Chapter One: Saving the Fox

Maple Mountain lay more than ten miles north of Jiangzhou’s outskirts, its name bestowed for the profusion of maple trees cloaking its slopes. Each autumn, the leaves blazed crimson as fire, dazzling all who beheld them.

This year, the maples burned with unparalleled brilliance, a sea of scarlet sweeping the hills like a vast torch ablaze. Yet beside such fiery beauty, Chen Jianchen’s mood was ashen.

Chen Jianchen, courtesy name “Liuxian,” hailed from Jiangzhou. Sixteen years of age, he was a student scholar, commonly known as a “xiucai.”

Attaining the rank of xiucai was no simple feat—it required passing a stringent series of entrance examinations for youths: county, prefecture, and academy tests, ascending step by step. Only those who succeeded at every stage could become student scholars.

Chen Jianchen was exceptional, winning first place in all three trials, his name echoing throughout Jiangzhou. He was admitted as a stipend scholar to Minghua Academy, the city’s most renowned official school.

A stipend scholar—a student whose studies were funded by the court, receiving a monthly allotment of rice, free from worry over food and clothing, able to devote himself wholly to his studies.

Such a future promised brightness—were it not for the fact that he had been transmigrated!

Yes, Chen Jianchen’s soul and consciousness now belonged to a student from modern Earth.

Transmigration—an event rare and unpredictable. Yet when this modern scholar realized the world into which he had been thrust, he could only feel his vision darken.

The Tian Tong Dynasty—a realm strikingly similar to the Ming, yet only similar. The modern scholar soon discerned that history here followed no familiar course; this was another plane, an alien timeline.

But these peculiarities were secondary. The central issue was that, to thrive here, to distinguish himself, Chen Jianchen must endure the imperial examinations—a relentless gauntlet of tests and assessments.

Before becoming a xiucai, there were three tiers of exams; after entering the academy, annual and imperial assessments divided results into six grades. Only those who ranked first or second in the imperial exam could advance to the provincial test; and that was merely the beginning—after the provincial came the metropolitan and palace examinations...

A lifetime of tests, as endless as the years.

Thus the modern scholar’s heart was gray. He had loathed exams since high school—unit quizzes, midterms, finals, graduation exams, the college entrance test. They had roasted him to exhaustion, inside and out.

But what could he do? The system was thus: thousands vying for a single bridge, compelled to charge forth with the masses.

He had never expected, after transmigrating to another world, to become yet another student, facing even more exams—a veritable ordeal by fire.

“Damn it all!” Chen Jianchen cursed under his breath, leading a donkey along the mountain path.

Spring term would begin in the second month next year. The prospect of that robotic, drearily monotonous life filled him with irritation; so he had come alone to Maple Mountain, seeking solace in its scenery.

At this time, many visitors came to admire the autumn maples—most were Jiangzhou’s literati, gathering in groups of three or five. Some stood with hands clasped behind their backs, gazing pensively; others sat in the pavilions of the scenic front mountain, sipping tea and wine, their discourse lively, poetry pouring forth in waves.

Chen Jianchen, already burdened by gloom, avoided the crowds, choosing a secluded path.

The trail was quiet, broken only by occasional birdcalls from the shadows, which rendered the mountain even more tranquil, lending a certain elegance. As he walked, his mood began to ease.

He led the donkey farther and farther, entering a wild, overgrown forest where the grass was thick, the trees ominous, rocks scattered haphazardly, and not a trace of human presence.

Chirping...

Suddenly, Chen Jianchen heard the plaintive cry of some animal ahead. Moments later, a small fox stumbled out of the thicket.

It was a rare white fox—its fur pure as snow, without a single blemish, glossy as silk, shimmering faintly with a watery sheen. A strange and marvelous sight.

Blood flowed from its right hind leg, pattering onto the ground in alarming drops; its eyes, almost human in their expression, brimmed with sorrow and pain, stirring pity in any who looked upon it.

Though wounded, the white fox fled desperately, as if pursued by some deadly foe.

A howl!

Indeed, a wolf’s cry rang out. Moments later, a hulking black wolf burst from the woods.

This wolf was enormous, its fur jet black and gleaming, ears long and sharp, eyes fierce, jaws crowded with interlocking fangs—no one could doubt that a single bite would snap a neck.

The black wolf pressed forward, the white fox terrified, fleeing blindly straight toward Chen Jianchen, its teary eyes pleading for rescue.

Chen Jianchen felt an inexplicable surge of compassion. He quickly stooped, snatched up a stone, and hurled it at the wolf.

Howl!

The black wolf was exceptionally quick, dodging aside. Yet it was checked, wary of advancing further, standing still and growling low in its throat, its gaze locked on Chen Jianchen, menacing.

His nerves frayed under the beast’s glare; only then did he recall he was but a frail scholar, powerless even against a chicken, let alone a wolf. If it came to blows, the outcome would not be favorable. His donkey, terrified by the wolf’s howl, had already bolted, tearing free of its reins.

Weapon—he needed a weapon.

He glanced around frantically, searching for a stick or something, but found nothing but fallen leaves, not even another stone of suitable heft.

Desperate!

He groaned inwardly, suddenly remembering something. Reaching into the book satchel slung on his back, he retrieved a pen case.

The pen case was only a foot long, made of rough wood, resembling a short stick. But the brush inside was no ordinary item—it was an artifact from Earth, accompanying the soul of the modern scholar through the transmigration, unique and tested by time.

He had happened upon it in a museum, a relic called “Ward Off Evil,” said to have belonged to the legendary demon-queller Zhong Kui, steeped in myth. Of course, no one knew if the tale was true.

After transmigrating, Chen Jianchen had repeatedly examined the brush, searching for any hidden mysteries, but found nothing. He simply stored it in a case and carried it with him.

Now, confronted by a vicious wolf and empty-handed, he could only try his luck, brandishing the pen case as a weapon—whether it would help, he had no time to consider.

Howl!

The black wolf let out an angry roar and began to advance.

Chen Jianchen swallowed hard, retreating step by step, considering whether he ought to flee while shouting for help. Just then, frantic barking came from the other side.

At the sound, the wolf grew agitated, its massive head swiveling anxiously. At last, it decided, casting one last venomous glare at Chen Jianchen before vanishing into the thicket.

Before long, two agile hunting dogs emerged from the woods, followed by an old hunter—well past sixty, a bristling goat beard, knife at his waist, bow slung over his back, two sturdy ropes on his shoulder, each strung with rabbits and deer.

Chen Jianchen thanked his luck, noticing that the white fox had slipped away. That was only natural.

“Uncle Zhang, today’s been a good hunt.”

He recognized the old hunter as Zhang Lao San, a neighbor.

“Ah, it’s you, Master Chen. Forgive my manners—you’re here to enjoy the mountain, I suppose.”

In the Tian Tong Dynasty, xiucai were the lowest tier of the scholarly class, yet still possessed official status and certain privileges, standing above ordinary folk. Chen Jianchen, gifted and famed for his triple firsts in the youth exams, had a bright future; Zhang Lao San dared not neglect him.

“Yes, but just now a wolf ran out of the woods and frightened me badly.”

He omitted mention of the white fox, but spoke of the wolf with some resentment, hoping Zhang Lao San might hunt it down.

The old hunter’s eyes lit up. “Master Chen, it’s best to stay on the front mountain for sightseeing. The back mountain is full of beasts—it’s dangerous to be alone.”

“Thank you for the warning, Uncle. I’ll leave right away.”

He was no fool; at this point, touring the mountain held no appeal—going home for dinner was the wise choice.

Zhang Lao San called his dogs, who sniffed the ground and bounded off, tracking the wolf into the forest. The two hounds, experienced, could detect the faintest traces, barking as they disappeared into the distance.

Chen Jianchen paid no mind to their hunt, turning to descend the mountain. Yet after a few steps, a chirping sounded behind him. He turned and saw the white fox.

It rose upright, facing Chen Jianchen, lifting its forepaws and pressing them together, as if bowing respectfully like a human. Then it lowered itself, kneeling, its small head touching the ground with a soft thud.

As it bowed and chirped, it seemed to express gratitude.

Chen Jianchen was astonished, rooted in place, mouth dry, unsure how to respond.

The fox finished its bows, limped away, but after a dozen steps, paused, turned, and repeated the gesture—three times in all, earnest and solemn, so dignified that Chen Jianchen fancied it was not a fox but a grateful little girl.

At last, its petite form vanished into the forest, leaving no trace or sound.

“A fox spirit?”

Only after a while did Chen Jianchen recover, hearing the wind rustle through the woods, a chill creeping up his spine. This place was not fit for lingering; the thought flashed through his mind, and he dashed down the winding path, eager to return home.