That Dropped Chinese Novel’s Useless Me Says No to the System

Chapter 114 In Another Life

I thought I had fallen into a dream.

In that dream-dawn, a thin veil of mist drifted low, and a distant cockcrow carried the scent of fresh-turned earth. I rose from a crude wooden cot, a mottled, rust-scarred hoe resting at my side.

Pushing open the door, I found fields stretching in neat, green lattices, the paths underfoot still damp as though washed by a night’s rain. I wondered, briefly, what place this might be. Yet the doubt faded as swiftly as it came; some instinct insisted that I had been born and raised here.

I hefted the hoe and headed toward the fields.

Passing the town entrance, I saw a few small houses with whitewashed walls and dark eaves. A wooden plaque over one doorway read “Charity School.” From within came the tender voices of children reciting: “The Master said, to learn and to practice in due time, this is joy…”

Leading them was a young teacher of refined bearing, his features pale and composed, his robes falling in elegant lines. He carried no rod; instead, he fanned himself lightly, the corner of his mouth lifted in a mild smile. Even when the children faltered into disorder, he did not scold. A gentle tap of the fan, and their cadence righted itself naturally.

I could not help stealing a longer glance, thinking to myself that this tutor was an uncommon sort.

Further along, I reached the paddies, where several people were already at work.

Old Li from the neighboring plot was bent over transplanting seedlings. Seeing me approach, he wiped his brow and grinned.

“Well now, lad of the Wang family, here to stand in for your father again?”

A warmth rose in my chest, and I answered without thinking, “Yes. My father’s been taking my mother around to eat and stroll these past few days, so he told me to tend the fields for a while.”

The moment the words left my mouth, a sharp tremor ran through my thoughts. My father? My mother? Since when had I ever possessed such kin? Yet the doubt flickered only briefly before some unseen weight pressed it down, smoothing my mind back into calm.

Old Li chuckled, his tone tinged with envy. “Good, good. At times I truly envy your father, having a son like you.”

I lifted the hoe and gave a faint smile. “It’s just tending a plot of land. Enough to keep hunger off, nothing more.”

The sun climbed higher, burning away the dew along the ridges. I wiped the sweat from my brow, slung the hoe over my shoulder, and decided to call it a day. Passing the marketplace, I bought a few snacks—steamed buns, sugar cakes, twist fritters—and carried them in a paper bundle.

Unexpectedly, as I walked by the Charity School, that young teacher, Master Hua, stepped out at the same moment. We nearly collided.

“Careful,” he said, and I quickly reached out to steady him, then thrust the bundle of pastries toward him. “Terribly sorry, terribly sorry. Would sir like a bite?”

Master Hua looked at me, his gaze clear, the corner of his lips lifting in a restrained curve. “No need to trouble yourself.”

But seeing that I insisted, he still took a piece and nodded his thanks.

We chatted briefly, and I learned only that he had arrived in the town not long ago and bore the surname Hua. Beyond that, he said little.

When we parted, he abruptly folded away his smile, his expression turning solemn. “Be cautious at night. The neighbors say an uninvited prowler has been haunting the town these past few evenings, slipping into homes. Many households have been frightened.”

I blinked and scratched my head. “Our town’s as ordinary as they come. Who would bother with such antics? Strange.”

Master Hua merely tapped his folding fan and said no more, turning to walk into the distance.

That night, my father and mother had still not returned. The dusk lay heavy, and the insects’ chorus was unceasing; an unaccountable emptiness pressed on my chest.

I fetched a carrying pole and wedged it firmly against the main gate, then dragged the large water jar from the courtyard to block the door from behind. Only after completing these measures did my mind feel somewhat at ease.

“Though our house holds little of value…” I murmured to myself, climbing back onto the cot and collapsing into sleep.

I do not know how long I slept before a sudden “creak” startled me, as though a wooden door had been pushed open. Tiny, deliberate footsteps followed in the courtyard, light and eerie.

I shot upright, sweat breaking over my body.

Under the dim moonlight, the shadows of swaying trees danced, and an unfamiliar silhouette seemed to have entered the courtyard, inching closer.

I wrapped a robe around my shoulders, gripped a sickle in hand, and pressed myself against the door, holding my breath to listen.

The courtyard fell silent again, as if the earlier sounds had been nothing but echoes from a dream. Yet unease clung to me. I nudged the door open just a crack and peeked outside. Moonlight poured like water over the eaves and the water jar, but no figure stirred.

Summoning my courage, I pushed the door open wider, and suddenly there was a “thunk”—something fell from the lintel. My heart leapt, nearly sending the sickle slipping from my grasp.

Looking down, I found a small silk pouch. I crouched to pick it up, unfastened the ties, and discovered inside a single gray-white stone and a slip of paper. Written upon it were four characters:

“Meet beneath the broken bridge.”

The handwriting… I paused. For some reason, it felt strangely familiar, as if seen in a dream or brushed against in some long-forgotten memory. Yet I could not place it.

Was this a trap or a guide I lingered in hesitation, my heart mostly anxious, but with a spark of curiosity.

Finally, I bit my lip, fastened the sickle to my waist, and resolved to investigate.

The broken bridge lay not far outside the town.

Since the old waterway had been altered, weeds had overtaken its banks, moss covered the stone steps, and the moonlight cast an eerie glow upon the fractured railings. A chill crept over me as I crept forward.

Beneath the bridge, a figure indeed stood. The moon stretched his shadow long across the stones. Hearing my footsteps, he turned—and it was Master Hua, whom I had seen in daylight.

I froze. “Master Hua? What brings you here?”

His brow tightened, and he too held a small silk pouch. His voice dropped low. “You received it as well?”

I nodded and showed him the paper. Hua smiled faintly. “It seems we are not the only ones summoned.”

Before he finished, footsteps drifted across the wind.

From the far end of the bridge, a man in red advanced slowly. His robe was so vivid it almost burned the darkness, like a flame igniting in the dusk.

His pace was calm, his expression faintly proud yet not oppressive, commanding attention in perfect measure.

My chest tightened. A strange sense of familiarity struck me, as if I had long been meant to meet him here. Moonlight caught his eyes—bright and fathomless, seeming to pierce straight through me.

I could not help but hold my breath. A ridiculous thought crept into my mind—

I should already know this man.

Yet I scoured my memory in vain, finding no trace of him.

Still, the collision of strangeness and familiarity made my heart flutter, stirring a sensation of… déjà vu, as if meeting an old friend for the first time.

The man in red stopped, brow furrowing slightly. “So you have come, after all.”

His voice was low, yet carried a peculiar magnetism that struck my ears directly, like a summons.

I frowned. “What do you mean—‘after all’?”

He raised his gaze to me, eyes alight with a fiery glow yet tinged with confusion. His voice, deep and steady, came slowly: “I do not know myself. One day I awoke and found myself in this town. I knew neither my name nor my origin, nor why I had come. Until one day, I received a book. It contained but a single instruction—each night, place a silk pouch and paper in a stranger’s house. Whoever arrives as directed can give me the answer.”

He paused, eyes shifting between Hua and me. “I did not expect that when it came, two would arrive instead of one.”

I froze, waving my hands quickly. “It certainly was not me. Forget any answers—I am nothing more than a farmer tending the fields. My house holds no strange inheritance. If answers are to be found, surely it is Master Hua. He is literate, well-read, experienced in the world—he must know something.”

Master Hua, however, folded his fan and stared at the man in red with a grave intensity. Even the faint smile at his eyes was gone. “Where did you obtain that book?” he asked.

The man in red paused, a trace of confusion lingering in his expression.

“I passed by a bookshop in town one day. From the shelves, a scroll fell, landing at my feet. I picked it up. On the cover was a single eye. Something stirred within me, and I took notice. From that day, I have followed its instructions.”

“An eye?” I murmured, repeating the word. A shock jolted through me.