Chapter Two: Fighting Over the Dog Bowl
Relying on the memories inherent to this body he had crossed into, Li Pingyang stumbled home in a sorry state.
There was no mansion as he had imagined, no servants or maids to command. All he found was a shabby wooden hut and a yard blanketed with fallen leaves, untended and desolate.
He pushed open the tightly shut door, which responded with a creaking groan.
The furnishings inside were equally modest—aside from a redwood wardrobe for clothes and a single lounge chair, there was barely anything one could call furniture.
Who’s there?!
As Li Pingyang surveyed the new home he would have to settle in, a startled cry escaped him.
In the corner of the room, something dark crouched on the floor, engaged in some unknown activity. Summoning his courage, Li Pingyang grabbed a wooden stick by the door and approached.
Upon closer inspection, he realized it was a man.
A middle-aged man, likely in his forties. The man was filthy, his hair disheveled, and his clothes torn and tattered. He was kneeling on the ground, eating.
When Li Pingyang saw what he was eating, he hurried forward and kicked the battered bowl aside. It turned out to be a bowl meant for a dog.
A mongrel squatted at the side, helplessly watching the man compete for its food, unsure how to react.
The overturned bowl spilled its moldy leftovers onto the ground. The man, panic-stricken, reached out to scoop up the scraps, intent on feeding them to his mouth, but Li Pingyang seized his wrist.
“Son? Are you Gou Dan? No, my son is dead, he’s been beheaded. You’re not Gou Dan! Not!”
The man muttered to himself, staring at Li Pingyang’s face for a moment before shaking his head in denial. The trauma of seeing his son taken away had left him in this broken state.
Wait—he just called me Gou Dan! What a misfortune, could it be that the person I’ve crossed into is named Li Gou Dan?
The fleeting sympathy Li Pingyang felt was instantly dispelled by this absurd name, leaving only helpless resignation.
He began to scrutinize the man before him—a face that spoke of honest labor, hands rough and calloused from wielding weapons.
The collar of his shirt hung open, revealing a conspicuous arrow wound on his chest, the skin marred with scars of all sizes.
“My father, you’ve suffered so much.”
Looking at the whip marks on his arm, Li Pingyang felt a deep pang of sorrow. He surmised these injuries were sustained when his father tried to protect him as he was taken.
He resolved then: since he had come to this world, he would let things unfold as they may. His previous life had been so wretched—over twenty, no girlfriend, and savings barely enough to count.
He decided to use Li Gou Dan’s body to carve out a name for himself in this lifetime. With his own hands, he would change the fate of this family and elevate his father above all others.
He would make the name Li Gou Dan resound throughout the Song capital!
“Father, I am Gou Dan, your son! Look carefully.”
As he spoke, Li Pingyang tidied his scattered hair with his hand, wiped his face with his sleeve, and then helped his father to sit on the bed.
Father examined him anew. On the familiar face, there was a small black mole just above the left eyebrow. Seeing the recognizable mole, he finally regained his composure, tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks.
He hugged Li Pingyang tightly; for a moment, he truly believed he would never see his son again in this lifetime. Li Pingyang, nearly smothered by the embrace, was deeply moved.
“It’s good you’ve come home, it’s good…”
Father wiped his tears, then suddenly remembered something and rushed to the kitchen. Li Pingyang, confused, followed.
In the kitchen, his father lifted the lid of a wooden pot and retrieved a hardened sweet potato, which he secretively hid behind his back.
Li Pingyang had already seen it, but not wanting to spoil the old man’s excitement, he played along and asked what he had brought. Father, pleased, finally handed it to him.
“Gou Dan, this is your favorite roasted sweet potato! My hands are filthy, I dirtied it by accident.”
Father hastily grabbed the sweet potato back and wiped it with a corner of his sleeve. Watching this, Li Pingyang’s eyes grew moist. He accepted the sweet potato and ate with hearty bites.
As he ate, he didn’t forget to praise it several times. Father watched his son eat so eagerly and smiled with satisfaction. Perhaps, watching made him hungry, for his stomach let out a rumbling growl.
Li Pingyang paused, amused by his honest father. Though father denied being hungry, claiming it was his digestion, Li Pingyang knew better.
“Eat it! If you don’t, I won’t eat either.”
Li Pingyang broke the sweet potato in half, handing the untouched piece to his father, threatening him with his own refusal to eat. Father finally relented, accepting the offering.
His stomach grumbled again, and at last he set aside his restraint, eating in large mouthfuls. Watching his father devour the food, Li Pingyang wiped away a tear from the corner of his eye.
Thus, father and son sat by the front door, Li Pingyang gnawing on the sweet potato, listening as his father rambled on about trivial matters.
He didn’t know how long he had listened, but sleepiness crept in. Li Pingyang interrupted the conversation, mentioning he would visit the Third Prince tomorrow.
Father swallowed the last bite of sweet potato, startled by the news, nearly choking. Li Pingyang hurried to pat his father’s back until the coughing subsided.
Afterward, Li Pingyang recounted the day’s events to his father. Yet, his father’s face was filled with worry—clearly, he did not want his son to go, anxious for his safety.
He knew his foolish son, though talented in poetry, was too kind-hearted and no match for the cunning royal scions. Moreover, his son was awkward in speech; one wrong word could offend and cost him his life.
Li Pingyang spent the next two hours persuading his father, finally winning his agreement. The Third Prince had saved his life; with his status, if he wished to kill Li Pingyang, who could stop him?
Though he hadn’t dealt directly with the prince, he felt the man was not the kind to harm the innocent and was reasonable.
“Be careful, you must take care,”
Father gripped Li Pingyang’s hands, giving them a reassuring pat. Li Pingyang nodded gently, noticing something in his palm—his father had slipped him a silk pouch.
He was about to open it, but his father stopped him, saying it was only to be opened in moments of dire need, in the most crucial hour. Its contents could save his life.
Li Pingyang nodded, carefully tucking it away. He told his father he wanted to step out for a walk, urging him to rest at home. The days spent seeking help had worn father down, leaving him haggard.
After seeing his father off, Li Pingyang closed the door behind him. As he paused with the door ajar, he gazed at his father’s frail, solitary figure, marked with wounds, and fell into deep contemplation.