Chapter Eight: Everything in the Books Is a Lie

“Shameless, shameless, you’re the shameless one, your whole family is shameless!” While Ren Cong was racking his brain trying to figure out how to leave a good impression on the mysterious master, the so-called master, Zhang Qian, was busy kicking clumps of dirt alongside the mountain path, muttering curses under his breath.

Earlier, Zhang Qian had decisively refused Ren Cong’s invitation and chosen to part ways—not because he was drunk from the rice wine after strenuous exercise and lost his senses, nor because he was overwhelmed by some great shock and had lost his composure. His swift separation was born of wariness. Thrown into this utterly unfamiliar environment, among strangers, how could he trust his safety to the moral standards of people he barely knew?

Though these strangers had come at his cry for help, tended his wounds, and offered him rice wine, who could guarantee their hospitality was without ulterior motive? And what had Zhang Qian done to deserve being treated as an honored guest by a scion of the Tang Dynasty upon first meeting?

As the saying goes: "If someone is excessively attentive for no reason, they're either a thief or a scoundrel." The more warmly Ren Cong and his companions behaved, the more uneasy Zhang Qian felt.

This unease was deeply rooted in his upbringing, and further fueled by his careful observation of Ren Cong and the others. He caught the slovenly physician with the blue round cap eyeing him more than once, scrutinizing every article of clothing, his backpack, belt, even his shoelaces! That gaze was not merely curiosity—it was greed, barely concealed and ready to pounce, as if itching to strip him bare and send him walking naked in the evening light.

Especially when he emptied his backpack, the physician seemed desperate to stick his head inside. Yet, the only thing visible at that moment was his battered copy of “A Song of Ice and Fire,” the original English edition, its cover smeared with mud and gravel.

Zhang Qian couldn’t believe a Tang Dynasty physician could read twenty-first-century English. Even if his history teacher had died young, he’d never have told him that the Silk Road reached England in the Tang Dynasty! Besides, ancient English and modern English differ as much as classical Chinese and Mandarin.

Convinced the physician couldn’t read English, Zhang Qian became even less comfortable traveling with him. While his backpack contained nothing of great value—and most items were likely damaged when he used it to fend off wild wolves—every item inside was evidence of his existence in the twenty-first century.

When he’d bought them, none had cost much, but now, to him, they were priceless.

Thinking about how the wolf’s head might have ruined his things, Zhang Qian felt a pang in his heart. Glancing around to make sure he was alone, he stopped, opened his backpack, and carefully inspected its contents in the waning light.

The cover and back of “A Song of Ice and Fire” were completely ruined, with about a dozen pages next to each also ragged and torn. But thanks to the book’s thickness, the Huawei phone sandwiched in the middle had only a thin crack at the lower left corner of the screen, which didn’t affect any function except those requiring a network connection.

This immediately relaxed his taut nerves. He quickly unzipped another compartment, searching hopefully between the sponge layers, and found his solar charger.

The battery panel was intact! The plastic casing had collapsed, exposing the internal circuit board, but the board itself was undamaged.

A surge of joy brought tears to his eyes. Sniffling, he opened another hidden pocket, pulling out the contents one by one.

His luck seemed to end here. The chocolate biscuits for late-night study sessions had been reduced to crumbs. The sunglasses meant to protect his eyes were shattered into bits of plastic and glass.

Grinding his teeth, he tore open the plastic, poured the biscuit crumbs into his mouth, and reached for the next compartment. The wallet remained, holding a few colorful bills and two debit cards. The cards weren’t broken, and still contained the hardship grant his school deposited regularly—but where would he find an ATM in the Tang Dynasty? Here, even a mountain of RMB was no better than waste paper.

“At least they’re a memento,” he thought, unable to bring himself to throw away the bills or the cards. Sighing softly, he tucked the wallet back and reached into another pocket.

A Swiss Army knife from Yiwu, no bigger than a pinky; a small bottle of mosquito repellent for late study sessions; a strip of the miracle drug Paracetamol; and two packs of the cephalosporin antibiotics he’d begged the school nurse for half an hour the day before.

The first two were undamaged, the last two flattened but still usable.

He placed everything back in its proper place, except the empty biscuit wrapper, closed his backpack, and checked himself over one more time.

A blended shirt, a pure cotton vest, a synthetic leather belt, a pair of underwear, jeans torn by wolves, a pair of travel shoes, and—yes—a high-fidelity green Rolex Submariner from Yiwu.

These were all his worldly possessions. From here on, he would have to rely on them to survive in the Tang Dynasty and strive to live like a proper human being.

“God, if only you’d given me a heads-up, I’d at least have brought corn, chili, and potato seeds!” Having learned to smile through adversity since childhood, Zhang Qian muttered bitterly, slung his bloodstained backpack over his shoulder, and pressed on.

Zhang Qian remembered Ren Cong mentioning that Jixiang Temple was nearby, and its mountain gate faced the Meridian Road.

The Meridian Road led straight to Chang’an, and Chang’an, as the capital of the Tang Dynasty, was accustomed to visitors from all corners of the world. Surely the locals wouldn’t refuse to teach him a few words of Tang speech.

He was soon proven wrong.

Two minutes later, as his feet climbed the temple steps, the monastery’s gate slammed shut with a resounding bang. Soon after, the clear, melodious sound of the temple bell rang out, accompanied by curling smoke and chanting voices, declaring unmistakably: Do not disturb unless invited.

“What kind of attitude is that? I’m not here to scrounge a free meal!” Feeling a sting at the tip of his nose, Zhang Qian cursed under his breath and turned away.

Though annoyed, he wasn’t particularly disappointed. If monks were always warm and welcoming, history wouldn’t have left behind the saying, “After the assembly, each goes his own way; ashamed of the monk’s stingy meal bell.” He vaguely recalled that the miserly monk in the poem was from the Tang Dynasty, though the temple wasn’t near Chang’an.

Silently disparaging monks everywhere, Zhang Qian set foot on the Meridian Road. He’d walked less than two miles when he spotted several households.

The first family closed their gate in a hurry as soon as he approached, quicker than the monks at Jixiang Temple. At the second house, he knocked for ages but was met with silence. The third door was ajar, but before he could even touch it, a guard dog the size of a donkey burst out!

“Don’t bite, I’m not a bad person!” Too tired to fight a dog, Zhang Qian turned and ran, sprinting half a mile before he finally lost the beast.

“Damn it! Where’s the ‘good harvest welcomes guests with chicken and pork’? Where’s the ‘wine and talk among mulberry trees’? Where’s ‘joy when friends visit from afar’? Lies, all lies! Everything the books say is a lie!” Hands on his knees, panting and cursing, Zhang Qian once again felt the urge to cry.

No one answered him—only the endless barking of dogs echoed across the wild fields. “Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof, woof, woof…”