All the heroes of the world are now in my grasp.

Chapter 11 Heartbeats After the Snow

Ever since the simplified Chinese characters in that copy of the Analects revealed the secrets of time travelers, Gao Zidan has been completely lost in a daze, staying indoors for three whole days.

The snowstorm outside the tent had long since ceased, and the outlines of the continuous snow-capped Yinshan Mountains were finally revealed. Inside, however, the charcoal fire still burned brightly, barely dispelling the lingering chill of early spring. The scrolls brought from Liu Yao's place were scattered all over the floor. Some were only half-read and then abandoned, while others were still unopened. Gone was the scene of studying them word by word and sorting out the complexities of the chaotic world that had unfolded just a few days ago. Gao Zidan sat blankly at her desk all day, either staring at the familiar simplified Chinese characters on the pages, or silently gazing at the flickering charcoal fire. She seemed to have lost her soul, even the light in her eyes had become empty.

Han Xin remained in the tent, as quiet as a silent shadow. Gao Zidan only allowed him to enter during mealtimes to bring food and water; at other times, he was forbidden to speak or ask any questions. Han Xin never pried into the young lord's thoughts, but silently arranged the hot food and soup on the table, added more charcoal to the stove, and then tiptoed to the corner of the tent, even his breathing was extremely soft, for fear of disturbing the distraught young lord.

Gao Zidan was gripped by immense confusion, and even breathing felt sluggish and heavy.

He had always believed himself to be the sole outlier in this chaotic world, a chosen one who had entered the ancient era with modern knowledge. Even with his entire family slaughtered and his life hanging by a thread from the start, he always harbored a sliver of confidence—he recognized the powerful figures who stirred up the storms of history. Even without a "script," even with the most difficult beginnings, he knew their characters. He knew Liu Yao loved wine, Liu Bang had lofty ambitions, and Xiang Yu was not to be trifled with. With this information advantage, even in temporary difficulties, he would eventually have a chance to turn the tide. But only now did he realize with a start that decades before he set foot on this land, a time traveler had already reached the pinnacle, completed the path he had envisioned, and even surpassed his own expectations.

Emperor Yuanwu of the Tang Dynasty, Li Zheng, the powerful ruler who ended two hundred years of fragmentation and chaos and unified the north and south, the founding emperor who single-handedly created legislation, implemented the land tax reform, and promoted the marketization of government-run enterprises, and even made simplified Chinese characters the universal script, was clearly also a time traveler.

But what was the ultimate fate of this predecessor who possessed the greatest advantage of being a time traveler? The Tang Dynasty he founded lasted only twenty years before being easily usurped by Zhao Sheng and his son Zhao Ren. Even the historical records about him were edited down to just a few whitewashed words, as if his twenty years of diligent governance and painstaking reforms were nothing more than stepping stones for the Zhao family's usurpation of power.

Why is the protagonist's halo, typical of time travelers, completely useless here?

A bizarre and terrifying thought, like a venomous snake, uncontrollably burrowed into his mind. He recalled the widely circulated legends of Wang Mang and Liu Xiu in his original world: Wang Mang's policies of land nationalization, abolition of slavery, and state monopoly on salt and iron were so advanced that they were completely unlike those of ancient times, making him seem like an idealistic time traveler; while Liu Xiu's victory at Kunyang, with a meteorite falling from the sky and a victory against all odds, seemed to be favored by the will of the world, forcefully pulling the skewed history back onto the right track, making him seem like a chosen one of the heavens.

Is this world also like this? Li Zheng is the time traveler who tried to rewrite history and reshape civilization, while Zhao Sheng and his son Zhao Ren are the pawns sent by Heaven to correct history? Their purpose is to erase all traces left by the time traveler and let this distorted world return to its original cycle of feudal dynasties?

And what about himself? Why did he travel through time? Could it be that some powerful being is secretly maneuvering, treating him and other seemingly familiar figures like Li Zheng, Liu Bang, Xiang Yu, and Li Shimin—warlords from completely different eras—as mere pawns on a chessboard? Are these figures, separated by thousands of years in history books, now gathered in this chaotic world merely echoes of history, or are they deliberately planted anchor points?

The more I think about it, the more confused I become; the more I think about it, the more I feel that the road ahead is pitch black.

And so, in a daze, another three days passed.

That morning, the tent flap was gently pushed open, and Han Xin slowly entered carrying a food box. He placed the steaming soup noodles and cured meat on the table before speaking in a low voice, his tone filled with cautious concern: "Young lord, the snow has completely stopped, the sun is out, and it's bright outside. You've been staying indoors these past few days, which has taken a toll on your spirit. Why don't you open the window to let in some fresh air and see the sunlight?"

Gao Zidan remained seated, lost in a daze, offering only a perfunctory reply without taking it to heart. Seeing that he didn't object, Han Xin quietly walked to the window and pushed open the felt curtain and wooden window that had been closed for many days.

A biting, clear wind rushed in instantly, carrying the sunlight after the snowfall and the damp scent of melting snow, filling the dim tent. The candlelight on the table flickered gently in the wind, and the scattered pages of the book turned in the breeze, abruptly pulling Gao Zidan's wandering thoughts back.

He subconsciously looked up and gazed out the window.

The Yongming Valley, after the snowfall, was no longer the deathly stillness of when the mountains were blocked by snow. A continuous blanket of white snow covered the valley, and sunlight shone on the snow, refracting into dazzling fragments of gold. Groups of Xiongnu people were scattered throughout the valley, wielding wooden shovels and carrying bamboo baskets, busily shoveling snow, clearing paths, and repairing fences and felt tents damaged by the blizzard. White-haired elders squatted nearby, arranging felt for the repaired tents; women with rolled-up sleeves worked together to lift snow; teenagers ran around helping to pass tools; and even women holding children soothed their infants while clearing snow from in front of the tents. Shouts, chants, children's laughter, and the chatter of the tribesmen rose and fell, echoing through the empty valley, a vibrant tapestry of human life amidst the desolation.

They didn't complain or wait for death. Even when caught in the middle of a chaotic world, with a blizzard blocking all escape routes, all they had to do was shovel the snow, repair their homes, and do everything in their power to survive.

That is the most basic yet most tenacious vitality in dire circumstances.

Gazing at the busy figures in the snow, Gao Zidan's eyes, which had been empty for days, suddenly sensed something. He abruptly moved, his hands, resting on his knees, slowly clenching. Something familiar yet strange was suddenly awakened within him. Yes, that was the power of the people, the sounds and images of people at work. To be born human and change the world—isn't that the most magnificent thing in the world? What special meaning could there be?

Gao Zidan burst into tears of joy, while Han Xin was puzzled.