Through the gaps in the thatched roof, one can see the gray sky, and fine snow foam is drifting in. He lay motionless, his body covered with hay mixed with old linen, which made him feel uncomfortable. What I smelled in my nose was the smell of firewood smoke, livestock manure, and an indescribable smell that belonged to this era.
This is the twenty-first winter since he came to this world.
To be precise, it was the winter of 259 BC. And he, an ordinary young man who should have lived in the 21st century, has now become the son of a farmer's family in the suburbs of Xianyang, named Xu Fu.
"Afu, get up!" Father's hoarse voice came from outside the door, "Go chop wood, your mother is going to light a fire."
Xu Changsheng - or Xu Fu - responded and got up from the grass bed. He was wrapped in coarse linen clothes, and he shivered from the cold. He pushed open the creaking wooden door, and the cold wind immediately rushed in.
