Chapter One: The Courtyard in January 1958

It had been a week since he arrived in this world.

Duan Chengliang was still not fully accustomed to the biting cold of Beijing in 1958. He hunched his shoulders and rubbed his hands together, but the tattered cotton coat and trousers he wore seemed incapable of blocking the wind; the chill seeped through, worming its way into his bones.

Since last night, snow had been falling without pause, drifting steadily from the sky. The alleyways were blanketed in thick snow, making passage difficult. Despite his utmost caution, Duan Chengliang still slipped from time to time on the icy paths.

He turned into the Nanluoguxiang alley, wider than the previous one. The ground here was slightly elevated and, with more people coming and going, a convenient path had already been trodden down the center, making it easier to walk. To avoid soaking his cotton shoes, Duan Chengliang carefully chose his steps, sticking as much as possible to the middle.

Behind him came the ringing of a bicycle bell, accompanied by loud shouts: "Hey, hey, make way up ahead! The road’s slippery and I can’t stop! If I hit you, it’s not my fault!"

Judging by the commotion, the bicycle was moving fast, and from the sound, it was right behind him. Duan Chengliang quickly spotted a place by the roadside where he could step, and with a small leap, dodged aside just in time.

Almost simultaneously, a bicycle, its bell clanging, sped past him.

Xu Damao, already past, turned his head and curled his lip, grinning at Duan Chengliang. "You’ve got a bad habit, walking right down the middle. Isn’t that just asking for trouble?"

Duan Chengliang felt a pang of irritation at the sight of Xu Damao’s long face, especially those sparse mustaches on his upper lip. Not yet as thick as they would be in a few years, they always looked as if they were smeared with chicken droppings.

Truth be told, the bastard did look presentable. His hair was neatly combed—likely even a heavier snowfall wouldn’t stick to it. He wore a gray-blue cotton jacket, but the key was that, though he had a hat, he didn’t wear it, just to show off his so-called heroic bearing. A gray wool scarf wrapped his neck, thick cotton gloves covered his hands, and his feet were clad in black cotton shoes with five eyelets.

Duan Chengliang glanced down at himself: a patched cotton coat shining from wear, equally patched cotton trousers, worn cotton shoes with gaping holes, now covered in snow. By the time he got home, they’d surely be soaked through. He suddenly felt a surge of resentment—comparing oneself to others only brings misery.

He looked up again at Xu Damao, riding ahead with his rear raised proudly, and couldn't help but think, "Snowy roads are slippery; why don’t you take a spill, you bastard? Riding a bicycle in the snow—shows how arrogant you are."

No sooner had that thought crossed his mind than he heard ahead: a smack, a crash, a clatter, and a cry of "Ay!"

Duan Chengliang was delighted—was he perhaps suited to be a fortune teller? Had he mastered the art of prophecy?

He watched as Xu Damao lay sprawled in the snow, pinned under his bicycle, wriggling but unable to get up. Duan Chengliang couldn’t help but laugh, clutching his stomach and roaring merrily.

"Ay, oh, I’m dying here. You bastard, what are you laughing at? Laughing? Aren’t you going to help?"

Duan Chengliang curled his lip. Help? Not a chance. If the fall didn’t kill you, consider yourself lucky.

Just moments before, Duan Chengliang had been shivering in the cold, but now, head held high, chest out, his strides lengthened, nothing like the cautious steps he’d taken before.

He cared little now whether he stepped in the snow—his cotton shoes were already wet, so he might as well walk with some swagger.

Passing by the groaning Xu Damao, Duan Chengliang didn’t spare him so much as a glance.

He even felt a bit of regret—if only it were raining instead of snowing, then he could have marched by with a high step, splattering mud everywhere, and soaked this bastard head to toe.

Still, in this icy weather, the fall was punishment enough; Duan Chengliang felt thoroughly satisfied.

Although he had been coming and going for a week now, every time he stood in front of the gate to No. 95 Nanluoguxiang, Duan Chengliang couldn’t help but click his tongue in regret.

Back before he crossed over, he’d been a drifting worker in Beijing for six or seven years. His dream was to be an actor, but after much effort, he ended up as a props man. That was only thanks to a mentor who recognized his worth and brought him into the business; otherwise, he’d never have managed to move out of a basement and rent a proper apartment, achieving a leap from negative to positive in his quality of life.

His crossing happened when he and his master joined a period drama crew—the lead character wielded a gleaming Tang sword.

He and his master worked tirelessly for days to craft several prop swords, but the director was never satisfied, insisting the swords lacked "soul" and failed to convey presence on screen.

Honestly, with actors just counting beats and reciting lines, what soul did a prop sword need? Better to train the actors to deliver their lines convincingly.

Unfortunately, props workers had low status in the crew; when the director complained, they had to find a way to solve the problem.

In the end, his master contacted an old blacksmith who ran a forge in Huairou, reputedly now a cultural heritage expert, and sent Duan Chengliang to commission a proper sword.

He drove the crew’s battered van all the way to Huairou, thinking it was just a routine appointment. Who could have guessed it would turn into a one-way journey to another world?

The sword was forged smoothly. Duan Chengliang and the old blacksmith got along well, eventually sharing a couple of dishes and drinking together.

As the saying goes, "A thousand cups aren’t enough between friends." They chatted idly, poured out their troubles, and before he knew it, Duan Chengliang was drunk.

In the haze of intoxication, he seemed to hear the old blacksmith ask, "If you could make three wishes right now, guaranteed to come true, what would they be?"

Duan Chengliang, head drooping on the table, waved a hand vaguely and muttered, "No need to think—I could name them right away. Three wishes, they’re always on my mind. First, I want to be a Beijinger, have a Beijing household registration. Second, I want an iron rice bowl, so life is stable. Last, heh, my biggest wish is to live in a courtyard house."

When he opened his eyes again, the three wishes had indeed come true.

Same name, same surname—he was still Duan Chengliang, nineteen years old, living in Beijing in January 1958.

Household registration had just begun; the new booklet showed his address as the east wing of the front courtyard at No. 95 Nanluoguxiang.

Workplace: Red Star Steel Rolling Mill, coal yard loader, with more than two years on the job. First year paid twenty-four yuan, this year thirty-two. A solid iron rice bowl.

What’s that? Eight-level wage scale? Sorry, loaders belong to the laborer series, not the eight-level system. Like skilled workers, there’s no such grading—after two years, wages are fixed and rarely rise.

As for the dream of living in a courtyard house—need it be said? Now he was neighbors with the three grandpas, Qin Huairu, and Shazhu. And yes, that Xu Damao who just fell in the snow. Isn’t this living in a courtyard house?

But what he meant was the kind of square, private courtyard, with eleven or twelve rooms, enjoying the happiness of pomegranate trees, fish tanks, and chubby daughters.

Not, as now, watched greedily by a crowd, living in a barren east wing, shivering through each day.

Every time he stood before this dilapidated gate, Duan Chengliang couldn’t help but sigh.

Damn it, he still didn’t know who had asked him those questions in his drunken haze. Was it the old blacksmith? Weren’t they getting along well? Clearly, he’d been set up.

You helped me realize my three cherished wishes—how thoughtful. Thank you so much.

Snowflakes drifted from the sky, rimmed the courtyard in white. The once shabby gate and houses now appeared much cleaner; the snow covered their usual rough, dirty edges, making the whole courtyard seem well-arranged and even imbued with a touch of ancient elegance.

Crossing the threshold into the yard, he was greeted by a screen wall—now just a plain white wall with the "Fu" character pasted from last Spring Festival still lingering. The red paper had faded completely, giving it a bleak, anemic beauty.

To the right was a large moon gate, leading into a rear-facing house and a small yard—formerly the residence of the family tutor, but now half-collapsed and uninhabitable, its yard piled high with miscellaneous items.

On the left, a row of five rear-facing rooms; three were occupied, two were empty.

These rear-facing rooms were shallow and small, with no sunlight or ventilation, perpetually damp and dark. In the past, they were used for guests or occasionally for servants. Naturally, they were nothing to boast about.

Occasional stays were manageable, but living in them year after year was bad for one’s health. But in these times, with housing so scarce, getting a rear-facing room was already a privilege.

This improvement had come thanks to the conversion of private houses to public ones in recent years, which greatly improved housing conditions for ordinary people. As long as you had a proper job, families could squeeze in and at least find a foothold.

Back in the early days after liberation, over eighty percent of Beijing’s houses were private. When so many new arrivals flooded the city for work or to support construction, were it not for the conversion, where would they live?

Only by subdividing formerly private, enclosed courtyards and dispersing the rooms could so many people be accommodated.

No. 95 Nanluoguxiang was just such a compound, with three courtyards front to back—or four, if you counted the small yard between the rear-facing rooms and the second gate.

Duan Chengliang lived in the east wing just inside the second gate, right across from Third Grandpa Yan Buguai.

When it came to living conditions in this compound, aside from Shazhu who occupied three main rooms in the central courtyard, Duan Chengliang was next in line.

He lived alone in the three-room east wing, more spacious even than Xu Damao’s two rooms in the west wing at the rear.

Duan Chengliang sighed as he took out his key and unlocked the door, thinking that although he hadn’t gotten the perfectly square courtyard house he’d dreamed of, at least he had a place in Beijing. He wasn’t a drifter anymore. That was progress—contentment brings happiness.

His east wing had been divided into three rooms with partitions; each was about eleven or twelve square meters, with a total area under forty.

The northmost room was the bedroom, with a kang built along the east and north walls, topped with a small low table, and a stack of neat, old bedding at the head. In winter, with the bitter cold outside, most activity was confined to the kang.

Coming in, the middle room served as the living room. It was rather empty, with only a long table against the east wall opposite the door, a thermos, and an enamel cup. In the center stood a small square wooden table with three stools—no chairs at all.

The southernmost room contained a single wooden bed and the household’s only large piece of furniture—a worn, two-door wooden wardrobe with peeling paint. In the corner sat the flour jar. That was everything in the house.

Upon entering, Duan Chengliang hurried to check the kang furnace.

Beijing winters were bitterly cold, and those who could afford it in courtyard houses slept on heated kangs, with a coal furnace sunk in front, fire burning within. This furnace, the kang furnace, sent heat through the kang’s hollow interior, warming the bed. Sleeping on a heated kang was wonderfully comfortable, no matter how cold it got.

If the family was well-off or large, they might have several furnaces.

But Duan Chengliang lived alone; one kang furnace served all purposes.

It boiled water, cooked meals, heated the kang—truly "the stove and the furnace are one." Apart from going to the toilet, once home, he could enter a winter hibernation without needing to leave the kang.

After a week in this world, familiarizing himself with memories and environment, Duan Chengliang had managed to adapt somewhat to his new life.

But his skill at banking the coal furnace was still rudimentary; a moment’s inattention and the fire would go out.

So, as soon as he entered, he worried whether the furnace had died out. After walking home from the factory, frozen to the bone, if the kang were cold too, that would be true misery.

Thankfully, it hadn’t gone out; the kang was warm to the touch, and a feeling called happiness welled up from within.

Although there was no plump maiden to warm his bed, the kang was still as comfortable as ever.

Duan Chengliang’s nineteen-year-old body worked as a loader at the steel mill, having started as a substitute in 1956.

He was, in truth, a pitiful soul.

At eleven or twelve, he was adopted by his uncle who worked at the steel mill. His aunt was bedridden, a constant patient. His uncle was a forge worker, and the couple, in their forties or fifties, were childless. They wanted to adopt one of his country cousin’s four sons.

The cousin didn’t hesitate, sending over the least favored second son. Thus, Duan Chengliang became his uncle’s son.