The laboratory's lights flickered like dying embers, struggling faintly against the encroaching darkness. The low hum of machinery echoed like distant cicadas, resonating in the confined space filled with the scent of metal and scorched electronics. Chen Zijian—a physicist obsessed with the mysteries of time and space—stood before the device that had consumed a decade of his life. His knuckles were white from seventy-two hours of relentless work, his eyes bloodshot and webbed with fatigue. An outlier in the scientific community, he was convinced that Einstein's theory of relativity held the key to unlocking time travel.
"You're mad, Dr. Chen! This experiment is too dangerous!" His assistant Zhang Ming's warning still lingered in his ears, but Zijian ignored it. His slender fingers brushed the cold metal edge of the control panel as he muttered, "If this fails, my life's work turns to ashes. If it succeeds, the secrets of the universe will be mine."
The quartz clock on the lab wall struck midnight. Zijian took a deep breath and initiated the sequence. His hands danced across the console like butterfly wings, fingers flitting between buttons and levers, as if playing a sonata of quantum physics. The energy readings surged—80%, 85%, 90%—until, suddenly, a red warning flashed on the screen, displaying a string of error codes he hadn't anticipated.
"This can't be! Schrödinger's equation shouldn't produce such deviations!" Zijian exclaimed, frantically attempting to correct the error, but it was too late.
A subtle miscalculation swelled like a dark current, and the machine screeched with alarms. The quantum capture device in the center began to vibrate uncontrollably. The superconductor ring emitted a blinding blue light, and the air seemed to tear apart, forming a swirling vortex of temporal energy. A surge of blue light erupted, roaring like a dragon, swallowing the frail human in its maw. Zijian felt his body being stretched, dismantled, and reassembled as his consciousness plunged into boundless darkness.
---
The sterile smell of disinfectant and circuit boards was gone, replaced by the earthy fragrance of damp soil. The hum of machines gave way to the gentle trickle of a stream and the rustle of bamboo. Zijian slowly opened his eyes, squinting against the harsh sunlight. Reflexively, he raised a hand to shield his face, only to freeze. His hand was no longer the slender, pale hand of a scientist—it was rough, calloused, the hand of a farmer. Looking down, he saw crude straw sandals on his feet, his ankles red from chafing.
"What's happening?" he muttered, his voice unfamiliar and deep.
He stood on a narrow path in a small village. In the distance, wooden huts with thatched roofs dotted the rolling hills, wisps of smoke curling upward like delicate gauze in the morning light. Farmers toiled in rice paddies, clad in coarse cloth tunics, their heads shielded by conical hats against the summer sun. A few women, carrying bamboo baskets and wearing rough aprons with wooden hairpins, chatted as they walked toward a stream.
Zijian's gaze fell on a stone tablet inscribed with three weathered characters: "Fengsheng Village." The air carried a distinct historical aura—not the mechanical and gasoline-laden scent of his modern city, but a primal blend of earth, straw, livestock, and humanity.
A history enthusiast, Zijian quickly noted the era's hallmarks. "These clothes, these buildings…" His mind raced. "Men in short, narrow-sleeved tunics, women in simple skirts, and the wooden structures typical of southern architecture, with farm tools bearing traces of Mongol-style patterns—this is the late Yuan dynasty!"
The late Yuan to early Ming period was one of China's most turbulent eras. The Mongol-ruled Yuan dynasty was plagued by corruption, sparking widespread peasant uprisings. The Yellow River frequently flooded, plagues ravaged the land, and natural and human-made disasters intertwined. Farmers, crushed by heavy taxes, rose in rebellion, with Emperor Hongwu's Red Turban Army eventually emerging victorious.
"Hongwu 14, or 1381 AD, when Emperor Hongwu ordered the destruction of ships in the Jiangnan region to deter Japanese pirates…" Historical facts flooded Zijian's mind. "Could I have been sent to the late Yuan? But who am I now?"
A clear shout interrupted his thoughts:
"Seventh Brother! Why are you standing there daydreaming? Hurry up, Eighth Brother's waiting to hunt rabbits!"
Zijian turned to see a wiry, tanned boy of about fifteen or sixteen waving at him. The boy's eyes sparkled with a sharpness and resilience uncommon among peasant children. He wore a faded tunic tied with a straw rope, a homemade wooden bow in hand and a simple cloth sack slung over his shoulder.
"Seventh Brother?" Zijian's heart stirred. "He's calling me?"
Instinctively, he touched his face—it wasn't his own. From the feel, he seemed to inhabit the body of a young man in his early twenties.
Seeing him hesitate, the boy shouted again, "What are you standing there for? Eighth Brother says there are rabbits near the old jujube tree. We need to move fast!"
"Eighth Brother?" A wild thought struck Zijian. "He calls me Seventh Brother and mentions an Eighth Brother… Could it be—?"
He studied the boy closely, noticing a faint mole on his left cheek. Historical records mentioned Emperor Hongwu had a mole on his face and was the eighth child, known as "Eighth Brother." If this boy was calling him Seventh Brother, then…
"Is this kid Emperor Hongwu, the future Ming Taizu?" Zijian's heart raced, but he forced a calm smile. "Coming, coming!"
He deliberately slowed his pace, observing the boy. Historical accounts described Emperor Hongwu as a poor farmer's son who became a monk during a famine, later joining the rebel army. In 1368, he overthrew the Yuan dynasty, founding the Ming dynasty under the reign title "Hongwu."
"If this is the young Emperor Hongwu, it's likely the Zhizheng era of Emperor Shundi, around the 1350s," Zijian calculated. "Hongwu hasn't yet become a monk and is still living in his village."
"Seventh Brother, you seem distracted today," the boy said, tilting his head with concern. "Did you have that strange dream again?"
Zijian's heart skipped, but he composed himself and probed, "Which dream?"
The boy lowered his voice. "The one where a fiery dragon descended from the sky, telling you the world would fall into chaos and that our brothers are destined for greatness!"
Zijian realized this "Seventh Brother" was ambitious, perhaps already sensing the winds of change. He smiled, playing along. "Just a dream, don't take it seriously. Let's go find Eighth Brother."
As they walked along the village path, Zijian subtly questioned the boy. "By the way, I heard the officials are raising taxes again. What do you think?"
The boy's face darkened. "Seventh Brother, three families in our village can't even afford food. More taxes will push people to revolt." He paused, then whispered, "I heard in Fengyang, some folks are gathering under the 'Red Turban' banner, claiming to act for heaven."
Zijian's pulse quickened—Red Turbans! That was the rebel group Emperor Hongwu would later join, led by Guo Zixing. According to history, Hongwu would rise from a foot soldier to a commander within their ranks.
"How do you know this?" Zijian feigned surprise.
The boy grinned mysteriously. "The blacksmith Zhao mentioned it when he came to fix tools. He travels a lot and hears things." His eyes gleamed with something unusual. "Seventh Brother, is there any way out in this world?"
Zijian looked at the boy who would one day reshape China's history, feeling a surge of emotion. He patted his shoulder. "There's always a way. Let's hunt first—can't think on an empty stomach."
They crossed a bamboo grove to reach an open meadow, where another boy, about Hongwu's age, crouched in the grass, observing something.
"Eighth Brother!" Hongwu called out. "Found the rabbit burrow yet?"
The boy turned, signaling for silence and pointing to the grass. Zijian spotted two rabbits grazing, unaware of the danger.
Hongwu notched an arrow on his bow, but before he could shoot, the sound of galloping hooves shattered the calm. All three looked up to see a cloud of dust approaching—a dozen armed Yuan soldiers on horseback!
"Yuan troops!" Eighth Brother gasped. "Why are they here?"
Zijian quickly assessed the situation. The soldiers, fully armed, could easily overpower three unarmed boys. "Run!" he shouted. "Split up and head for the woods!"
The trio scattered. Drawing on modern tactical instincts, Zijian chose a zigzag path into the dense bamboo forest, hoping to evade pursuit. Just as he thought he was safe, a scream pierced the air—Hongwu's voice!
"No!" Zijian froze. "History could change!"
Hesitating only a moment, he doubled back, snapping a bamboo stalk to use as a makeshift weapon. Emerging from the forest, he saw Hongwu cornered by two soldiers, one raising a blade to strike.
A surge of unfamiliar yet instinctive strength coursed through Zijian, as if the body's original owner was a skilled fighter. He lunged forward, swinging the bamboo like a dragon's tail, striking the soldier's wrist and sending the blade clattering to the ground.
"Seventh Brother!" Hongwu cried, relieved.
The second soldier drew his bow, but Zijian yanked Hongwu aside, narrowly dodging the arrow. More soldiers were closing in.
"Follow me!" Zijian pulled Hongwu toward the hills, his mind racing. "Why are Yuan soldiers chasing ordinary farmers? Unless… Hongwu's already involved in anti-Yuan activities?"
Arrows whizzed past as they ducked behind a boulder. Gasping, Zijian demanded, "Eighth Brother, why are they after us?"
Hongwu's face paled. "Seventh Brother, I… I went to town the other day and joined a Red Turban meeting. I even signed Guo Zixing's rebel manifesto…"
Zijian's suspicions were confirmed—Hongwu's rebel journey had already begun.
The soldiers' shouts grew closer. "Head for the rocky cliffs," Zijian ordered. "The narrow paths will slow their horses."
They hadn't gone far when an arrow sliced through the air. Hongwu shoved Zijian aside, taking the arrow in his chest.
"Eighth Brother!" Zijian caught him as he fell, blood soaking his coarse tunic. Hongwu convulsed, his eyes fading.
"Seventh Brother… I'm so cold…" Hongwu whispered, clutching Zijian's shirt. "You… you have to live… avenge me… avenge our people…"
Zijian's heart thundered—this was the future Ming emperor! His death would rewrite history. Cradling Hongwu, he fled toward a cave, dodging pursuers.
But it was too late. Hongwu's breathing weakened, then stopped. The man destined to topple the Yuan and found the Ming was gone before his legend could begin.
In the cave's darkness, Zijian touched Hongwu's still-warm face, emotions swirling. A scientist who scoffed at fate, he had now witnessed—and altered—history.
"If Emperor Hongwu is dead, the Ming dynasty will never exist…" The thought chilled him.
Staring at Hongwu's body, a wild idea took root. "In this chaotic era, heroes rise. If Hongwu is gone, I'll take his place!"
His eyes gleamed in the dark, like twin candles lighting the first move in the game of the late Yuan's turmoil.1