My name is Ji Chuan. I’m from Northeast China, and I spent eight years as a homicide detective.
While on vacation, I visited the Sanxingdui Museum and got knocked three thousand years into the past by a fragment of bronze.
When I woke up, I found national treasures scattered all over the streets: ivory piled up for sale, cowrie shells used as money, and bronze masks worn as patrol uniforms.
The high priest said I had a “demon mark” on my hand and wanted to sacrifice me to Heaven.
I took a look at their so-called “divine judgment” process: no evidence, no crime scene, no witness statements.
My professional instincts kicked in.
Three days later, I had solved three cold cases and become a favorite of the King of Shu.
The high priest stamped his feet in fury. “What kind of monster are you?”
I gave him a crisp salute. “A Chinese police officer from three thousand years in the future.”
Only later did I learn that the bronze fragment that made me transmigrate was one I had buried with my own hands three thousand years ago.
So who, exactly, is solving whose case?
(This novel is participating in the “Reflections on Mountains and Rivers, History in the Mirror” joint writing event for bringing ancient texts to life.)
