Really?" Wang Xiaohu was skeptical.
"How could it not be?" Yuen Biao retorted, hands on his hips. "If Master were here, he'd thrash you with a rattan stick just like he always does with Sammo!"
The names—Master, Sammo—triggered images in Wang Xiaohu's mind. He saw an elderly man in his sixties with a stern face and hands clasped behind his back: Master Yu Jim-yuen, the man who had founded the China Drama Academy in Hong Kong.
The school hadn't been created to produce movie stars. At that time, traditional opera still had an audience, and its purpose was to train first-class opera disciples. It followed the strict rules of the opera stage, with harsh discipline and rigorous study.
Yet some of the instructors—such as Kwan Tak-hing—also worked in the film industry as stuntmen. They suggested to Yu Jim-yuen that perhaps his young disciples could train in films as well. Movies paid well, and they always needed extras. So, from the 1960s onward, some students were allowed to appear in films. On days when there was no work, they still had to perform opera at Lai Chi Kok Amusement Park. Out of this system emerged a group of disciples who would forever change the landscape of Hong Kong action cinema—the Seven Little Fortunes.
As for "Sammo," that was the tall, chubby boy with a watermelon haircut: Sammo Hung. As the eldest brother of the Seven Little Fortunes, he was always leading the mischief—and was always beaten the hardest by Yu Jim-yuen's cane.
All of this knowledge wasn't truly his own. It was a flood of memories from the stranger he had dreamt about. If his guess was right, then the kind of "rebirth" novels described had just happened to him.
For a moment, Wang Xiaohu didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Others spent their lives fantasizing about being reincarnated or crossing into another world, yet it never happened. And him? He simply jumped off a twenty-story building, got knocked on the head by a flowerpot, and—bam—he woke up reborn. Not just reborn, but as one of the Seven Little Fortunes, a junior brother to Sammo Hung, Jackie Chan, Yuen Biao, and Yuen Wah!
"What kind of ridiculous luck is this?" he thought, his expression twisting oddly. The sight terrified the young Yuen Biao, who rushed over to help him sit up, pressing a hand to his forehead.
"Ah Hu, what's wrong? Do you feel sick? Tell me—I'll get medicine for you!"
Wang Xiaohu forced down his shock and shook his head. "Don't worry, Ah Biao. I'm fine. I just feel weak after being ill. I'll recover soon."
"That's a relief." Yuen Biao exhaled, then brought the small box to the bed and opened it. Inside were a few small bowls. "Here, have some congee. It'll help you get your strength back."
"Oh… thanks." Wang Xiaohu accepted the bowl and devoured it hungrily. It was plain rice porridge, nothing special. But perhaps because he hadn't eaten in so long, it tasted heavenly, and he finished it in just a few bites.
Yuen Biao watched him closely. His junior brother seemed strange since waking. For instance, he had never once said "thank you" before.
"Eat slower, there's more," Yuen Biao said, handing over another bowl.
Wang Xiaohu noticed there were only two bowls of porridge—clearly meant as dinner for the both of them. If he ate both, Yuen Biao would go hungry. Judging by his shabby clothes, their lives weren't exactly comfortable.
He set the bowl down and shook his head. "I'm still recovering. I shouldn't eat too much. You take the other one."
Yuen Biao simply muttered "Oh," and lowered his head to eat.
Yu Jim-yuen was notoriously strict about meals. If even a single grain of rice was left in their bowls, he would yank their ears until they ate every last bit. None of the disciples ever wasted food. Yuen Biao ate cleanly, and so too did Wang Xiaohu, who had inherited this habit along with the body.
When Yuen Biao had finished eating and cleaning up, Wang Xiaohu asked, "Ah Biao… what year is it now?"
"Huh? That's a weird question. It's September 30th, 1971." Yuen Biao frowned. "Ah Hu, did your fever fry your brain? You're acting really strange today."
Wang Xiaohu gave a bitter smile. How could he explain? Should he tell Yuen Biao that his soul had traveled from 2010 into 1971 Hong Kong, hijacking the body of his junior brother Ah Hu? Even if he dared to say it, Yuen Biao would never believe him. So he only gave a sheepish grin. "Maybe… since my illness, I've forgotten a lot. Tell me—how did I get sick?"
Yuen Biao rolled his eyes. "Good grief, you don't even remember that?"
Wang Xiaohu shook his head earnestly. "I really don't."
"Fine, then I'll remind you…" Yuen Biao began.
By the late 1960s, opera was in decline, and even Lai Chi Kok Amusement Park could no longer sustain the school. Graduates followed their seniors like Han Yingjie into the stunt industry. Around the same time, Master Yu Suet-au married and emigrated to the United States. Yu Jim-yuen believed Chinese opera still had a future overseas, so he took some disciples there as well.
But he had miscalculated. Life in America wasn't easy for the Seven Little Fortunes. Eventually, Yuen Biao and Ah Hu had no choice but to board a ship back to Hong Kong.
That was when Ah Hu's seasickness struck again. On their first journey to America, he had survived only thanks to Master and the older brothers' care. But this time, only he and Yuen Biao traveled together. Yuen Biao was still young, and they had little money left after buying tickets—just enough for food. For six long weeks, Ah Hu could only vomit, faint, and suffer.
Near the end, he developed a high fever. Yuen Biao struggled to carry both him and their luggage. At last, after meeting up with Jackie Chan and Yuen Wah in Hong Kong, they managed to settle into a slum and get some medicine for him.
"That's how it happened," Yuen Biao finished.
The story wasn't complicated, but Wang Xiaohu could imagine the hardship. At such a young age, Yuen Biao had endured so much. He patted the boy's shoulder. "Thank you, Ah Biao. You saved my life."
"Why are you being so polite? That's not like you at all." Yuen Biao grimaced at the sentimentality.
Wang Xiaohu chuckled. "Then tell me, what was I like before?"
"You?" Yuen Biao thought for a moment. "Selfish, stingy, cowardly. Every time someone bullied you, it was me, Ah Lung, or Yuen Wah who had to fight for you. And you never knew what gratitude was."
Wang Xiaohu broke into a cold sweat. So the body's original owner had been a useless coward? No wonder he had never heard of a 'Yuen Hu' among the Seven Little Fortunes.
But that didn't matter. The old Yuen Hu was gone. Now, a new Wang Xiaohu had taken over.
And this time, he would live with confidence and strength.