Chapter Two: Celestial Treasure

Surname Kang, fifth in his family, and a Sogdian to boot?

Liu Ji slid carefully down the slope, stepping warily on the river stones. The water was icy cold, biting into his skin, and as he splashed his face, a shiver ran through his body. He needed such sharp stimulation right now.

He washed his face twice, then gazed deeply at his reflection in the water—a face both unfamiliar and intimately known. Though he had sensed it already, only now did he fully realize that he was no longer the dashing twenty-four-year-old intelligence major he had once been.

His skin was dark with a reddish tint—what people in later eras called “bronze”—not so different from the future. From the eyebrows and eyes, this body was still young, though unkempt after days of neglect. Fine, short stubble covered the jaw, lending him an unexpected air of maturity.

His hair was bound with strips of cloth, one of which was deeply stained with a dark color. That must have been the cause of his fainting—perhaps the soul of this body’s former owner had already been utterly extinguished before Liu Ji took his place, which was why none of the previous consciousness remained. Rising to his feet, he let his whole form be reflected on the water’s surface.

It was clear this body was well-developed, standing about one meter seventy-five—barely five centimeters shorter than he had been in his previous life. The calves were sturdy, the thighs slightly bent, arms powerful, muscles flexing with every movement—a sign that protein had never been in short supply.

“Poor scholars, wealthy warriors,” he thought. Either the original family was well-off, or the young man himself had some standing. Either way, it was good news. The body is the foundation of all revolution—no matter the era, this holds true.

At his feet was a bundle. Liu Ji bent to pick it up; it weighed heavily on his arm, and he quickly caught it in both hands.

The bundle was small, wrapped in oilcloth for waterproofing. Inside, several layers of coarse hemp protected the contents—fibers longer than those in naval canvas, by his estimation—while the innermost layer was smooth, fine brocade. He peeled it open, revealing a cylindrical handle.

The rounded handle was about forty centimeters long, with a slight five-degree curve. Its surface was engraved with simple, crisp patterns in intaglio. Liu Ji ran his thumb along the designs until he found a thin seam; pressing there, the handle sprang open, exposing a sliver of gleaming metal.

As he had suspected, it was a short blade—no guard, the hilt and blade forged as one. Sheathed, it simply looked like a handle; its style reminded him of the “Tibetan knives” from later times. He did not draw it, but turned it and tucked it into his waistband, perhaps his only means of self-defense.

Beneath the knife lay a pile of round metal coins. When the blade was removed, they clinked together softly—gold coins gleaming yellow, silver coins white, and bronze coins with a square hole in the center, their green patina turned black by age. These last, he recognized; around the hole, the characters “Kaiyuan Tongbao” were inscribed in ornate script.

Pushing aside the coins, he uncovered papers and clothing. Liu Ji picked up the topmost sheet and carefully unfolded it—a handwritten document, rough paper with visible fibers, but very absorbent.

As he expected, the text was written vertically, without punctuation, all in traditional and variant characters. Reading was slow and laborious, part guesswork, but he surmised that it was a travel permit, stamped with the seals of various authorities—from the Office of the Governor, the Protectorate, down through prefecture, district, county, and checkpoint officials, each also signed by their respective clerks.

Soon he found his own name listed singly, along with his origin and age.

“Citizen Kang Caien, Deputy Officer of Xuanjie, from Jiaohou County, aged sixteen.”

So, the original owner of this body was merely sixteen—a youth fresh as spring. Liu Ji pressed on, reading word by word, until his eyes halted at the very end of the document, unable to move away.

“Third day of the fourth month, eleventh year of Tianbao.”

There were nine characters in all; apart from the archaic form of “bao,” the rest were clear. This was why he had parted ways with his companion—he wanted to find clues from these belongings, and now things were coming into focus.

He was a Sogdian merchant from Jiaohou County, traveling for commerce to this land that felt both familiar and strange. His limited knowledge of history told him that this region, no matter the era, had never been fully part of China—save for one brief period.

The Tang Dynasty.

The eleventh year of Tianbao—752 AD—the Tang Empire at its zenith, twelve centuries before his own time.

His suspicions confirmed, Liu Ji stood there blankly, a void opening in his mind, until the sudden clatter of hoofbeats jolted him alert. Instinctively, he pressed himself against the slope, clutching his bundle tightly.

He and his companion had walked the mountain road for half a day without seeing another soul—the path was so little traveled it must be well hidden. The abruptness of the hoofbeats made them all the more suspicious.

The horses were nearly upon him, the sound echoing just overhead. Liu Ji pressed against the hillside, holding his breath, listening to the chaotic mix of hoofbeats and the sharp scrape of iron-shod hooves against stone.

From the labored snorts, he could tell the horses were heavily loaded. In this era, only cavalry from the army would ride so fast with such burdens.

He waited motionless until the hoofbeats faded and silence returned, then slowly stood, tied the bundle to his back, picked up a stick leaning nearby, and after a moment shifted the short blade from his side to his lower back, as he had once holstered a pistol on missions—a matter of habit.

Whether this was his territory or not, caution was essential; he had no idea what dangers might lie ahead.

In his heart, Liu Ji knew this era did not belong to him.

He scrambled up the slope on hands and feet. The narrow mountain road was deserted, but the mud was pocked with fresh hoofprints—at least three horses had passed.

Were they after his companion? Anxiety gnawed at Liu Ji—an instinctive reaction of the body. Who were these people pursuing them, and for what purpose? Why were they headed to He Bulao City?

He Bulao City? He murmured the name twice, then a realization dawned.

In the Baltistan region of Pakistan-administered Kashmir, the county capital is called Khaplu, but it is not a hundred miles ahead. That should be near the Shigar River, a tributary of the Indus, close to the glaciers—a place he had once hiked during field research.

If his companion was heading for the Shigar Valley, that was precisely where this mountain road led. Whatever had happened, Liu Ji had to see for himself.

With this thought, his pace quickened. Alone, he no longer needed to feign injury or weakness. Stick in hand, he strode forward in long steps—but had gone barely fifty paces before stopping abruptly, his face darkening with gravity.

Some two hundred meters ahead on the mountain road, three black figures stood motionless. The black warhorse in front pawed the ground, its rider swathed head to toe in a black lamellar cuirass. Beneath a conical iron helmet, the plates shielded most of his face, save for a pair of sharp, predatory eyes fixed on Liu Ji as though sizing up prey.

Liu Ji immediately began to back away, but the riders did not move—only the leader’s eyes flashed with a mocking smile, sending a chill through his heart.

Then, behind him, came the rapid clatter of hooves—he did not need to look to know that at least two more warhorses were charging up the path.

He had been caught in a trap.