Chapter Two: Calamity Approaches

Yang Xi stood by the window, gazing absently at the lush greenery filling the courtyard. He had maintained this position for a long time, unmoving, oblivious to the servants’ entreaties and calls, standing straight and still, striving to make sense of the reality before him.

He ought not to be called Yang Xi, nor should he be here—this was not his world. This was a dream, a vivid dream, not reality—he was merely dreaming, not yet awake, or perhaps this was but a plot straight out of a novel, with everything before him nothing more than illusion.

Yet, countless facts forced upon him the truth: everything was real.

The identity he now bore was that of Yang Xi, fourth son of Yang Guozhong—the infamous chancellor of the Great Tang, cousin to Yang Yuhuan, and an esteemed court official. But no one knew that though the body was Yang Xi’s, the soul within belonged to a man from more than a millennium in the future—a modern soul.

He was a man who had crossed time, a transmigrant carrying the memories of two lifetimes. Before his crossing, he had just retired from the military after ten years of service, leaving his post as a reconnaissance company commander in an army group. Tearfully, he had bid farewell to the army and his comrades, and boarded a long-distance bus back to his hometown, his heart heavy with sorrow. The journey was tedious, his emotions turbulent, so he sought ways to dispel the unspeakable sadness and loneliness. Fond of reading and especially drawn to military and historical works, he had purchased a book on the An-Shi Rebellion at a transfer station and read it as he waited.

It was an era that fascinated him—he’d read related works before, about the Tang dynasty and the An-Shi Rebellion, though he’d never studied them in detail. Still, the history was familiar and absorbing. He never expected that, engrossed in the tale, sighing over the Tang’s decline from glory to chaos, disaster would strike: the bus crashed into a heavy truck ahead.

In the terrifying impact, consciousness fled. When he awoke, he found himself in ancient times, inhabiting a young man’s body.

After expending time and effort, he pieced together the truth: the body he now possessed was that of Yang Xi, youngest son of the notorious chancellor Yang Guozhong during Emperor Xuanzong’s reign—a youth of seventeen, renowned for his talent and martial prowess, and striking in both figure and appearance.

It had happened thus: one morning, Yang Xi rose as usual to practice martial arts, but for some unknown reason, while swinging his spear, he struck his own head, sustaining a grave injury and falling into a coma. Two days later, he awoke.

No one could have guessed that the boy who awoke was no longer the original Yang Xi; his soul had been replaced by a stranger from the future. When he finally accepted the facts upon awakening that morning, Yang Xi struggled to believe he had returned to antiquity, but reality left him no choice. Once he understood his identity, his shock only deepened.

Heaven, is this a joke? Of all people, why must he transmigrate into the son of Yang Guozhong—the traitorous minister reviled for centuries? If memory served, the book he’d been reading before losing consciousness recorded that Yang Guozhong, fleeing westward with Emperor Xuanzong, was slain along with all his family by mutinous imperial guards at Mawei Slope, while Yang Yuhuan and her sisters also perished.

What time was it now? Had the An-Shi Rebellion erupted? How long until Yang Guozhong’s family met their end? As these questions struck him, Yang Xi shuddered and turned to the timid young maid who’d been hovering anxiously nearby—a beauty named Ping’er, his close attendant. “Tell me, what is the current reign year, and what date is it today?”

“Fourth Young Master, this is the fifteenth year of Tianbao, today is the fifth day of the sixth month!” Ping’er, delighted yet bewildered that her young master finally addressed her—albeit with an odd question—answered hastily and pleaded, “Young Master, did you forget these things because of your injury? Please, don’t worry, just rest and recover, everything will come back to you! Let this servant help you…”

“The fifteenth year of Tianbao, fifth day of the sixth month?” Though dulled by the bizarre circumstances, her words struck Yang Xi with a jolt. In the eleventh month of the fourteenth year of Tianbao, An Lushan had raised the banner of rebellion in Fanyang; by June of the fifteenth year, Chang’an would fall to the rebels, and Yang Guozhong with his family would be butchered at Mawei Slope by mutinous guards.

This was history as recorded. At the realization, Yang Xi nearly staggered.

Emperor Xuanzong’s flight to Shu and the massacre of Yang Guozhong’s family happened precisely in the sixth month of the fifteenth year of Tianbao.

Heaven, what did fate intend? If transmigration must occur, why thrust him straight into the fire, placing him on the brink of death—a knife at his throat? Was he meant to repeatedly experience transmigration, one death after another? Surely this was too cruel.

According to history, after Luoyang’s fall, an enraged Emperor Xuanzong, swayed by Yang Guozhong and the eunuchs, executed the famed generals Feng Changqing and Gao Xianzhi, then appointed the ailing Geshu Han to command the Tong Pass forces, ordering him to take the offensive. Geshu Han, unable to defy the imperial command, led all his troops from Tong Pass into battle at the start of the sixth month, only to be ambushed and utterly defeated by An Lushan’s general, Cui Qianyou; the twenty thousand strong army was routed, and Tong Pass lost.

With the fall of Tong Pass, Chang’an’s defenses were gone, and the rebels could march straight in.

Upon hearing the rebels’ approach, Emperor Xuanzong made no preparations to defend, fleeing the palace by night for Jiannan.

With the emperor’s flight, the city’s defenders lost all will to resist; Chang’an became an undefended city, soon overrun, its palaces looted, and countless nobles and commoners slaughtered as the rebels entered.

Upon reaching Mawei Slope, the imperial guards mutinied, demanding the death of Yang Guozhong, his sons, and Yang Yuhuan for their crimes. Xuanzong, under pressure, gave in; Yang Guozhong and his sons were slain, and Yang Yuhuan was forced to hang herself.

All of this was detailed in the book Yang Xi had been reading before his accident; the section he’d just finished described the fall of Luoyang and Chang’an. Knowing the time he now inhabited left him chilled to the bone.

Despite many brushes with death during his service, even witnessing comrades fall during training or missions, Yang Xi had always feared death. Who doesn’t? Only those who die suddenly have no time for fear.

To die like Yang Guozhong’s family, butchered by a frenzied mob, was something Yang Xi simply could not accept—such an end was too tragic, too humiliating, devoid of any heroism. If he could choose, he’d never pick such a death.

Faced with certain doom, who wouldn’t feel terror? Yang Xi was no exception.

And knowing what awaited, anyone would struggle to change their fate—so would he.

If the book was accurate, the rebels would soon reach Chang’an, or were already on the march. The household seemed peaceful—not the atmosphere of a city already under siege. Nor did it seem that the attack had begun; historical accounts said Yang Guozhong fled with Emperor Xuanzong before the fall. So, the disaster had not yet occurred.

If there was still time, perhaps things could be changed. At this thought, a surge of resolve welled within Yang Xi. He immediately turned to those behind him. “Tell me, where are An Lushan’s rebels now? Has Tong Pass fallen?”

This question was beyond the sheltered Ping’er, but a loyal attendant named Yang Zheng, standing behind Ping’er, stepped forward and replied, “Fourth Young Master, the rebel forces are still locked in a standoff with our army at Tong Pass—Tong Pass has not fallen!”

Yang Zheng was Yang Xi’s most trusted retainer, a few years older and wholly devoted, and the residual memories in Yang Xi’s mind reassured him of Yang Zheng’s honesty. Relief flooded him.

Tong Pass still held. The imperial forces and rebels were still at an impasse. Xuanzong had not yet made the fatal mistake of ordering Geshu Han to attack. If Geshu Han were forced out and suffered defeat, Tong Pass could not be saved. Once that natural barrier was lost, Chang’an’s gates would be thrown wide, and even with foreknowledge, Yang Xi might be powerless to turn the tide.

He had always been a lover of life, perhaps more than most. Having just crossed time, he had no desire to die again. He wanted to live, to live with clarity, and would do everything possible to alter the course of history.

His father—this body’s father—was Yang Guozhong, the chancellor whose advice led Xuanzong astray. If only Yang Guozhong could be persuaded to change his mind, to order Geshu Han to hold Tong Pass and not launch a hasty attack, perhaps the fate of the Tang could be altered.

Moreover, he knew that the fall of Chang’an to An Lushan’s armies signaled the end of the Tang’s golden age and its irreversible decline—an outcome he could not bear to witness. He was no longer a bystander of history, but a participant. Since fate had thrust him into the opening act of the An-Shi Rebellion, he would do something for this era, and for himself—perhaps even turn the tide. Otherwise, his own fate would be dire.

If not for the greater good, then at least for his own survival, he must act boldly.

In a flash, his resolve was firm. Yang Xi asked Yang Zheng, “Is my father… is Yang Guozhong at home? I have something urgent to discuss with him.”

Yang Zheng replied honestly, “Fourth Young Master, the master has gone to the palace. This morning, His Majesty sent urgent summons, so the master left at once and has not returned. He came to see you before he left!”

Yang Xi was Yang Guozhong’s favorite son. During his recent coma, the busy chancellor had often come to sit by his side, shedding tears for him. Even this morning, before Yang Xi awoke, his father had visited, only leaving hurriedly when imperial messengers arrived.

“Oh, I see…” Yang Xi began, but before he could ask more, a commotion and hurried footsteps sounded in the distance—a group was approaching.

“Fourth Young Master, the master is coming to see you!” a servant’s voice announced.