What the hell hurts so much?
It felt like countless ice picks churning through my bones, like a raging fire burning my meridians. Struggling to open my eyes amidst the agony, I was greeted by a crumbling gray-tiled roof, cobwebs thick in the corners, and the air thick with the smell of mold and a faint scent of blood.
"Water..." His throat felt dry and ready to burst.
"Young Master! Are you awake?" A voice suddenly rang out, both surprised and tinged with tears. A face, wrinkled and tear-stained, leaned forward. It belonged to an elderly man in a coarse cloth. "Bless me, you're finally awake! I thought... I thought I'd never see you again. Sob."
What young master?
Lin Zizhi's mind struggled like a rusty gear. Strange. Shouldn't he be in the museum late at night, making his final rubbings of the Hanyuan Sword from the Southern Song Dynasty tomb? Why was he suddenly here?
Instantly, a flurry of unfamiliar memories flooded into his mind.
In the Zhaoming Dynasty, he was He Fangchuan, the eldest son of the aristocratic He family. Though frail since childhood, he was gifted with extraordinary talent and possessed an exceptional understanding of swordsmanship. Three months ago, the He family was accused of treason and exterminated overnight. He Fangchuan was the only one saved, but he was desperately rescued by his old servant, Zhongbo. During his escape, he was pursued, severely injured, and fell unconscious from a cliff.
And he, Lin Ziqi, a handsome history graduate student from the 21st century, was suddenly transported to the body of the recently deceased young man upon touching the ancient sword that bore the same name as He Fangchuan!
"Why am I so unlucky to have this happen? I just touched a sword..." Lin Ziqi couldn't help but grumble inwardly.
The old man beside him must be He Fangchuan's Zhongbo.
"Uncle Zhong..." Lin Ziqi, no, it should be He Fangchuan now. He silently digested this information, his voice still weak: "How long... have I been asleep?"
"Three days, young master, you've been unconscious for three whole days!" Uncle Zhong quickly took the water bag beside him and carefully fed him. "This is a dilapidated temple near the mass grave. Those pursuers shouldn't be able to find us here."
The water flowed down his parched throat, finally bringing a glimmer of life and clearing He Fangchuan's thoughts. The He family was wiped out... A vague and cold figure flashed through his mind, white clothes as white as snow, black hair like a waterfall. The long sword in his hand shone with a cold light, smashing the He family's plaque to pieces in the firelight.
"Who... killed the entire He family?" He Fangchuan's voice trembled slightly, not with fear, but with the hatred that ran deep in his bones—the emotions that belonged to the original owner, He Fangchuan, now tightly intertwined with his consciousness.
Zhong Bo's face suddenly turned pale, his lips trembling, as if even uttering that name required immense courage: "It's... it's Han Yan Xian Zun from Xi Xiu Que."
Du Zhao Chen?
Those three words exploded like thunder in He Fangchuan's mind. From the fragments of his memory, the figure of the man in white became increasingly clear. His cold features, his aloof demeanor, and the ruthless determination with which he swung his sword.
Xi Xiu Que was the most mysterious and powerful sect in the martial arts world, and Han Yan Xian Zun was its most prodigious disciple of nearly a hundred years. At such a young age, he had already reached the pinnacle of mastery and was hailed as "the world's greatest swordsman." So why would he so ruthlessly kill the He family?
"Why...?" He Fangchuan pressed.
"This... I, this old servant, don't know either," Zhong Bo cried, tears streaming down his face. "That night, the disciples of Xixiu Que suddenly surrounded the He Mansion. Immortal Venerable Han Yan personally intervened, accusing the He family of secretly hoarding the Demon Cult's token, colluding with the Demon Cult, and harboring demons. They were guilty of a thousand deaths. But our He family has been loyal for generations. How could we possibly do such a thing as colluding with the Demon Cult?"
Hoarding the token? Colluding with the Demon Cult? Harboring demons? What the hell is all that?!
He Fangchuan closed his eyes in dismay, forcing himself to calm down. In the original owner's memories, the He family did indeed have ties with various sects in the martial arts world, but there was absolutely no trace of any involvement with the Demon Cult. So there must be some conspiracy.
And that Du Zhaochen was the mastermind behind this conspiracy, and He Fangchuan's—no, Lin Ziqi and He Fangchuan's common enemy!
He felt the resentment and resentment lingering within this body, the pain etched deep within his soul. Only one thought remained: to survive, to uncover the truth for He Fangchuan, to avenge his father, and finally return home!
"Whether it's for the He family's tragic deaths, for the body...
"Uncle Zhong, how much money and food do we have left?" He Fangchuan asked, his gaze falling on his simply bandaged wound. The wound still ached beneath the coarse cloth, revealing the severity of the injury.
"Not much. We only have enough food to last two more days," Uncle Zhong whispered. "Young Master, your injuries are severe. You must see a doctor as soon as possible, and buy some medicine."
He Fangchuan nodded, a preliminary calculation already in mind. He was penniless and seriously injured, making it impossible to travel long distances. There should be a small town nearby. He must first find a way to get some money, treat his wounds, and then make long-term plans.
"Uncle Zhong, go out and take a look at the situation. Find a secluded place to hide. I need to be alone." He needed time to fully absorb the original owner's memories, especially the troublesome parts about martial arts and the martial arts world.
Although worried, Zhong Bo nodded affably. "Young Master, rest well. I'm nearby. Blow this if you hear any movement." He left behind a small bone whistle and cautiously hunched over, he exited the dilapidated temple.
Now He Fangchuan was the only one left in the temple. He struggled to sit up, leaning against the cold wall as he began to sort out his memories of himself and the original owner.
He Fangchuan's father, He Xuan, was renowned in the martial arts world as the "Iron Hand," mastering the He family's swordsmanship to perfection. He Fangchuan had learned swordsmanship from his father since childhood. Despite his frail frame, he possessed a remarkable comprehension. By the age of fifteen, he could already fight against second-rate martial artists. He remembered his father as a strict yet deeply loving father, a gentle and virtuous mother, and a lively and adorable little sister...
These heartwarming images, intertwined with the tragic scene of the He family's annihilation, sent a pang of pain through He Fangchuan's heart.
Now, he tried to mobilize his internal energy as he remembered, but he felt his dantian was empty, and his meridians were damaged. It seemed that the original owner had not only suffered external injuries before falling off the cliff, but had also been damaged by the thief's internal energy.
"Damn it... Without internal energy, no matter how high my martial arts skills are, I can't use them. I'm just a weakling now, powerless!" He cursed softly.
Just then, a series of light footsteps could be heard outside the dilapidated temple. Not like Zhong Bo's heavy steps, so light, something was wrong. Why did it feel like the legendary Qinggong from TV dramas?
He Fangchuan's heart was alarmed. Fear filled him, and he quickly held his breath, looking warily outside the temple gate.
And then, a tall figure appeared silently at the temple entrance, standing against the light, his face unclear.