Chapter Two: Something Is Amiss with This Great Tang

Weiyang County was neither large nor small—counting even the scattered households in the outskirts, there were barely more than three thousand families. Walking along the dilapidated streets, watching the listless vendors and passersby, their faces sallow and eyes dull, He Chang’an felt a flicker of confusion.

Why did everyone have dark circles beneath their eyes?

In his imagination, the so-called Great Tang Dynasty should have exuded the grandeur befitting its name; no matter how fallen, it shouldn’t be a place where everyone appeared collectively exhausted and worn down by toil. Moreover, men and women alike seemed affected. Was this truly the Tang Dynasty, just before or after the An Shi Rebellion? Or perhaps the very end of Tang?

The original owner of this body was illiterate, capable only of writing his own name. His head was filled with thoughts of brawls, listening to songs in pleasure quarters, bullying the weak, extorting and loafing, never returning home at night; in short, a scoundrel.

How did a man who didn’t even know who the emperor was end up working in the yamen? Was it truly because he had connections above? Even as a temporary hire, shouldn’t there be some standards?

He Chang’an racked his brains, but could not recall any official or wealthy relatives in the He family. Nor did he have a cousin of breathtaking beauty who might have brought fortune by her looks. Considering his half-dead father, just managing to sire a son as handsome as “Constable He Chang’an” must have been an achievement in itself.

Could it have been the village girl who once kept him?

The thought made He Chang’an laugh silently to himself. In his memory, last night was the first time she had ever come…

So, lost in these wild thoughts, he walked on. The fawning greetings and forced smiles from the small vendors drew from him only a sullen, indifferent nod—a face of empty courtesy, the very image of a petty official from the yamen.

Such types had long since vanished from his home on Blue Star. All had been knocked into another world by a slap of brick.

Yes, the original “Constable He Chang’an” truly deserved a beating…

“Master He, good morning.” As he neared the yamen, he passed a steamed bun shop. The owner, a middle-aged man with a servile grin, hurried out, swiftly wrapping six buns in coarse paper.

“Master He, these are your favorite braised pork buns—plump and greasy. My wife and I rose early to prepare them—the thinnest wrappers, the juiciest filling, just as you like, sir…”

He Chang’an took the buns out of habit, instinctively reaching for money in his robe. But—

The bun shop owner’s face changed drastically, lips trembling in terror as if disaster loomed, nearly dropping to his knees. “Master He, please, you are generous and merciful, I shall never dare say another word, never again…”

He Chang’an paused, withdrew his hand from his robe without a word, and walked away as if nothing had happened.

What a notorious “Constable He Chang’an” he must have been in Weiyang County, for it to be a miracle he made it to eighteen.

Good people rarely are rewarded; troublemakers live forever. That must refer to people like him. Still, not a bad thing—having been reborn, if he could live another few hundred or thousand years, it would be a fine thing.

The county yamen was dilapidated, though it occupied a large plot. The stone lions at the gate were badly damaged; from the size and materials of the main gate, walls, and hall, one could see it had once been imposing.

He stepped over the high threshold, passed through the silent gate and corridor, into a row of more than ten “offices” for clerks and constables—the so-called “Three Divisions, Six Rooms.”

None of them wielded real power, and most just idled away the days.

When He Chang’an entered the constable’s room, five or six other constables were sprawled on wooden benches, backs pressed to the wall, all pale-faced with dark circles, fast asleep.

Were all Tang men this overworked?

He Chang’an glanced at the scene before him, compared it to himself, and shook his head with a wry smile. This Tang Dynasty… was hard to endure.

Maintaining the original owner’s demeanor, He Chang’an strolled over to his own desk and bench, and with one kick sent Constable Hu the Fourth rolling away, ignoring the curses, spreading out his paper and starting to eat his buns.

“He Chang’an, what are you showing off for? Believe I’ll curse you to death?” Hu grumbled, found another spot, and quickly drifted back to sleep.

“Come on, curse me—let’s hear it.” He Chang’an spoke with his mouth full, voice muffled. “Hu the Fourth, come on. If you don’t curse me to death, I’ll sleep with your sister!”

A thoroughly detestable scoundrel.

Hu really was exhausted; in the middle of his muttering, he began to snore, sinking into deep sleep.

The others, roused by the commotion, didn’t even open their eyes. A grunt, a shift of posture, and they went back to their slumber.

Was this really just overwork?

No, something was wrong.

He Chang’an eyed his lethargic colleagues, a chill creeping up his spine at the sight of their dark circles.

“Chief Zhang, aren’t we going on patrol today?” He asked, wiping the grease from his mouth after finishing the buns.

“Patrol, my ass,” grumbled Zhang the Tiger, their squad leader—a wiry, sallow man famed for his knife skills, said to be the third best fighter in Weiyang County.

Rumor had it, the best was a blind man living in a small temple south of town, begging for a living and unmatched with a blade; the second was Officer Yang, the county’s captain.

Yet in this moment, even this third-best fighter couldn’t lift his eyelids. He Chang’an noticed Zhang’s hand creeping to his lower back, massaging it surreptitiously, grimacing and groaning.

Every month, there were always two or three days when the whole lot was like this…

Even if you spent a day and a night working, it shouldn’t be this exhausting…should it?

Pale faces, bluish lips, dark circles, aching waists, constant drowsiness, shortness of breath, and today was the Ghost Festival…

Piecing together the fragments of “Constable He Chang’an’s” memories—the pleasure before, the damp chill after—he shivered.

Constable He Chang’an had been worked to death!

Had he not transmigrated last night and extended this scoundrel’s miserable life, today there would likely have been a feast at his home.

His past profession and experiences had left He Chang’an with a keen sense of danger. To him, it was precisely these “ordinary” details that felt the most wrong.

“Chief, did you visit the Emerald Pavilion again last night?” He Chang’an asked with feigned nonchalance.

“No, money’s tight lately,” Zhang replied groggily. “Why, did you go off on your own last night?”

“Heh, same here, money’s tight.” He Chang’an forced a laugh.

In everyone’s mind, “Constable He Chang’an” was a handsome rogue—fearless in a fight, reckless in pleasure houses, and generous with his silver. Yet, to this day, he was still a novice in matters of love.

He Chang’an found it odd—after more than two years as a constable, such a scoundrel had somehow remained untouched.

No, something was very wrong.

Before eighteen… it wasn’t a matter of will, but of impossibility?

He calmed his mind, swiftly sorting and analyzing the fragmented memories of “Constable He Chang’an,” and his expression darkened.

It seemed that in Weiyang County, men under eighteen could not approach women; and women under sixteen could not approach men. Otherwise, they would die in most unpleasant ways…

In the original owner’s memory, there was a vague mention of something called a “Divine Covenant”—it sounded lofty, but was in fact some mysterious, sinister, and domineering magical prohibition.

This so-called Night God Sect—there was something deeply wicked about it.

And in this Tang Dynasty, could one really cultivate immortality?