Volume One: Flames on the Frontier Chapter One: The White Whirlpool

Opening poem:

A Youth's Journey

A moon over the land of gods, ten years of lanterns in rivers and lakes;
Brewing wine in a scholar's robe, trimming candles, a blushing beauty concealed.
Sword in hand, the distant Wu mountains; departing one's homeland, the cold waters of Yi.
Soft, red sorrows stretch for miles, how many autumns atop the northern Maang.

A military transport plane circled in the sky, its cargo door opened, and special forces soldier He Yu leaped out. Seconds later, with a loud "bang," his parachute deployed smoothly overhead. As He Yu descended, he contemplated his next tactical move.

Suddenly, about a hundred meters ahead in the air, a white light appeared. The point was blindingly bright, radiating intense white light, spinning and expanding at incredible speed, and in an instant, a colossal white vortex formed. An irresistible force pulled from the vortex's center, leaving no room for resistance. Before He Yu could even cry out, his whole body was swept toward the vortex like a leaf, falling inward.

...

He didn’t know how much time had passed before he slowly regained consciousness, finding himself lying face-down in a snowy field. He looked up—an expanse of grey sky, biting winds like knives, heavy snow fluttering down.

"Where am I?"

"Am I dead?"

"It was summer when I parachuted, how is there snow now?"

He Yu recalled the strange white vortex, questions swirling in his mind. Checking his body, he found all his gear and clothing gone, leaving only tattered undergarments. He tried to stand, but the effort brought needle-like pain throughout his body, his limbs entirely powerless. Other than slight movement in his head, he was completely immobilized.

He Yu grew frantic: "In this icy wasteland, if I lie here for too long, I'll freeze solid—even if I survive, I'll be crippled."

Just then, he heard the crunch of wheels pressing snow nearby. A gentle, melodious girl's voice called out in surprise, "Grandfather, there's someone lying by the roadside—it seems to be a young gentleman."

"Oh, is there? Let me take a look," replied an aged, deep voice.

Crunching sounds... a bullock cart stopped by the road. In front of He Yu appeared a pair of worn sheepskin boots, caked with snow.

He Yu strained to turn his head—a tall, silver-haired old man, weathered and imposing, a large red wine gourd hanging at his waist, his manner kindly and honest.

The old man bent down, asking with concern, "Young man, are you alright? Did you run into mountain bandits?"

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His accent was peculiar, but He Yu understood him clearly.

Driven by survival, He Yu quickly pleaded, "Yes, I was attacked by bandits—please save me, sir!"

The old man glanced around, sighed, and gently lifted He Yu, placing him on the bullock cart. Despite He Yu’s height of nearly six feet and weight of around 150 pounds, this septuagenarian showed remarkable strength.

He Yu was about to thank him when he noticed another passenger—a girl of fourteen or fifteen. Her features were delicate, her face flushed red from the cold. Though her robe was shabby, her natural beauty was undiminished.

The old man removed his worn cloak and handed it over. "Deng’er, this young man must have been robbed and is frozen stiff—cover him up."

He then took down his wine gourd, setting it on the cart: "Give him some wine to drive away the chill."

"Yes," the girl replied crisply. She gently helped He Yu up, draped the cloak over him, propped him against the cart’s side, and uncorked the wine gourd, holding it to his lips.

He Yu, stiff and powerless, hungry and thirsty, had no time for courtesy and gulped down several mouthfuls. Drinking too quickly, he choked and coughed violently.

The girl looked worried and gently patted his back.

The wine was sweet and tart, reminiscent of homemade rice wine from his hometown, likely low in alcohol.

He Yu’s mind stirred: "Given the situation, this isn’t the underworld, nor did anything go wrong with my parachute—I must have traveled through time. It seems I’m still in China, but I don’t know which dynasty."

As a seasoned special forces soldier, He Yu possessed exceptional instincts. Having read many time-travel novels, he was familiar with such scenarios. Within moments, he realized he’d experienced a time warp.

As the wine warmed him, feeling began to return to his frozen limbs, and his fingers could move again.

The old man leaned over, saw He Yu’s life was no longer in danger, and relaxed. With a flick of the whip, the bullock cart began to roll forward.

The girl, seeing color return to He Yu’s face, took a flatbread from her bosom, broke it into pieces, and fed him.

The bread was crisp and fragrant, much like Xinjiang’s naan. He Yu ate half the flatbread, drank half the wine gourd, and his circulation improved—apart from chest pain, his arms and legs were usable.

He Yu knew he owed his life to these kind strangers.

Grateful, he sat up, mimicking ancient etiquette from TV dramas, and bowed to the girl with folded hands: "Thank you, little sister, for saving me. Words can’t express my gratitude. Please accept my respect."

He Yu suddenly remembered—his hometown dialect was Wu, older than Mandarin, and might be easier for communication. So, he decided to use his dialect.

The weather was bitterly cold. Though He Yu was strong, his thin clothing made him shiver as he spoke.

The girl seemed shy, smiled, revealing charming little canine teeth, and said gently, "Young gentleman, you’re too polite. By your accent, you must be from the south?"

He Yu nodded. "Yes, my home is in the south. I came here seeking relatives, but ran into bandits and was left in the snow. Thankfully I met you."

The girl studied him, pursed her lips and smiled again. "The bandits are quite strange—they even cut your hair so neatly. Others might think you’ve become a monk!"

He Yu realized—people in ancient times wore their hair long, but as a soldier, he sported a buzz cut, which must have amused the girl.

He scratched the back of his head and joked, "Indeed, odd bandits—who knows why they cut my hair. At least they spared my life."

With bread and wine, warmth returned to his body, and his voice stopped trembling.

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He Yu was desperate to know the current era, so he could draw on his historical knowledge and deal with this crisis, but he couldn’t ask directly.

Thinking carefully, he asked, "Miss, after being beaten by bandits and left in the snow, I’ve lost track of the date and place—where are we, and what day is it?"

The girl looked surprised and hesitated. "This is outside Guangwu City in Yanmen Prefecture. As for the day, today is the first day of the eleventh month."

"Yanmen Prefecture?"

"Guangwu City?"

He Yu quickly searched his memory for these names, but unfortunately, with only these two, he couldn’t determine the dynasty.

Unable to do otherwise, He Yu asked directly, "Do you happen to know who the current emperor is?"

Unexpectedly, the question seemed childish, and the girl grew tense, clearly worried about his sanity. "Emperor? Three months ago it was Murong Yong. Now it’s Murong Chui. Fighting and killing, all the same—the Murong clan of the Xianbei. It’s us common folk who suffer!"

As she spoke, her expression grew mournful, tears threatening to fall.

"Murong Chui?!"

"The ancestor of Murong Fu from Jin Yong’s ‘Demi-Gods and Semi-Devils.’"

A landmark name in the river of history.

He Yu had joined the army as a university student, having majored in history at a top university, and read deeply in historical texts. His accumulated knowledge now proved invaluable.

He Yu immediately deduced: "Three months ago, Murong Chui’s Later Yan had just conquered Murong Yong’s Western Yan. I’m now in Later Yan’s Yanmen Prefecture, while southern China is under Eastern Jin rule."

"Better a dog in peaceful times than a person in chaos. To have crossed time for no reason and landed in this true age of turmoil—the Five Barbarians’ invasion, the migration of the gentry south, war every month, slaughter every day—how unlucky can I get?"

He Yu wallowed in self-pity, but seeing the girl’s quiet sorrow, his heart ached. He quickly apologized, "Miss, I was muddled by the bandits and shouldn’t have asked about these matters—did I upset you?"

The girl wiped her eyes and answered sadly, "Young gentleman, it’s not your fault. It’s the barbarians’ killing and pillaging—what can we do? You lived peacefully in the south, why come north? The elders say war is coming again—you may not be able to return."

"And, for girls my age, do people in the south call us ‘little sister’? Here, we’re called ‘little lady.’"

He Yu was suddenly struck by a thought: "During the Eastern Jin, young men were called ‘young gentleman,’ and young women ‘little lady,’ much like ‘sir’ and ‘miss’ in later times."

"Oh, not always—I’ll follow local customs. From now on, I’ll call you ‘little lady.’ May I ask your name?" Now certain he was in the Eastern Jin, He Yu adopted a scholarly manner, asking formally.

The girl blushed deeply, shyly stammering, "Thank you for asking, sir. I am Lin Deng’er. May I ask your esteemed name?"

He Yu realized too late that in the Wei and Jin era, though gender boundaries weren’t as strict as later times, asking a woman’s name was still impolite.

But Lin Deng’er’s name sounded quite modern, even whimsical. This wasn’t unusual—names in the Han and Wei Jin periods could be quite unconventional. For example, Empress Guo Shengtong, Empress Chu Suanzi, Empress Guo Nüwang, Wang Xianzhi’s daughter Wang Shen’ai.

He Yu smiled awkwardly. "I am He Yu, courtesy name Yuzhi, from Jinling."

Since he had traveled to ancient times, he’d have to live by ancient ways. In olden days, every man had a courtesy name.

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