Chapter One: An Encounter in the Ruined Temple

Mount Jade Emperor stands between West Lake and the Qiantang River. Formerly known as Dragon Mountain, it appears from a distance like a great dragon lying across the land, its head and tail connected with Phoenix Mountain, earning it the poetic praise of “dragons flying and phoenixes dancing.” Every year, from the Lunar New Year until the Qingming Festival, throngs of pilgrims from Hangjiahu, Suzhou, and Wuxi flock here. Before the Dragon Hall of the Fuxing Monastery, incense smoke curls through the air amid a teeming crowd, creating a spectacular scene unique to the mountain. On ordinary days, the mountain is filled with people hiking for exercise and sightseeing, from dawn until dusk, making it a beloved destination for leisure and tourism. It is also home to one of the new “Ten Sights of West Lake”—the famed “Jade Emperor Flying Clouds.”

The peaks of Mount Jade Emperor are lofty and graceful, dotted with curious rocks and mysterious caves, interwoven with lush bamboo and trees. From the Purple Arrival Cave midway up the mountain, one can gaze down upon the “Bagua Fields,” once personally tilled by the emperors of the Southern Song. At the summit stand pavilions such as the “River and Lake Overlook” and the “Climbing Cloud Pavilion,” offering views of West Lake within, the Qiantang River afar, and the rolling mountains to the west. In the eighth lunar month, the awe-inspiring tidal bore of the Qiantang can be seen from the heights. The renowned Purple Arrival Cave is a marvel of nature, with three levels and caves within caves, its depths unfathomable. Within, a purple mist lingers year-round, cool and damp. Beside the cave’s mouth, a Seven Star Vat, placed here by the ancients in accordance with the principles of Yin-Yang and the Eight Trigrams to ward off fire demons from Hangzhou, sits by the opening. On the nearby Seven Star Pavilion is a couplet: “Seven Star Vat, Bagua Fields, Purple Arrival’s celestial realm—all wonders crafted by divine hands; Tides of eastern Zhejiang, sights of West Lake, Dragon Mountain’s storied relics—the grandest view in Wu Lin.”

In the stifling heat of July, a youth sat beneath a large tree on an unnamed cliff of Mount Jade Emperor, fanning himself with a straw hat. Sweat poured continuously down his pockmarked, adolescent face, so profusely that a stranger might have mistaken it for the surface of the moon. Perched on his nose was a pair of thick, rustic glasses, covering half his face. His thin frame wore a faded school uniform and a pair of jeans ripped at the knees, clear signs of hardship. By his feet rested a large basket brimming with herbs and wildflowers.

This was our protagonist, Liu Fan, eighteen years old, of unknown parentage. Abandoned at birth due to a congenital illness, he was found by the village physician Liu Fugui from Liu Family Village at the foot of Mount Jade Emperor, who took him in and raised him. Because of his frailty, Liu Fan was often sickly as a child, but for the doctor’s attentive care, he might not have survived. As a result, he became withdrawn, seldom fitting in at school, frequently bullied, and almost without friends.

A year ago, the old physician passed away, leaving Liu Fan an orphan and making his life even more difficult. Fortunately, the villagers, grateful for the old doctor’s kindness over the years, looked after Liu Fan, allowing him to finish high school. Though plain in appearance, he excelled academically and had already received an acceptance letter from Fudan University in Shanghai.

With the new semester looming in September and his tuition still unpaid, Liu Fan gathered herbs on the mountain each day to sell. Years of exposure had taught him a fair amount about medicinal plants. Today was another busy afternoon, and he’d managed to collect quite a haul. “Not bad, this should fetch a few dozen yuan,” he muttered to himself, glancing at the basket.

“When will I ever save enough for tuition? Huh, why is it getting dark already?” As he spoke, the sky changed abruptly, thick clouds rolling in with alarming speed, and rain imminent.

“Damn, wasn’t today supposed to be clear? Why’s it raining? The weather forecast is useless,” he grumbled, but his hands moved quickly, hoisting the basket onto his back and hurrying down the mountain. He’d barely gone a few steps before the downpour began. Night was falling, the path was slick and treacherous, and a single misstep could mean disaster. Fortunately, Liu Fan was used to these trails and wasn’t too worried.

Thunder rumbled. A flash of lightning split the sky. Liu Fan suddenly realized he was surrounded by darkness, visibility less than two meters. He had to admit a harsh truth: he was lost.

“What now? With this thunder and rain, and trees everywhere, I could get struck by lightning if I’m not careful.” Panic set in.

“Sigh! Which way to go? Never mind, I’ll just keep moving.” With that, he picked a direction and ran. The rain fell harder, the path grew worse, and soon his body began to falter—his frail frame swaying, barely holding on.

“Ah!” Suddenly, he slipped, tumbling down the slope. With a single cry, he vanished, colliding with an earthen wall and coming to a stop. He did not lose consciousness, but his clothes were reduced to tatters, blood oozing from several wounds—a beggar forged in the fires of misfortune.

Soon, Liu Fan struggled to his feet, shaking his head. Aside from some dizziness, he was mostly unharmed. Looking around, he saw a small, rundown temple built of stone and earth, apparently long abandoned.

“Well, at least it’s shelter from the rain. I wonder what temple this is.” He approached, stepping into the main hall. Three clay statues stood on the altar, their features worn beyond recognition, cobwebs and dust everywhere. The statue on the left resembled a Daoist, dressed in Eight Trigram robes, holding two books in his left hand and a trigrams disc in his right. The central figure looked like an old farmer in ancient garb, grasping some herbs in his left hand and a hoe in his right. The statue on the right appeared regal, wearing a jeweled crown with trailing beads and a dragon-embroidered robe, hands resting on the hilt of a sword—unmistakably an emperor.

“Three? What is this? Doesn’t look like a Temple of the Three Pure Ones. More like a Temple of the Three Sovereigns. But why would there be one here? It must be very old.” Liu Fan gazed up at the plaque above the altar, staring at the three characters inscribed there. He only recognized one and couldn’t make sense of the strange script, so he gave up and looked for a clean place to rest. After searching, only the altar itself was clean enough.

“Great deities above, please forgive my intrusion. I’m just taking shelter for one night. If fortune smiles on me, I’ll be sure to repay you with incense offerings in the future. I beg your pardon,” he muttered as he cleared a spot on the altar, finally lying down, though something still felt off.

“Ah, that’s it—no pillow. No wonder I can’t get comfortable.” Glancing at the two stone-carved books in the left statue’s hand, Liu Fan was struck by inspiration.

“What a perfect pillow. I wonder if I can take them down.” As he spoke, he stood by the statue and reached out for the books. The moment he grasped them, blood from his wounded hands smeared onto the stone, seeping in. Suddenly, the bloodstained books blazed with brilliant light, blinding Liu Fan. He felt a tremendous force, sucking away his life like a black hole. Despair and helplessness overwhelmed him, and then, with a flash, everything returned to silence. Liu Fan was gone from the altar—vanished without a trace.

“Ah! Ugh!” Who knows how much time passed before Liu Fan awoke to low groans. Opening his eyes, he found himself not in the ruined temple but in a wooden cottage, modest in size. In the main room, a square table was neatly arranged, a wooden cupboard filled with jars and bottles stood in the corner. The scene before him felt like stepping into ancient times.

“Could it be… Like in those web novels, have I time-traveled to the past? This can’t be real.” As a modern high schooler, Liu Fan was no stranger to stories of transmigration. He felt much stronger than before and, eager to learn his whereabouts, tried to get up and walk outside.

“Is anyone there? Hello?”

“Hehe, young man, you’re awake. Are you well?” Stepping outside, Liu Fan saw three strangers beneath a large tree, sipping tea and playing chess on stone stools. One, dressed as a farmer, rose and approached upon hearing him.

“Ah? I’m fine now. Thank you, sir, for your kindness. My name is Liu Fan. May I ask your name, and where am I?” Liu Fan’s mind was reeling—had he really traveled to another world? Yet the old man inspired a sense of trust.

“Good, good. I am Emperor Yan, Shennong. As for the rest, I’ll explain in due time. Come, let me introduce you to these two.” Before Liu Fan could collect his thoughts, the old man led him to the other two men.

“This is the Heavenly Sovereign, Fuxi.” He gestured to an elder in a grey Daoist robe patterned with trigrams.

“Ah! Haha!” The old man stroked his white beard and greeted him warmly.

“And this is the Human Sovereign, the Yellow Emperor Xuanyuan.” Emperor Yan turned to introduce the third, a dignified man in a bright yellow dragon robe.

“Hmm!” The Yellow Emperor replied, stern and noble.

At this moment, Liu Fan was utterly stunned.

“Gulp! The… Three Sovereigns? I, I…” His mind went blank, and he could only swallow nervously, stammering incoherently.

“Hehe, no need to be alarmed, young Liu. You guessed right: we are the legendary Three Sovereigns of antiquity. But we are not their true selves—only fragments of their divine consciousness. As for why you are here, that too has its reasons. Come, sit with us, and we shall explain everything.” Fuxi, seeing Liu Fan’s distress, stepped forward to calm him. The four sat around the stone table. Though Liu Fan was no longer as agitated, his heart was filled with questions.