Chapter Three: The Ancient Book in the Mind

Song Mu had been in this world for seven days. Several friendly young scholars in the city, as well as families with literary heritage akin to his own, had already visited him, bringing various tonics that had greatly improved his health. Only now and then did his mind still feel somewhat muddled, which Song Mu supposed must be the remnants of absorbing his predecessor’s memories.

On this day, the sun blazed high in the sky, and Song Liangda finally allowed Song Mu to go out for a walk. Song Mu was delighted to at last step beyond the courtyard and truly witness this strange and ancient world for himself.

The Song family’s residence was situated in the northern part of Shiyang County. It was a small, elegant courtyard—the last trace of dignity the family possessed. After informing his uncle and aunt, Song Mu straightened the badly creased plain white robe he wore and stepped out the door.

Turning past an alley, he was suddenly greeted by a clamorous scene: a broad street stretching before him, its ground packed with red earth and dusted with fine sand. On both sides stood low, one- or two-story shops of brick and wood, their entrances hung with all manner of signboards. Vendors hawked their wares incessantly, and children played and joked in the street.

Song Mu stood dazed at the mouth of the alley, listening to the lively din and gazing upon the vibrant street life, his heart filled with emotion. Scenes he had once glimpsed only in ancient paintings now unfolded vividly before him.

He lingered there for a while, then set off along the sunlit avenue. Walking upon this bustling road, Song Mu felt truly alive—brightly, intensely alive.

“Make way! Out of the way! Are you blind?!”

Just then, shouts rang out upon the main road. Startled cries erupted behind him, and a large hand shoved Song Mu from behind. He stumbled, steadying himself by gripping a nearby stall, and turned to see several men in gray servant garb rudely pushing aside passersby. Behind them, four more servants in rough clothing bore a sedan chair forward, its wheels creaking loudly.

“Hmm? Stop!”

As the sedan chair drew level with Song Mu, a voice tinged with surprise and suspicion sounded from within. A moment later, the curtain was lifted, and someone stepped out.

At the sight of the newcomer, Song Mu could not help but silently lament.

The person alighting was a tall, thin young man about Song Mu’s age. He wore a pink headscarf, a pink robe, and held a folding fan with pink ribs. Pink boots adorned his feet, their toes pointed in Song Mu’s direction as he approached with measured steps.

Had this been some elegant young lord, Song Mu might have praised his grace. Yet the newcomer’s features were excessively long, his nose sunken, eyes half-lidded, and a sparse few mustache hairs clung awkwardly to his lip—altogether a rather sorry sight.

Song Mu recognized him at once. He was Qi Dazuo, the second son of the Qi family, another literary clan in the north of town. Song Mu remembered that this fellow often liked to toy with him and had even been one of those who egged him on to leave the city that day.

“Well, if it isn’t the last scion of the Song family. What’s this? Come back to life, have you? Word is you read yourself senseless recently and even snuck off to Sunridge all on your own?”

Qi Dazuo took two steps forward, unfolding his fan with a flourish to reveal a painting of peach blossoms. He mimicked a sly, mocking manner, half-hiding his face behind the fan, his feeble eyes fixed on Song Mu.

“They say there’s a fox spirit haunting Sunridge at night—loves to take the form of a stunning beauty, looking so pitiful, preying on the vitality of passing men. When Butcher Wang found you, young master, weren’t you a sight—clothes in disarray, limp as a dead fish?”

“Perhaps you and the fox spirit had quite the delightful encounter, eh? Come on, tell Lord Qi about your romantic adventure, and I’ll toss you a few copper coins to buy some more tonic at the Spring Rejuvenation Hall! Ha!”

Qi Dazuo’s eyes narrowed to slits as he spoke, his servants laughing boorishly behind him. Even nearby onlookers cast strange glances at Song Mu.

Song Mu could not deny a flush of anger, yet in his heart, he had already made up his mind—he would not let the original owner of this body suffer such humiliation without redress.

“From the way Lord Qi spins such a tale, you must be well acquainted with Sunridge—speaking so knowledgeably of fox spirits, have you seen one yourself?”

“I’d also like to ask—why did you leave me alone at Sunridge that day? Was it intentional?”

“Insolence! How dare you slander Lord Qi!”

One of the more brutish servants lunged forward, berating Song Mu, but Song Mu fixed him with a single, cutting glance.

In that instant, the servant felt as if a tiger had locked its gaze upon him—a look that promised violence. He shivered involuntarily, the words dying in his throat, as Song Mu spoke coldly.

“Lord Qi, your house hounds bark too loudly—they’re an eyesore.”

With that, Song Mu turned to stride away. The other servants, realizing they had been insulted, bristled and moved to intercept him. Qi Dazuo’s expression grew dark as he stared after the departing Song Mu.

“You brat, how dare you speak to me like that!”

The servant, stung by Song Mu’s words, started forward, only to hear Song Mu’s cold snort:

“A rat may have a form, but a man without manners is as good as dead.”

The short verse burst from Song Mu’s lips, his words seeming to transform into a cold wind that made the servants’ hair stand on end and their hearts race in panic.

The leading servant suddenly clutched his chest, coughed up blood, and collapsed, as if gravely wounded.

“Sharp-tongued! No, wait—how can a mere student wield literary force as a scholar does?”

Qi Dazuo, also winded by the sudden chill, snapped his fan shut and stared at Song Mu in shock. The surrounding townsfolk, seeing this, shrank back, their eyes wary.

In the Wen Dynasty, literati were the most esteemed. A scholar, gathering literary force, could wield poetry and verse as weapons, able to strike down ordinary men with a word.

Song Mu, of course, was not yet a scholar—his status as a student could only nourish the body. Yet the words he’d spoken had truly flashed through his mind in that moment of rage, leaping unbidden from his mouth.

The phrase was from the Book of Songs, “The Rat,” originally a harsh rebuke for those who flaunted virtue but betrayed propriety—one of the most direct and satisfying invectives in all the classics.

Song Mu remembered his tutor’s explanation when he studied the Songs, and had committed it to memory. But he had never expected that, upon speaking it aloud, a shock would go through his mind, and an invisible force would radiate from the student’s badge at his waist, resulting in such a marvel.

Song Mu paid no heed to the barking behind him, instead closing his eyes to feel the strange sensation in his mind.

It was the very “Anthology of Poetry, Past and Present” he had found at an antique market, yet now its first dozen pages gleamed with golden light, bearing the inscription: “Song Family’s Ancient Annotations.”

The phrase he’d just recited was written there—but unlike regular commentaries, this note detailed how to convert literary force into martial power.

A scholar immersed himself in letters and accumulated literary aura over time. When he could finally see this aura at a gesture, he would pass the scholar’s exam and compose works to gather literary force—thus treading the path of the world.

These annotations had been left by the Song family’s ancestors of four generations past. Song Mu had never realized that the book had somehow absorbed these notes and, stirred by his surge of emotion, spontaneously unleashed a surge of literary power.

The servants, seeing Song Mu standing unmoving and hearing Qi Dazuo’s words, all grew fearful. Qi Dazuo himself was shocked. That frail, timid scion of the Song family had, in just a few days, acquired such domineering ability?

Could it be the ancient book Pan Wenhao had mentioned?

Yes, it had to be—he must have deciphered the book left by his ancestor!

Qi Dazuo’s eyes gleamed with greed. Everyone in Shiyang County knew that the Song family had produced thirteen scholars in seventeen generations—a first-class literary lineage. In all of Jizhou Prefecture, spanning centuries, only around two hundred scholars had ever emerged; Shiyang County itself claimed just three literary lineages and fifteen scholars. Whatever the Song ancestors had left behind must be a priceless treasure.

“Zhang Er, he has wounded your young master without cause—seize him! Take him to the magistrate to answer for his crime!”

Qi Dazuo barked the order, already plotting how to have his uncle, the records officer, force Song Mu to reveal the method of wielding literary force.

If only I’d thought to seize that ancient book from him before—there’d have been no need to trick him outside the city and invite all this trouble.

“Why are you all standing there? He struck first, everyone saw it!”

He shouted, and the servants, summoning their courage, made to seize Song Mu.

Just then, a ruler appeared out of thin air behind Song Mu, and from the corner of the street came a stern shout:

“Who dares lay a hand on him?”

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