HNYWEF -Chapter 10 The Beginning of Fate

The eighth year of the Daye era.

When Zhou Xiong opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was trees.

Not a ceiling. Not the roof of a barracks. Trees.

Dense leaves crowded together overhead, blocking out the sky until only scattered patches of blue remained.

He lay there, stunned for a long while.

His head hurt.

The back of his skull throbbed as if someone had smashed him with a club. He reached up and touched it. No blood. Just a swollen lump.

Something was wrong.

This body was wrong.

He lowered his head and looked at himself.

The hands were wrong. Darker than his own, rougher too, with thick calluses on the knuckles like they belonged to someone used to hard labor.

The clothes were wrong. A dull gray coarse-cloth tunic patched in several places, the cuffs frayed from wear.

The feet were wrong. Straw sandals exposing his toes, the soles covered in hardened calluses.

Zhou Xiong sat up and looked around.

Mountains. Forest. Grass. Rocks.

Nothing else.

But scattered around him were several familiar objects.

He recognized them immediately.

A tactical vest. Torn apart and smeared with mud.

A first-aid kit. Still intact, though the strap had snapped.

A canteen. Crushed flat, probably smashed during the fall.

Brass knuckles. Iron ones, stained with blood, lying beside a rock.

And that—

He crawled over and picked it up.

A watchmaker’s magnifying lens. Metal frame. One small piece of glass still intact.

Zhou Xiong clenched it tightly in his hand and sat there motionless for a long time.

Then, slowly, he remembered.

Transmigration.

He had read countless novels and heard countless stories about it, but he had never imagined it could happen to him.

He looked down at his hands again.

These were not his hands.

This was not his body.

But those things were his.

The tactical vest was his. The first-aid kit was his. The brass knuckles were his. The magnifying lens was his.

Suddenly, he wanted to curse.

He opened his mouth and did exactly that.

The voice sounded like his own—no, not quite. It belonged to this body, but the tone was unmistakably his.

He stood up and gathered the items together.

The tactical vest was too conspicuous; he couldn’t wear it. But the hidden compartments inside could still be useful. He could strip them out later and use them to hide things.

The first-aid kit was valuable. He needed to keep it close.

As for the brass knuckles—

He picked them up and slipped them onto his hand, clenching his fist.

Solid iron. Comfortable grip. Perfect weight.

He took them off again and tucked them into his clothes.

The magnifying lens followed.

Then he lifted his head and surveyed the surroundings.

No one around.

First, he needed to figure out where this was, what time period it was, and what kind of world he had landed in.

He rolled up the tactical vest and stuffed it into a hollow tree trunk, covering it with dead branches and leaves. Then he tucked the first-aid kit into his chest and started down the mountain.

After only a few steps, he heard movement ahead.

Not beasts.

Human voices.

Someone was shouting.

He couldn’t make out the words, but the voices sounded urgent.

Zhou Xiong paused for a moment, then kept walking.

After passing through a stretch of woods, the view suddenly opened up.

A mountain road.

Several people were lying beside it.

Even more were standing.

The standing men all held blades.

The ones on the ground didn’t move at all.

Among the standing men, one was crouched on the ground clutching his chest, blood seeping through the gaps between his fingers.

The people beside him were panicking helplessly. Some shouted “Second Brother!” Others yelled “Big Brother!” Some said nothing at all and could only stand there in desperation.

Zhou Xiong stood at the edge of the woods, watching the scene.

Square face. Thick brows. Around thirty years old.

Zhou Xiong didn’t know who the man was.

But he knew one thing.

The man was dying.

If nobody helped him, he would die.

Zhou Xiong cursed under his breath.

Then he walked out of the forest.

The moment the group spotted him, every blade swung toward him at once.

“Stop right there! Who are you?!”

Zhou Xiong didn’t stop.

Looking at the wounded man, he said,

“If you want him to live, then get out of my way.”

The group froze.

One man stepped in front of him, sword tip aimed straight at his nose.

“What did you say?”

Zhou Xiong looked at him and suddenly smiled.

A terribly punchable smile.

“I said,” he enunciated slowly, “if you want him to live, then stop blocking my way.”

The man hesitated.

Zhou Xiong walked around him and crouched beside the injured man.

The wounded man raised his head and looked at him.

His eyes were bloodshot, full of pain and wariness.

Zhou Xiong said, “Don’t move. Let me take a look.”

He reached out and pulled open the man’s clothes.

The wound slashed diagonally down from the left shoulder, blood still pouring out.

Zhou Xiong frowned.

Severe injury. But survivable.

He lifted his head and glanced around.

No first-aid kit. No needle and thread. No medicine.

But he had all of that.

He slipped a hand into his clothes and pulled out the first-aid kit.

The group immediately crowded around him again.

“What’s that thing you’re holding?”

Without even looking up, Zhou Xiong replied, “Something that’ll save his life. All of you, shut up.”

He opened the first-aid kit, took out a pair of scissors, and cut the wounded man’s clothes completely open.

Needles. Thread. Medicinal powder. Cloth.

One by one, he laid them out on the ground.

The group stared at him, their eyes practically bulging out.

What were those things?

Where had they come from?

And who the hell was this guy?

Zhou Xiong ignored them.

He took out the needle and thread, sterilized them, and threaded the needle.

Then he looked at the wounded man.

“If it hurts, yell. Don’t hold it in.”

The needle pierced the flesh.

The man’s body trembled slightly. He clenched his teeth but made no sound.

Zhou Xiong’s hands were steady.

Up and down. Up and down.

The stitches were so fine they looked almost embroidered, neat and even.

Halfway through, the man suddenly spoke.

“You saved me.”

Zhou Xiong said nothing.

“I owe you my life.”

Still nothing.

The man waited a moment. Seeing no response, he spoke again.

“My name is Shan Xiongxin.”

Zhou Xiong’s hand paused.

Just for a moment.

Then he looked up.

He stared at that face.

Square jaw. Thick brows. Around thirty years old.

Shan Xiongxin.

Shan Xiongxin.

He knew that name.

He knew who this man was.

He knew what this man would go through in the future.

He knew this man would become an outlaw at Wagang Stronghold, follow Zhai Rang, then Li Mi, later Wang Shichong, and eventually be captured by Li Shimin.

And later—

Be executed.

By the banks of the Luo River.

In front of everyone.

Zhou Xiong froze there, motionless.

Shan Xiongxin looked at him, frowning.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Zhou Xiong snapped back to himself.

He lowered his head and continued stitching.

After two more stitches, he suddenly chuckled.

Shan Xiongxin asked, “What are you laughing at?”

Zhou Xiong didn’t answer.

He finished the final stitch, tied the knot, and cut the thread. Then he took out some medicinal powder and sprinkled it over the wound.

Shan Xiongxin sucked in a sharp breath from the pain.

Zhou Xiong covered it with cloth, then wrapped bandages around it layer by layer.

Once he was done, he packed everything back into the first-aid kit and stood up.

“All right. Find someone to carry him back. Don’t let the wound touch water for three days, don’t exert yourself for seven. If you get a fever, come find me.”

With that, he turned to leave.

A hand grabbed his sleeve.

Shan Xiongxin held onto him, eyes fixed on him.

“What’s your name?”

Zhou Xiong looked down at the hand gripping his sleeve, then back at Shan Xiongxin.

Suddenly, he laughed again.

“Zhou Xiong.”

Shan Xiongxin nodded.

“Zhou Xiong. I’ll remember that.”

He released his hand and leaned against the person supporting him.

“Where do you live?”

Zhou Xiong froze.

Where did he live?

He had just transmigrated here. He didn’t even know who this body belonged to, so how the hell would he know where he lived?

He scratched his head.

“No idea.”

Shan Xiongxin blinked.

The people beside them blinked too.

“No idea?”

Zhou Xiong spread his hands.

“I woke up on this mountain. This body isn’t mine. I don’t even know this body’s name.”

Shan Xiongxin stared at him silently for a long while.

One of the men beside him leaned closer and whispered, “Second Brother… is this guy mentally ill?”

Shan Xiongxin ignored him.

He kept looking at Zhou Xiong for quite some time before suddenly laughing.

“Fine,” he said. “If you don’t know, then you don’t know.”

He pointed at one of the men nearby.

“Old Seventh, give him a horse.”

The man called Old Seventh hesitated.

“Second Brother?”

“Give him a horse,” Shan Xiongxin repeated. “Let him come with us.”

Zhou Xiong was stunned.

“Come with you? Where to?”

Shan Xiongxin looked at him, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“Stick with me for now. Once you remember where you belong, you can leave.”

Zhou Xiong opened his mouth, wanting to say something.

But Shan Xiongxin didn’t give him the chance.

“You saved my life. I, Shan Xiongxin, don’t owe debts to people. Stay with me. Eat my food, drink my wine. Leave whenever you want.”

After saying that, he was helped to his feet. Before leaving, he glanced at Zhou Xiong once more.

“Let’s go.”

Zhou Xiong stood there in silence for a long time.

He watched Shan Xiongxin’s retreating figure.

Watched the others lift the corpses from the ground.

Watched Old Seventh lead over a horse and press the reins into his hand.

He lowered his head and looked at the reins.

Then looked up again at the limping figure ahead.

Suddenly, he laughed softly.

Fine.

I’ll go along, then.

Not like I’ve got anywhere else to be.

The sun tilted westward.

And the mountain road ahead was still long.