Chapter 1: Novel Experience is Useless

Just after the Frost’s Descent (Shuāngjiàng) season had passed, a gust of wind swept through, and many of the yellowing leaves on the trees fluttered down.

In a quiet little mountain village, in a simple farmhouse on the edge of the village, sat a woman in one of the rooms.

In her hands was a finely crafted mirror with silver edges—completely out of place compared to the humble courtyard and even the woman herself.

From time to time, she would raise the mirror and glance into it, only to put it down again as if she couldn’t bear to look. Then, she would stare blankly ahead at nothing in particular.

Lady Song—or perhaps it was more accurate to say Song Yeqing—had been sitting here for over half an hour since waking up in the morning, processing everything about this new body.

At first, she thought she had entered some sort of illusion. Then she remembered—hadn’t she died? That realization helped her gradually accept the reality before her.

She had transmigrated.

The only reason she could accept her current situation so calmly was thanks to her younger cousin.

That girl had gone through a phase where she passionately recommended all kinds of novels to everyone around her. Even Song Yeqing, who always wore a cold, expressionless face, wasn’t spared.

Later? Out of sisterly affection, Song Yeqing accepted the recommendation and read one of those old-fashioned melodramatic transmigration novels. The male and female leads were entangled in a painful, obsessive love, filled with blood feuds and endless dramatic twists.

After finishing it, she told her cousin that the male lead seemed like an idiot, and the female lead like a fool. Then she patiently lectured her about how reading classic family literature would better cultivate her heart and mind.

As a result, the younger cousin ignored her for over two months. Although that was just her one-sided decision to cut off communication, Song Yeqing had no idea at the time that she’d upset her.

Unfortunately, she’d probably never see that bright, cheerful little cousin again.

At this moment, Song Yeqing silently placed the mirror face-down and looked around the room.

Should she pretend to be dizzy, then claim amnesia so someone nearby would slowly explain everything to her? Or maybe wake up with a surprised look and ask where the cameras were?

None of that happened.

Because when she woke up, there were only two peacefully sleeping children beside her. The sight had nearly scared her off the bed.

How was she supposed to fake amnesia, fish for information, or cause a scene?

Besides, she had already absorbed the original owner’s memories and understood everything now.

This was a dynasty she had never heard of before—the Great An Dynasty.

The original “Lady Song” was the youngest daughter of the owner of an embroidery workshop in Jiangnan. They shared the same name.

Before age fourteen, Lady Song lived a simple life: learning embroidery and household management from her mother, making small snacks, and strolling the streets with her young girlfriends.

Later, the family’s embroidery business began to struggle. Her father decided to cut his losses, sold off their assets, and planned to return to their ancestral hometown of Yizhou with about five thousand taels of silver, intending to live as a wealthy man.

However, when they reached the border of Qizhou, they were ambushed by mountain bandits. The greedy bandits demanded three thousand taels in silver as a toll, and even after receiving it, refused to leave. They insisted the family hand over the women in the carriage.

Naturally, Lady Song’s father refused. With ten household guards, he went outside to negotiate. But these were bloodthirsty bandits—negotiation was futile.

The Great An Dynasty had strict weapon control laws. As a wealthy civilian family, they only carried five sabers and one sword—no match at all for the brutal bandits.

Huddled in the carriage, tightly embraced by her mother, Lady Song could hear the clash of weapons and the occasional scream outside. Then the carriage suddenly lurched and began to bolt forward in a panic.

After a while, the curtain was lifted. It was her second brother, who had escaped in the chaos. Her eldest brother was with the other carriage that carried his wife and child—their fate was unknown.

As for the ox cart carrying three maidservants, it was likely already doomed. And the father who stayed behind—probably also…

“Mother, little sister—the bandits have horses. They’ll probably catch up soon. I’ll find a place to stop. You two must hide,” her second brother said loudly as he gripped the reins with one hand. His other hand was bleeding, showing how tense and frantic things had been.

Trying to reassure them, he pulled open the curtain and leaned his head in so they could see his face.

“Ah Heng…” Lady Song’s mother choked up. The once-radiant woman now knew what fate had likely befallen her husband.

“You and Qingqing hide. I’ll go,” he said as he rummaged through the jostling cart and pulled out a black cloak, draping it around Lady Song.

Realizing her mother and brother were planning to use the carriage to distract the pursuing bandits, Lady Song clung tightly to her mother’s hand.

She could sense the danger—maybe even the finality of it all. She didn’t want to lose anyone. In a panic, she said, “No, no! We should stay together!”

Outside, her brother couldn’t hear over the wind.

Lady Song’s mother pulled her forward on her knees toward the front of the cart, which was now slowing to a halt.

“It’s fine. Maybe they’ve already given up chasing. I’ll drive the carriage forward. You two wait here,” her second brother said, his eyes slightly red, forcing a smile to comfort them. He spoke quickly, then jumped off to help them down.

Seeing that the bumpy ride had made them dizzy and her daughter was being pushed down first, he hurried to catch her. But the moment Lady Song stepped off, her mother—suddenly energized—snatched the reins and whipped the horse into a gallop.

“Mother…” Before she could shout, her brother covered her mouth and pulled her toward the trees uphill from the road.

By then, dusk had already fallen. They found a spot thick with foliage, well-hidden. The cloak didn’t stand out in the dim forest.

“Ah Qing, stay here and wait for me to come back. Don’t run, understand?” He put a finger to his lips, motioning for silence.

Lady Song could only nod through her tears. She couldn’t speak. After all, she was just a fourteen-year-old girl.

Then her brother left, quickly but carefully covering his tracks as he headed in the direction of the carriage.

Soon after he left, the sound of galloping hooves came from below. She didn’t make a sound, holding back sobs as the tears continued to fall.

The stars and moon were faint in the sky, and only the occasional beam of moonlight filtered through the forest canopy. She didn’t know how much time had passed—only that she had stopped crying. Her eyes were wide open, fixed on the direction her brother had disappeared.

He didn’t come back. Her mother didn’t return either. The bandits never came back down the same road.

After staying awake for a full day and night, she passed out from exhaustion.

By the time she woke again, it was already the next day. The only sounds in the forest were the chirps of birds.

Fortunately, the area was near a road, so there were no large beasts, and it seemed even snakes left her alone. Otherwise, she would’ve died long ago.

Lady Song thought that maybe she couldn’t wait any longer. She had to find them. So she stiffly stood up, avoiding the main road and sticking to the edge of the woods, walking alongside it.

She walked for two days but still found no trace of them. She wondered if she had taken a wrong turn back at the fork in the road. A girl who had never traveled far alone, relying solely on instinct—she had no idea where she was going.

When thirsty, she drank stream water. When hungry, she ate some wild pears and chestnuts she recognized. The pears were terribly sour—her mother used to boil them into sweet syrup to soothe the throat.

She didn’t know how long she had wandered—ten days? Half a month?

Eventually, she collapsed.

By that time, she no longer resembled her former lively, pampered self. Her once-full cheeks were sunken, the hem of her cloak was tattered, her embroidered shoes were caked with mud and unrecognizable. Her hands and face were scratched and dirty, covered in mosquito bites.

Her coin pouch had been lost during the chaos. All she had left were two dangling silver hairpins with pearls, a pair of pearl earrings, and a jade bracelet—all tucked into her underclothes.

Lady Song didn’t know if she would ever find her family again. But she kept the jewelry safe. She had learned household management and knew the value of things. These items could fetch about ten taels of silver.

Even after all she had gone through, she still hoped her family was alive and just lost, not gone. With this money, she could at least hire someone to help search fo¹r them.

(Author’s Note: I’m using the mid-Ming Dynasty silver standard here. 1 tael ≈ 600–800 RMB in modern value. A normal family of five would need about 30 taels for yearly expenses—just rice and salt cost about 14.2 taels. The conversion may not be exact; don’t sweat the details too much. This story is semi-researched but not historically strict.)