Chapter 1: Crossing Over with Erguotou

Dao Xuan, clad in monk’s robes, knelt on the hillside, his rear end sticking up like a cannon. Of course, Dao Xuan had no idea what a cannon looked like, but Zhang Chi did, because he was a transmigrator. So, to Zhang Chi’s eyes, Dao Xuan’s posture appeared all the more ridiculous.

“They’re not Qin soldiers, just a few petty thieves,” Dao Xuan said, turning his head to see Zhang Chi grinning wickedly behind him, which sent a chill down his spine. Unable to suppress his curiosity, he asked, “What are you laughing at?”

Truthfully, Zhang Chi found Dao Xuan’s upturned posture hilarious, but what struck him more was how little Dao Xuan, crouched on the ground like this, resembled a master of martial arts.

“There must be several dozen of those thieves. I doubt you could take them all,” Zhang Chi remarked.

That statement deeply annoyed Dao Xuan. He had entered the monastery as a child and had trained in martial arts ever since, enduring over a decade of hardship. He could move freely even in the chaos of thousands of soldiers on the battlefield—how could a few farm-tool-wielding bandits possibly be a problem? Dao Xuan rolled his eyes in frustration.

Nonetheless, Dao Xuan held a certain respect for Zhang Chi. Otherwise, with his youthful temper, Zhang Chi would have suffered for his insolence already.

It was only a few days ago that Dao Xuan and his senior brother, Dao Yuan, had escaped Chang’an, only to be caught on the border near Qin and Jin by Qin soldiers in pursuit. His senior brother was older, so Dao Xuan carried him on his back, fleeing more than two hundred li through the night, finally circling around the important town of Sangshan and shaking off their pursuers.

When Dao Xuan was nearly dehydrated from exhaustion, he finally found a well. After sitting to rest at the well’s edge, just as he prepared to drink deeply, he encountered Zhang Chi.

Zhang Chi, dressed oddly, was staggering toward the well, drunk, his steps unsteady. Dao Xuan worried he might fall in due to his drunkenness and was about to warn him, but was stopped by the man’s singing.

The song’s stirring rhythm and bold spirit rang out with authority. After days of fleeing before the Qin army, Dao Xuan had bottled up a chestful of anger. Now, hearing this song, his blood surged, and his spirits soared.

“Smoke rises, the nation looks north; dragons coil, horses neigh, sword-qi sharp as frost. My heart vast as the Yellow River—who in twenty years of strife can stand against me?

“Mad with hate, my long blade points the way; how many brothers, loyal souls, lie buried far from home? What regret to die a hundred deaths for country, silent tears of blood fill my eyes.”

The Five Barbarians had ravaged China for nearly a century, and gazing north, one saw only a land torn and broken. Who still remembered the mighty waters of the Yellow River?

Each time he thought of these things, Dao Xuan’s heart brimmed with pride and sorrow.

His senior brother, Dao Yuan, murmured, “I’ve been confined in Chang’an for decades, but never knew that so many of the wild and drunken are actually hidden sages.”

Dao Xuan nodded in agreement. Dao Yuan continued, “Do you know why when the white crane rests in shallow water, it stands on one leg and keeps the other raised?”

Dao Xuan shook his head.

“One leg is for a broader view, the other poised for sudden flight. Though this one drinks and acts wildly, his bearing is like a crane in shallow waters, harboring great ambition. One day, he’ll soar among the clouds.”

Dao Yuan was not one to lavish praise, so his words about this drunken stranger left Dao Xuan puzzled. Still, he’d always respected his brother’s perceptive judgment, so he began to see Zhang Chi in a new light.

No sooner had his brother finished speaking than Zhang Chi’s next action left Dao Xuan astonished—he unfastened his trousers and urinated right into the well. Only when Zhang Chi finished did Dao Xuan, shocked, manage to swallow his saliva—after carrying his brother for two hundred li, he was parched.

“Hero, I haven’t even had a drink from that well yet!”

Of course, the drunken Zhang Chi ignored him completely.

“Hooves ride south, while men look north, looking north, looking north…” The voice faded, and then with a thud, Zhang Chi collapsed backward, lying flat on the ground.

“Grass grows green and yellow, men look north, grass grows green and yellow…” Still lying there, he kept mumbling as if his song had gotten stuck.

Thus was the first meeting between Dao Xuan and Zhang Chi.

Indeed, Zhang Chi had traveled from another world. He’d never imagined that he could transmigrate by getting drunk. He and his friends had been drinking into the small hours, and as they parted ways at three in the morning, he still carried a bottle of strong liquor, walking and drinking until he fell asleep by the roadside.

A cold wind woke him at dawn, his mind still foggy. Why did the landscape around him look so desolate? He slapped his face to clear his thoughts—the last thing he remembered was wandering the streets, singing “Serve the Nation with Loyalty” while drinking. Could he really have wandered out of the city during his drunken stupor? How far had he walked that night?

But Zhang Chi had always been a slave to drink and rather easy-going by nature. He figured his confusion was just the result of drunkenness and decided to wait until he sobered up. He drained the rest of his bottle—if he was going to be drunk, he might as well be thoroughly drunk.

Anyone who’s been hungover knows that drinking again the next morning brings a whole new level of inebriation. That’s why Zhang Chi mistook the rough-hewn well for a toilet.

In truth, he’d been thinking: people say there’s a whole universe in a cup of wine, and time flows slowly in a jug, but who’d have thought that when drunk, not only the world but even the toilet would seem so vast.

…

When Zhang Chi finally sobered up, he realized he’d transmigrated, and soon pieced together that he’d landed in the most chaotic era of Chinese history—the late Eastern Jin, just over a decade after the Battle of Fei River.

He could never be a karaoke champion here, which was depressing enough, but what really troubled him was how little he knew about the history of this time. In a war-torn age of corpses and rivers of blood, he was helpless and ignorant. What was he to do?

Become an official? In novels, transmigrators always thrive in politics, but Zhang Chi knew that was fantasy. This era was plagued by cunning powerbrokers, and he had no taste for scheming or cold-blooded ruthlessness. If he tried to be an official, the schemers would grind his bones to dust.

Roam the martial world? That was pure daydreaming. Besides the eighth set of radio exercises, he knew no moves; he hadn’t even learned basic military drills. If he had to fight, he could only bully children or the elderly.

Invent gunpowder and bombs to unite the land? Sadly, he was a liberal arts major, and not a particularly good one at that. Physics and chemistry only gave him headaches.

What could he do? After much thought, he realized all he could do was drink. Zhang Chi felt more dejected than if he’d been spurned in love.

Fortunately, Zhang Chi had always loved literature, especially the thirty-three chapters of Zhuangzi, many of which he could recite by heart. He knew of the Wei-Jin culture, where metaphysics was revered and Laozi and Zhuangzi were paramount. At least, he could try to bluff his way as a scholar, he consoled himself.

Zhang Chi had a go-with-the-flow temperament—if the sky fell, someone taller would hold it up. The thought of becoming a scholar lifted his spirits, and learning that the two monks were heading to Jiankang, he decided to join them on their journey south, eager to see the fabled golden banks of the Qinhuai River he’d only read about in history books.

Over the past few days, Dao Xuan had been in high spirits, for he’d found this peculiar man who’d urinated in the well to be truly unique. His eyes always seemed half-awake, half-drunk, half-dreaming, indifferent to everything. These days, as they traversed the war-torn borderlands between Qin and Jin, with unburied bones strewn everywhere, he seemed unfazed.

In reality, this was because Zhang Chi, having just arrived, hadn’t yet found a sense of belonging; everything seemed to him like scenes from a film.

But of course, Dao Yuan knew nothing of Zhang Chi’s origins. He simply remarked that this benefactor must have grown used to life and death, and seen through the world’s illusions. Dao Xuan, hearing this, grew even more intrigued by Zhang Chi, feeling he was well worth studying.

Most importantly, Zhang Chi could teach him to sing.

“The day is dark, the moon as before, a thousand miles of rivers I cross at will. Waking from dreams, the road I came, the morning wind stirs, whose banners and drums? The song ends, people look around, inviting the moon to stay the night, deep in the green mountains.”

This song fit Zhang Chi’s mood, so he would hum it often, and after a few days even Dao Xuan could sing the theme from “Taiji Master.”

So, although facing only a handful of bandits now, Dao Xuan was full of indignation at being underestimated, but out of respect for Zhang Chi, he kept his temper and said, “Just a few petty thieves—I can handle them.”

“You’re not just bragging, are you?”

“I…” Dao Xuan, full of grievance, could hardly speak. “I really can handle them.”

“I don’t think you can. Why don’t we try it out?”

Having landed in this era, Zhang Chi had only heard Dao Xuan boast about his martial arts, but had never seen them in action. Now that he had the chance, he certainly wanted to witness real kung fu for himself, to see how it compared to what he’d seen in the movies.