Chapter One: With a Wine Jug and Grass for a Seat, Innocence Remains

“This world truly is fascinating—monsters and demons abound here...”
Wang Ling stood at the window, gazing outward. The snow had diminished, no longer filling the sky and earth as it had the day before, yet it still shrouded distant mountains and ancient trees in a white veil.
Wisps of warmth rose from the heated floor, making the entire room cozy; even with the window open, there was little chill.
Outside, in the courtyard separated by a wooden gate, on the gnarled, iron-dark branches of an old tree, clusters of plum blossoms bloomed bravely against the cold.
He recited softly:
“Silken slippers dance above the Luo’s dust,
No more does the banished immortal in brocade appear,
To carry wine and rest on grass is simply pure joy.
Jade-dusted, gentle yellow—the elixir of ages,
Snowflakes drifting, heralding spring in every home...”
His recitation was interrupted by a shout from behind: “Well now, Thirteenth Brother, instead of studying, you busy yourself with idle poetry! If the elders find out, you’ll be lucky to escape with both legs unbroken!”
Turning, Wang Ling saw a tall, bearded young man in wide sleeves, regarding him with amused eyes.
“Seventh Brother, what brings you here?” Wang Ling was not at all afraid; rather, he asked with a hint of curiosity.
After all, it was snowing outside.
“You just mentioned carrying wine and resting on the grass, didn’t you? Naturally, I’ve come to bring you wine...”
He laughed heartily.
“And though these licentious little ditties may not grace the grand halls of culture, they do have a certain flavor,” he added.
A servant entered behind him, bringing in a food box wrapped in warm quilts, and began to heat the wine.
This Seventh Brother was none other than the son of the clan chief, wealthy beyond measure, unlike Wang Ling’s own modest household.
Fine clothes, rich food, entourages of servants—these were standard for him.
Yet clearly, this Seventh Brother was quite close to Wang Ling, for he would call even on such a snowy day.
His easy, informal manner showed he treated this place almost as his own home, evidence enough of their frequent visits.
Wang Ling, too, was used to such scenes. He smiled slightly, made a gesture of invitation, and the two of them climbed onto the raised platform, sitting across from each other at a low table.
He understood well: in this era, literature was meant to convey the Way, with little value placed on emotional expression. Such refined poetic forms as the Song lyric were not yet developed, and certainly did not fit the tonal patterns of this world.
No wonder his verse was called a frivolous ditty—he could hardly take offense.

The two of them sat cross-legged on the earthen platform, covered with mats and warmed from below by kitchen smoke passing through channels beneath, keeping the heat in.
In such weather, it was exceedingly comfortable.
“Thirteenth Brother, it’s your ingenuity that devised this clever idea. The whole clan and even the townsfolk sing your praises...” Second Brother Wang Yue said with a smile.
Wang Ling shook his head gently. “I dare not hope for such acclaim. I only wish the elders won’t scold me for neglecting my studies.”
“How could they?” Wang Yue replied in surprise. “Fu Xi invented nets, the Yellow Emperor made carts—even the ancient sage kings devised a hundred tools for the benefit of the people.
Your invention of the heated floor brings warmth to countless households. Even the county magistrate, upon hearing of it, was full of praise and spoke of recommending you for filial and incorrupt merit. Who would scold you for this?”
Wang Ling was taken aback, then recalled that, though Confucianism reigned supreme in this world, the customs were still simple and open-minded. There was no rigid belief that only scholars were of value, nor the notion that all pursuits but study were inferior.
Scholars here were not bookish pedants; they studied astronomy, mathematics, law, agriculture, and even the making of tools was not solely the work of craftsmen.
This world was no longer that of the legendary ancient dynasties, yet the spirit remained vibrant and honest—quite unlike the later antiquity known to most people, which began after the Tang and Song.
Here, the era roughly corresponded to the Qin and Han of his own original world.
At this time, invention and creation were not dismissed as trivial skills or disdained.
On the contrary, the Song-style lyric he had just recited, expressing personal feeling and taste, would not be welcomed in the halls of the learned!
Thus, he could not rely on his old-world thinking.
“Thirteenth Brother, mark my words. You are intelligent and perceptive, quick to grasp the essence—your future is bright, so don’t underestimate yourself!”
Wang Yue’s tone suddenly grew earnest.
He continued, “I know you wish to study the Dao, to cultivate the immortal arts, but you should realize those are but minor paths.
We, the scholars, study the classics of the sages, nurture the great upright spirit, and so become attuned to Heaven and Earth, all things drawn to us. Once we have achieved renown, the authorities grant us seals of office, and then we have the right to command spirits and ghosts.
Should we enter officialdom, we may govern regions, benefit thousands of households. Some may rise to become generals or prime ministers, assisting the sovereign; even in death, if not admitted to the Dragon Court, we may yet be honored with offerings from the people, our names recorded in the official annals, and become gods after death.
Is this not a beautiful fate?
Those so-called recluses who flee to the mountains to cultivate qi are merely those unqualified for official rank. Their only recourse is to retreat into the wilderness, living on mist and dew, sleeping in caves, enduring years of bitter cultivation.
Even after decades of hardship, managing to acquire a little supernatural power, do they not still descend the mountains to serve the authorities?
Yet, at best, they become lowly functionaries—how could their path compare to our grand avenue?”

Wang Ling fell silent for a moment. He knew his second brother spoke truly.
In this world, the Dao’s power manifested openly, monsters and demons were real, and cultivators were many.
Yet the right to practice magic was in the hands of the imperial court and local authorities.
Mountain recluses were, just as his brother said, not in good standing.
Those who achieved some skill inevitably joined the government, serving under its command.
Those unwilling to submit could only flee deep into the mountains.
Otherwise, the moment they crossed the law, they would be executed without mercy.
So, in this world, the path of cultivation was not as favorable as the Confucian route of official selection.
Most crucially, Wang Ling was born into the Wang clan of Danling. Though his own branch was merely a middling family of modest wealth, the Danling Wang clan was a great house of the region.
Born into such a family, with his invention of the heated floor and growing reputation in the county, he had every opportunity to enter government service and wield official authority.
Those born to humble families did not have such advantages—no matter how talented or learned, it was difficult to catch the eye of officials, much less be selected for public office.
Almost all cultivators were those unable to become officials, and so turned to the path of reclusion.
Thus, in this new life, Wang Ling’s circumstances could hardly have been better!
Yet, knowing all this—
Did Wang Ling never harbor other thoughts?
As a transmigrator, given the chance to live in a world where the Dao’s power was manifest, who would not long for immortality and freedom, rather than servitude to the state?
Having been a cultivator in his former life, he could not help but feel a lingering unease in his heart.
Cultivation was to seek longevity and transcendence—how could that be for the sake of official service?
Besides, was it really so easy to secure an official post in this world?