Da Feng Dynasty, Huai Shui County, Qingshi Town.
Within the ancestral compound of the Luo Family—one of the Four Great Families of Qingshi Town—a quiet heaviness hung in the air.
Luo Changfeng slowly opened a pair of murky eyes, as if they hadn't seen light in days. His vision was still hazy, the edges blurred like an unfinished painting. A dull ache throbbed behind his temples.
He sat half-reclined in an ancient Taishi chair, its lacquer peeling and edges worn smooth by time. The wood beneath his fingers was splintered and dry, like brittle bark. Who knew how many generations it had supported?
Before him stood three middle-aged men. Their expressions were tense—each different, each speaking volumes even before a word left their mouths. The weight of their presence pressed into the room alongside the low murmur of rising argument.
Luo Changfeng blinked slowly, absorbing the scene. Confusion swirled in his chest like a mist yet to clear.
"I… have transmigrated?"
His hoarse inner voice sounded foreign in his own ears.
He looked at the two men in front of him, who were currently locked in heated debate, and then at the third—silent, distant. Their faces were unfamiliar. And then he looked down at his own hand.
His breath caught.
The skin was withered, dry and gnarled like an old tree's limb. Deep wrinkles coiled through his flesh, and every movement sent a jolt of exhaustion through his feeble limbs.
The truth settled into his chest like a falling stone.
Yes. He had transmigrated.
But why… why did he transmigrate into someone like this?
Weren't transmigrators supposed to become the pampered Young Masters of noble families? The sons of sect leaders with powerful spiritual roots and boundless potential? If not that, then at least core disciples of great sects with status, security, and a future worth chasing?
Yet here he was—Luo Changfeng, transmigrator and newly reincarnated Ancestor of the Luo Family—trapped in a decaying body whose lifespan was hanging by a thread.
Half a foot in the grave already.
What sort of cosmic joke was this?
"Ancestor," one of the men said, voice loud and firm. "The Da Feng Dynasty is already in turmoil. Years of unrelenting drought have driven the people to desperation. Rebellions are springing up everywhere."
"If our Luo Family doesn't act decisively now, others will surely overtake us. We'll be swept away in the current, lost to history."
This was Luo Yong, the man built like a mountain. He stood nearly two meters tall, broad-shouldered, and scarred from head to toe. A brutal slash across his face made his already fierce features all the more intimidating. He radiated a volatile energy, like a soldier who had seen far too many battlefields.
He turned toward the frail figure of Luo Changfeng in the chair, his tone pleading but edged with urgency. "Ancestor, we must rise now, while we still have the chance."
"But what he says is reckless!" interrupted the second man.
Luo An, dressed in scholarly robes, was far more refined in appearance. He was slender, standing about one meter eighty, his posture proper and voice laced with nervous haste. Despite his scholarly nature, he no longer cared for appearances, clearly rattled by the gravity of the situation.
"The Da Feng Dynasty may be in decline, yes—but it is still the Da Feng Dynasty," he argued. "A starving camel is still larger than a horse. If we raise our banners too soon and catch the Dynasty's eye, we won't be remembered as heroes. We'll be crushed."
His voice cracked slightly. "Crushed and forgotten."
Between the two stood a third figure, silent and unmoving.
Luo Ping, the current Family Head, wore a deep-blue robe. He gave off an air of calm detachment, as though he stood apart from the storm brewing around him. He bowed his head slightly, expression neutral, eyes lowered in thought—or calculation.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
"Enough!"
The single word was not shouted, but it cut through the argument like a blade.
Luo Changfeng raised a frail hand to massage his temple. His voice was low, gravelly from disuse, but firm. The echo of authority remained in it, even if the flesh delivering it was frail.
As he rubbed his brow, a flash of irritation passed through him.
He really couldn't stand noisy quarrels at his age—or rather, the age of this body.
"You two. Leave us," he said, the weariness in his tone undeniable.
"But, Ancestor—" Luo Yong hesitated, lips parted to argue further.
The fire in his eyes hadn't faded. His instinct screamed that to wait was to court disaster. To let the moment pass without seizing it could spell their doom.
Yet when he looked up, he met Luo Changfeng's gaze—a cold, unyielding stare that made him falter.
"I said, step back."
The command came again, this time with unmistakable finality.
Luo Yong clenched his fists, his jaw tightening in frustration. But in the end, with a low snort and simmering silence, he turned on his heel and stalked toward the exit.
Luo An gave a respectful clasp of hands, bowing lightly before following behind, his departure quieter but equally tense.
With the room now empty save for the two remaining men, a thick silence settled.
Only the faint sound of breathing lingered, heavy in the still air.
Luo Ping gave another bow. "If there is nothing more, Ancestor, I will take my leave—"
"Wait."
Luo Changfeng's voice stopped him mid-turn.
He narrowed his eyes, studying Luo Ping carefully.
He wasn't the same fool who had previously inhabited this aging body. The former Ancestor might have been oblivious to subtext, but Luo Changfeng—transmigrated soul and outsider to this world—was not so easily manipulated.
He could see it clearly now. Luo Ping hadn't brought the two brothers to him to resolve a debate. He had passed a loaded sword into his hands.
This wasn't about seeking guidance. It was about shifting the burden of choice.
Luo Changfeng's fingers curled slightly over the armrest.
"You heard what Luo Yong and Luo An said. Tell me—what are your thoughts?"
Luo Ping hesitated.
He looked up, surprised that the question had been directed at him at all. The old Ancestor rarely asked for input—he only gave instructions.
"I… Ancestor, I…"
"Speak plainly," Luo Changfeng said, his voice sharp with a tinge of impatience.
After a pause, Luo Ping drew a slow breath, his gaze dropping once again.
"Then I shall speak from the heart," he began carefully. "Third Brother's point holds merit. In these troubled times, those who possess strength and troops survive. Military power is the bedrock of stability."
"But Second Brother is not wrong either. The Da Feng Dynasty still has its imperial court, its armies. Should we make a move too early and attract their scrutiny, it could mean total destruction."
He swallowed.
"So… this junior believes that neither path is wrong, but both are dangerous. A misstep either way could doom us."
He risked a glance upward, seeking any sign of approval—or condemnation.
Luo Changfeng's expression remained unreadable.
The Ancestor gave no reply for a long while.
Finally, with a small wave of his hand, he said, "You may go."
Luo Ping bowed deeply and, without another word, departed.
The room returned to silence, and Luo Changfeng remained seated, unmoving, lost in thought.
For the next half-hour, he sorted through the murky fragments of memory that didn't belong to him but were now part of his consciousness.
He now fully understood the state of the Da Feng Dynasty.
Years of drought had shattered the people's spirits. The imperial court grew more corrupt with each passing day, greedy officials sucking the last drops of life from the common folk.
Rebellions rose in every province.
Some declared themselves kings on mountaintops. Others became bandits, preying on the weak to survive. The poorest, driven past the limits of despair, bartered their children for rice—or worse.
"Behind vermilion doors, meat and wine go to waste. But out on the roads, lie the frozen bones of the poor."
No words better captured the time.
Even Qingshi Town, nestled along the Huai River with access to relatively stable water supplies, could not escape the creeping rot. Huai Shui County's governance was looser, less ruthless—but even so, life here was still harsh.
And in the midst of it all stood the Luo Family.
Teetering.
Caught between inaction and rebellion.
A family with influence, with land, and with ambition—but also surrounded by vultures circling ever closer.
Luo Changfeng sighed heavily.
He looked down at his hands again. Trembling. Brittle.
"To transmigrate only to die…"
His chuckle was bitter, hollow.
"What sort of human suffering is this?"