Chapter One: This Child Looks Nothing Like Me

Tenth Year of the Han Dynasty

The city of Chang’an, not even five years since its founding, looked rather desolate. Clearly the new capital of a brand-new empire, yet there was not a trace of novelty. Dusk hung heavy, and under the oppressive dark clouds, even the brand-new residences exuded a sense of decay.

At this time, Chang’an had yet to build city walls. The not-so-luxurious Changle Palace and Weiyang Palace stood isolated, surrounded by clusters of low, gray-white buildings—one occupying the southeast, the other the southwest. The low buildings sprawled irregularly outward from their sides. Occasionally, a few withered mulberry trees blocked the view, and on the bumpy dirt roads, hardly a soul could be seen.

Changle Palace was built in the low-lying southwest corner of Chang’an, occupying a vast area and connected to Weiyang Palace, together taking up sixty percent of the city’s land. However, compared to the former Epang Palace, this Weiyang Palace was clearly lacking. Its gray walls and the entire palace complex used little bright color; even the emperor’s favorite red was only used sparingly.

Inside the palace, it was no different from outside—equally bleak, tinged with a pale hue. Occasionally, a few eunuchs could be seen, heads bowed, shuffling silently by. They barely communicated, as if even their footsteps made no sound, a peculiar silence that sent chills down one’s spine.

“Young master! Young master!”

A sudden commotion shattered the silence. A mischievous child burst out of the Jiaofang Hall—the most colorful building in Changle Palace, its walls smeared with pepper powder and mud, giving off a unique warm hue and a faint fragrance.

The child was very young—if you weren’t paying attention, you might not even notice this little thing whose head barely reached the ground. Yet behind him trailed no fewer than six young eunuchs. They dared neither to run nor to shout, each wearing a worried expression as they followed the little one.

Despite his short legs, the little one ran fast, dashing out of Jiaofang Hall and heading toward the Changxin Hall on the west side of the front palace.

The eunuchs felt a chill rush to their heads. The leader cried out in alarm, “Young master! You mustn’t barge into Changxin Hall!”

Only then did the little fellow stop, already panting from exhaustion. He leaned against the palace wall and shouted, “I won’t go in, but you must agree to one thing for me!”

“Young master, your studies were ordered by His Highness. We dare not disobey.”

This little one was called Samuel Carter, the seventh son of George Carter. At the same time, he had a secret no one knew: within his young body, there had long existed two souls.

Samuel Carter himself didn’t understand how he had come to this world and entered this body.

As an engineer, Samuel Carter had spent most of his time in offices and factories. His knowledge of transmigration came mostly from a few TV dramas. His understanding of history was extremely, extremely, extremely limited.

From a young age, Young Master Chang began to dream—he always dreamed of living in another world.

Reality and dreams constantly intertwined, to the point where he himself was unsure whether he was Young Master Chang or Samuel Carter.

After months of headaches, Young Master Chang more or less figured out who he really was.

He was not Young Master Chang, nor was he still Samuel Carter. He was a brand-new Samuel Carter, just as mischievous and childish as the original, but with a portion of secret memories from the future.

Except for occasionally recalling things that didn’t belong to this era, he was no different from a normal child—just as playful, and he would cry if beaten.

So why did he get beaten? Samuel Carter himself wasn’t sure of the exact reason. One day, he suddenly realized that the tall father standing before him was George Carter, and a word popped into his mind. He blurted out, “George Washington.”

For some reason, the previously kind and amiable George Carter gritted his teeth at these words, took off his shoe, and gave him a good beating.

Later, his mother told him, “Your father isn’t dead yet, so there’s no need to think about posthumous titles so soon. But, you did pick a good temple name.”

These memories from the future didn’t affect Samuel Carter much. His love for his mother, disdain for his brothers, and fear of his father were all inherited, as was, most importantly, his resentment toward studying.

Perhaps it wasn’t really an influence—Samuel Carter in his previous life didn’t like liberal arts much. In this world, because he had shown his intelligence and talent for mathematics too early, George Carter, overjoyed, found several scholars to teach him.