Chapter 1: A Long Time Ago

Stories always begin with “once upon a time.” Cai Cong’s story is a long one. He started wandering at a very young age, unsure whether he could truly be called alive. He had stolen, robbed, and even snatched scraps from a dog’s mouth just to survive.

Now, on the day of his death, he suddenly realized he had never done a single good deed in his life. He had joined a notorious gang of thieves at sixteen, rising from an illiterate ruffian to leader by twenty-two, orchestrating a string of international heists. He had paid a heavy price—years of hard study, the sickening weight of murder, betrayal, and ruthless ambition—so much that he could hardly bear it.

So he thought of surrendering himself. It had nothing to do with others’ lives or deaths; he simply wanted release. But no one believed him. Now, as he stood surrounded by his own men, the irony gnawed at him.

“In the past, when you surrounded me like this, it was always to cheer for me. Today, you’re cheering for me again—cheering for my death!” Cai Cong’s expression was calm; whether he died in prison of old age or at their hands made little difference.

“You know, we’re all sick in the head,” said a polite, respectful white man. If not for the silenced pistol in his hand, you might have thought he was giving a business report to his boss.

“Yes, everyone is twisted,” Cai Cong replied, “and I suppose I’m just sick too. But talking about this now is meaningless. Barney, put away your gun. Han, you do it. Your knife is an art—let me die without pain!”

“Rest assured. This will be the finest cut of my life, bringing the perfect end to your journey,” said the cold, knife-wielding man with solemn seriousness. Barney stepped back two paces, making room, though his gun never wavered from Cai Cong’s heart.

A flash of cold steel, and Cai Cong smiled. Blood burst into the air, blooming like fireworks in celebration of his life’s end.

“What about the body?” someone asked.

“Respect is for the living. As for the dead, just bury him somewhere and be done with it…”

Death is an end, but also a new beginning. Cai Cong lived again. He sat dazed on the riverbank, gazing at the sickly pale boy reflected in the water, face bleached from immersion. He was silent for a long time.

As dusk fell and distant flames flickered, mingled with barking dogs and human voices, he finally stirred.

“Doggy! Doggy… Where are you, darling? Don’t scare your mother like this!” A woman’s anxious, hysterical voice, trembling with fear, rang out from afar. Cai Cong realized she was calling him—though he didn’t know why, he felt instinctively that her voice was meant for him.

“I’m here!” he cried out, his voice childish and high, not yet touched by adolescence.

“There’s a voice by the riverbank!”

A flurry of footsteps and shouts followed, and soon a group of shabbily dressed people appeared by the water.

“Doggy! Don’t you ever scare your mother like that again! And as for those brats who call you a fatherless child—your Uncle Gang here will be the first to beat them senseless,” boomed a burly, rough-looking man. The people around him chimed in noisily. A beautiful yet careworn woman clutched Cai Cong tightly, saying nothing, weeping uncontrollably.

“No need. If anyone insults me, I’ll deal with it myself. It’s late—let’s go home,” Cai Cong said quietly, taking a deep breath. He strode off, with a composure that was wholly out of place for a seven- or eight-year-old child.

The adults were dumbstruck. Was this really the stubborn, silent child they knew?

“One more thing. I don’t like being called ‘Doggy.’ Use my name from now on,” Cai Cong suddenly turned, frowning, his tone brooking no argument. The bitter experiences of his past life had made him sensitive and fiercely proud.

Later, as a gang leader, no one dared question his word.

“No wonder they call you a fatherless whelp. So many people searching for you at night, and this is how you act? Your mother even knelt and begged my master to send people to help find you. If I’d known you were this ungrateful, I’d have let you fend for yourself,” said a neat, well-dressed servant, his face twisted with disdain. As a servant, his pride was prickly; facing these starving peasants, he felt vastly superior and couldn’t abide Cai Cong’s tone.

“I told you—I don’t like being called ‘Doggy,’” Cai Cong said calmly as he drew near, then swiftly pressed a finger into the servant’s right side, just under the ribs.

It was a vital point near the lungs. Though he didn’t have the strength to stop the man’s breath, it was enough to leave him gasping on the ground. Only then did Cai Cong turn to leave.

Everyone stared at each other in shock. Had the child been possessed? Was he bewitched by mountain spirits? How could his temperament change so suddenly, and how could a mere touch bring a grown man to his knees?

“Cai Sister, your son acts like he’s possessed by the Fox Immortal. I hear there’s a powerful shamaness at Six-Mile Slope—should we invite her to perform a rite for your boy?” Uncle Gang whispered, as if afraid Cai Cong might overhear.

In fact, Cai Cong heard every word, but he didn’t care. He had thought his story was over—yet here he was, alive again. He just didn’t know what era he’d landed in. Judging by their clothes, it seemed like the Sui or Tang dynasty, but he couldn’t be sure.

As he pondered this, a wave of dizziness swept over him and he collapsed face-first to the ground.

“Cai Sister, your boy’s fainted!” someone called out.

Cai Sister, who had just been discussing the shamaness with Uncle Gang, gasped and passed out herself.

“What a mess!” Uncle Gang exclaimed, slapping his thigh in frustration.

“Ah Xing, hurry back to the village and fetch some women to carry Cai Sister home. You others, stay and help. I’ll go to Six-Mile Slope for the shamaness. After what we saw tonight, I’m sure the boy’s possessed!”

He said the first part seriously, but dropped his voice for the last, as though sharing a great secret.

“Did you have to say it? We all saw it.”

“Exactly, exactly. Looks like we shouldn’t let children near the river anymore—who knows what other spirits might be lurking?”

“Hey, Uncle Gang, you’re so eager to help—could it be you’ve taken a fancy to Cai Sister?”

“Don’t talk nonsense—that’s my cousin! Mind your tongue, you little rascal.”

…

When Cai Cong awoke again, he learned he was now in the Tang dynasty. Iron Crutch Li had lost his mortal body and possessed a beggar; Cai Cong, for his part, had entered the body of a dead boy, one who had killed himself over ridicule. In comparison, he felt luckier than Iron Crutch Li.

“This is a clean body. From now on, I’ll be a clean person. I want to live with dignity,” he told himself, accepting the flood of memories from the boy called “Doggy.”

He pushed open the door, stepping into the same dilapidated courtyard he remembered. Smoke curled in the yard, where a shamaness leapt and danced, chanting, “This is grave! Your son has offended a thousand-year-old Fox Immortal. The spirit wants to take him away!”

Cai Sister knelt, frantically begging for a solution. Outside the fence, onlookers murmured with pity—no wonder the boy had acted so strangely last night, if he had truly offended a fox spirit.

But Cai Cong had no intention of letting the shamaness keep spinning her lies. This was an age of superstition—even emperors made sacrifices to Heaven. If she decided he had to be offered to the mountain god, he knew the villagers would not hesitate.

“Look—the Fox Immortal has already appeared to me and made its demands: fifty chickens and ten catties of duck eggs, or it will not spare the boy,” the shamaness cried, holding up a yellow talisman marked with a fox’s paw print.

The crowd gasped again—what power! To converse with a thousand-year-old fox spirit! Yet it made sense—a fox spirit, after all, would naturally crave eggs and chickens.

“What are we to do? My family is destitute—where can we find so much?” Cai Sister pleaded, looking desperately at the crowd.

If the villagers pooled their resources, perhaps they could manage, but who would be so generous? In these hard times, a single chicken could be a family’s lifeline—no one would give it up for an unrelated child. So most people lowered their heads and avoided her gaze.

“Hmph! Yellow paper, ginger, salt water… If you don’t want me to keep going, leave now,” Cai Cong said coolly, scanning the crowd and memorizing the faces of those who did not look away. Then he addressed the shamaness.

He helped Cai Sister to her feet. In his memories, this woman had been everything to the boy. He envied the child—envied the love of a mother. Now, he would protect her and let her spoil him.

The shamaness’s face paled at his six simple words. This was her livelihood, and now a mere boy had exposed her tricks—how could she not be shaken?

“Leave, or shall I invite the Fox Immortal to come and talk with you as well?” Cai Cong said quietly. It was a concession; in his past life, he would have ruined her completely. But now, he only wanted to live well.

At his threat, the shamaness forced a smile, her wrinkled face contorted with reluctance.

“So, you are a spiritual adept too, and so accomplished! No wonder the Fox Immortal could not harm you. I’ll take my leave before anyone accuses me of bullying a child.” She gathered her tools and her disciples and fled as if pursued.

“Son, is what Shamaness She said true? Can you really speak with fox spirits?” Cai Sister asked cautiously.

Since last night, she had felt her son was changed—so changed that she barely recognized him. To her, he was her whole world; if the sky fell, she could not go on living.

“Mother, don’t listen to that old witch. She’s just a con artist. Let’s go inside—you were frightened last night and need to rest.”

“That won’t do. I must finish my embroidery, or we’ll have nothing to eat,” Cai Sister replied, refusing to rest. Once she was sure her son was safe, she thanked their friends and neighbors and, after seeing them off, sat under the sun to continue her needlework—their only means of survival.