He wakes from a dream and opens his eyes to find himself in the Great Song. Zhao Heng has always felt that he transmigrated at the wrong time. If only he'd arrived earlier: though he isn't good at Tang poetry or Song lyrics, he could imitate Guangzi, find a few mischievous kids, dunk them in a jar, then fish out a stone and throw it at them. He could steal the most profitable fame deal in literary history and, while he was at it, tell Guangzi that playing around with fame was too deep for him to handle. Uncle Zhao would have to take over.
If only he'd arrived later: he could learn from Zhao Gou and lie flat, waiting for a loyal, sturdy thigh named Yue Fei to drop from the sky. He could cling to the big shot's leg hair, sweep across the Six Directions and conquer the Eight Desolations. If he went all out, he might even unify the Central Plains and become an emperor for the ages. Wouldn't that be wonderful?
But what advantage could he possibly find during the Jingkang era?
He glances at the mass of Jin soldiers beyond the city walls, then at the incomplete lineup of 108 Water Margin heroines going out to fight the enemy. He casts another look at the blustering kings of hot air inside the city, none of whom has even finished reading half a military manual, then at the members of the Daoist-Buddhist Association behind him, busy putting together an improvised recoilless gun to stage a display of thunder magic. Zhao Heng can't help but feel a deep sorrow. He tilts his head to the sky and sighs: Are people not even allowed to have a normal transmigration experience anymore?!
[Fortunately, you're not exactly normal either]
A comment floated past Zhao Huan, saying just that.
