside the window, cicadas on the trees shrieked as if their hearts were being torn out. At the desk by the window, a young boy was sweating profusely as he practiced calligraphy, his wrist suspended in the air, with a thick stack of practice sheets piled beside him.

In the spacious, bright main hall, elders with beaming faces praised the calligraphy of several young disciples, while the boy stood alone in a corner, ignored by all.

In a tavern, the boy and several other wayward youths of similar age called each other brothers, drinking and making merry.

In a narrow alley, the boy rolled up his sleeves, gripping a wooden stick, striding at the front with a fierce air.

Ever since waking up that day, Brian Clark felt as if he were possessed—sometimes dazed, sometimes clear-headed. Scenes flashed through his mind like a revolving lantern, as if he’d watched a bland, two-hour movie, only the film was a montage of fast-forwarded clips with little of interest in the plot. Even so, whether the screening was over or not was not up to him, the protagonist, so he could only patiently wait for the film to end.

However, to his great disappointment, when the timeline finally reached the most critical moment, he saw the protagonist following those wayward youths into a narrow alley, only to be struck unexpectedly from behind. Then a piece of clothing was thrown over his head and he was beaten up, the final shot freezing on a face lying in bed, barely breathing, full of unwillingness. Only when the fast-forwarding, like a film projector, finally stopped did his tormented mind gradually return to normal.

Leaning back wearily against the thick cushion on the bed, Brian Clark didn’t know what to feel. Surviving a great disaster was certainly good, but if waking up meant having to bear a stranger’s identity, face a brand new environment in an ancient era, and even take on all their grudges and debts, even someone as thick-skinned as him couldn’t help but feel his mind was in chaos, unable to calm down for a long while.