In the golden yet shadowed era of the Western Han Dynasty, around fifty years before the common era, Emperor Xuan sat upon the Dragon Throne in the grand capital of Chang'an. The realm flourished under a delicate balance of heavenly mandate and hidden chaos. Vast irrigation canals, like the veins of earthly dragons, snaked through endless rice paddies and millet fields, feeding a growing population. The Silk Road stretched westward like a luminous qi thread, carrying bolts of fine silk, luminous jade, fragrant spices, and exotic treasures from distant barbarian lands. Cities hummed with scholars reciting Confucian classics in academies, while bustling markets overflowed with delicate porcelain, iron tools forged in smoky government foundries, and merchants haggling in loud voices.
Villages dotted the fertile plains along the Yellow River, where common farmers toiled from dawn to dusk under the watchful gaze of Heaven. They planted millet and wheat in carefully terraced fields, offered sacrifices of incense and wine to ancestral spirits, and prayed for favorable harvests. Yet beneath the Emperor's wise edicts lay deep shadows. Corrupt local officials demanded heavy bribes, border wars against the Xiongnu nomads drained the empire's young men, and sudden famines struck like vengeful demons when the Yellow River flooded in rage or the skies withheld rain for seasons. Slavery existed in many veiled forms, poor families sold children to wealthy households, where they were trained as private retainers or low-ranking soldiers to bolster noble private armies for the dynasty's endless campaigns.
It was an age of silk and steel, beauty and brutality, where embroidered robes concealed poisoned daggers and tender affection could twist into the dark grip of forbidden lust.
Into this world, the soul of the Pure One reincarnated for the fourth time. He carried with him the lingering ache from his previous life, that confusing storm blending pure, soul-deep love with an indefinable hunger he still refused to name. This time he sought neither glory, wealth, nor martial fame. He yearned only for simplicity, far from the temptations that had haunted him before.
He was born as Li Wei in a modest farming village nestled in the fertile plains of the Yellow River valley. His family was neither wealthy nor destitute, self-sufficient peasants living in a simple thatched hut with earthen walls. Small plots of land surrounded the home, where they grew rice, vegetables, and raised a handful of chickens and pigs. Smoke curled lazily from the clay stove as meals of steamed buns and thin porridge were prepared. Evenings were spent beneath the warm glow of oil lanterns, sharing tales of ancient heroes and legendary immortals who ascended to the heavens.
Li Wei was the youngest child, greatly doted upon by his three elder sisters. His father, Li Hao, was a sturdy farmer who plowed the fields daily with an ox-drawn wooden plow, his back permanently bent from years of labor. His mother, Mei Ling, wove baskets from river reeds and tended the small garden, her hands rough yet infinitely gentle. The sisters, Eldest Lan (12), Middle Hua (10), and Youngest Mei (9), adored their baby brother from the moment he drew breath. They carried him on their backs while working in the fields, sang soft lullabies invoking the moon goddess Chang'e, and shared their rare festival sweets with him. Life flowed in peaceful rhythm; mornings began with the crow of roosters, days filled with helping pull weeds or chase butterflies, nights huddled together under shared blankets against the cool river winds.
"Our little Wei is a blessing sent by Heaven," Mei Ling would murmur, kissing his smooth forehead. For the first time in many lives, Li Wei felt a quiet contentment. The turmoil of past existences seemed to fade like morning mist over the river.
But peace shattered when Li Wei turned eight.
That year, Heaven unleashed its fury. Torrential rains swelled the Yellow River into a raging dragon, flooding fields and turning fertile soil into a sea of mud. Villages downstream were swallowed whole; homes and lives swept away like dry leaves. Then, as if mocking the survivors, a merciless drought followed. The skies turned iron-gray and refused even a single drop of rain. Crops withered into brown husks, rivers shrank to muddy trickles, and famine gripped the land like the claws of a starving demon. Families scavenged for wild roots, tree bark, and anything edible. Bellies growled through the long nights.
Li Wei's family teetered on the edge of starvation. Their stored grain ran dangerously low. The pigs were slaughtered early. The sisters' once-round faces grew gaunt and hollow. Whispers spread through the village like poisonous smoke; sell the land, beg at temples, or, worst of all, marry off the daughters for a dowry of food.