Today, I offer myself in service to Xianchun.

The forest whispered, shadows flickered, and all birds and beasts had fled from the sparse woods. Even the few bold rats and sparrows merely huddled in their holes, hoping the hunters with murderous weapons would leave soon, so they might escape with their lives.

After all, one had already paid with its life, its blood spilled as a sacrifice to the king of beasts—there was no hope left for the others.

The air was thick with a rank, metallic scent that made one's skin crawl and sweat stand on end. If not for the tiger’s blood soaking Zhang Xun’s feet, he would have already turned and run. It was no wonder people said that a tiger’s power does not fade at death; even in death, this beast looked fierce and terrifying. A long arrow pierced its eye, straight through to the brain, destroying all vitality. Another arrow lodged in its mouth, the shaft snapped nearby—a clear sign it had failed, merely slowing the tiger for an instant.

Zhang Xun, heart pounding and nearly wetting himself from fear and luck, managed to look back with difficulty. Li Da, who had already stowed his bow and was scanning the area, greeted Zhang Xun with a respectful gesture.

Li Da was his cousin’s attendant; if not for this veteran soldier, Zhang Xun’s hundred pounds of flesh would have been a feast for the dead tiger. Seeing his cousin climbing up the mountainside, Li Da was reassured and strode forward, pulling out a small knife to scrape the “Li” character from the arrow shaft.

“What are you doing?” Zhang Xun was still frozen, his feet heavy as lead, only able to utter a question.

“This kill should rightly belong to the young master,” Li Da replied, then picked up the broken arrow and carved his name into its shaft.

“That’s true…” Zhang Xun nodded; that was indeed the plan before they came.

“Just reward this old man with a couple cups of wine, that’s all I ask.” Li Da finished carving, tossed the arrow aside, and by now the others had arrived.

Well, since everyone agreed, Zhang Xun had nothing more to say. The two were not close; he’d only met Li Da a few days ago when his cousin visited. He had thought this old soldier was nothing special, just a retired guard now serving as a groom for the Li family.

Looking now, Li Da was truly a man of great strength, with arms capable of drawing a powerful bow—an old warrior worthy of respect.

If he had such skill, why hadn’t he been given a higher post? Perhaps because after Zhang Xun’s uncle returned from Sichuan in disappointment following the death of Prime Minister Zheng, he had never been reinstated. It was no surprise Li Da was left obscure among the common folk.

Within moments, dozens had gathered around the dead tiger, crowding and jostling, none daring to approach. They pointed, covered their eyes, exclaiming in shock and awe.

Zhang Xun, meanwhile, had recovered from his overwhelming fear and shock. His racing heart calmed, and he exhaled a long, shaky breath, retching thin soup.

Luckily, the crowd was too busy marveling at the dead tiger to notice Zhang Xun.

It could be said Zhang Xun had brought this upon himself; in fact, he had volunteered for the task, without a hint of coercion. Yet this Zhang Xun was not the same as before; a few days ago, after a sudden thunderclap, he had arrived in this world—without warning. The promises and duties of the original Zhang Xun were now his, but he had no desire to hunt tigers.

He was born into the household of the Grand Tutor Wei Wenjing, the most illustrious family in Wu, the Jinling Zhangs, renowned for eight father-and-son scholars. Zhang Xun was a privileged young noble.

So why would a refined young master descend the mountain to hunt a tiger? It was all due to his predecessor’s lack of discipline.

And not just tigers—he was expected to hunt crocodiles, too!

Half a month ago, the reckless Zhang Xun had lifted the bridal veil from a wedding procession. The bride, whether inspired by Confucian teachings or sheer desperation, jumped into the river, nearly dying.

Normally, even with such trouble, Zhang Xun would have paid a bit of compensation. His father, Zhang Xuexi, had died over four years ago, his eldest brother was an official, and the household was left with only an elderly mother, whose discipline was mild at best.

From a young age, Zhang Xun had been “unconstrained”—in plain terms, he was a troublemaker. At ten, boasting of his swimming prowess, he would lurk in the water, overturn boats for fun, and watch the victims struggle.

Late at night, he’d lead cousins and attendants to sneak into others’ estates, shouting “Fire!” or “Thieves!” until the entire neighborhood poured out in panic, even reporting to the authorities, while he sat on the rooftop, enjoying the chaos.

Such antics—he was bad from the cradle.

This time, he thought he could hide at home for a few days and escape punishment. But as fate would have it, his eldest sister’s husband was visiting on official business, staying at the Zhang residence. Zhang Xun, usually undisciplined and free, suddenly had a stern overseer.

His brother-in-law served in the Huai East Marshal Li’s headquarters, as a councilor for Huainan East Route, responsible for strategic documents. Praised by Marshal Li for his elegant wit, he had been recommended to the court four times, respected even by Zhang’s mother.

His name was Lu Xiufu, a brilliant talent renowned across the land.

He merely told Zhang’s mother, “A young man must be judged as kin; youthful recklessness is understandable, but now that he’s come of age, he must show vigor in the community.”

Thus, all the family elders and local gentry acclaimed the decision. At the time, the county had “three scourges”—the fierce tiger of the southern hills, the river dragon of the northern port, and the neighborhood’s notorious troublemaker. Now, the villainous Zhang Xun was to lead family and retainers, along with local archers, straight to the southern hills to slay the tiger.

If they could rid the land of one menace, so much the better; if they died together, that would be best.

Seeing Zhang Xun reluctant, Lu Xiufu secretly advised him to gather two or three hundred archers and unleash a volley; even the fiercest white-eyed tiger would be turned into a porcupine. If they succeeded, not only would Zhang Xun’s reputation be restored, but Lu Xiufu would also arrange a good marriage for him. The original Zhang Xun, seeing no danger and a sweet reward, eagerly agreed.

But things turned out differently—the tiger was cunning, having devoured over ten people in three years. It ignored the drums, hid in the grass, and when the archers scattered, it sprang out, nearly reaching Zhang Xun.

He loosed an arrow in panic, hitting the tiger’s mouth. Li Da, behind him, struck the tiger’s eye, ending its life.

He must have checked the calendar before leaving; it clearly said Song Dynasty, Xianchun Year Eight—not Tang, Tianbao Fourteen. Well, it was just a dead tiger; in Suiyang City, Zhang Xun would only have ruined someone’s reputation. Now, as a notorious young master, he had neither danger nor guilt.

But this Xianchun Year Eight—ah, ah, so I have been reborn in Changzhou, Jinling City.