On April 18, 1949, I transmigrated.
When I opened my eyes, a hemp rope was looped around my neck. I had been seized as a conscript.
North of the Yangtze, the army was collapsing. South of the Yangtze, gold yuan notes were so hard you wouldn't even wipe with them.
I became the lowest-ranking porter in the Nationalist Army.
My only advantage: I knew history.
I knew the Yangtze defense line would collapse in three days. I knew Commander Tang couldn't hold Shanghai. I knew Xiamen had only one escape route. I knew going to Taiwan meant death, staying on the mainland meant death, and surrendering would bring no good ending either.
I also knew the only path to survival lay south of Zhennan Pass.
A transmigrator with no System led five hundred remnants of a defeated force into Phu Quoc Island in French Indochina.
Malaria, hunger, French guns, and the watchful eyes of Taiwan's political operatives: every trial spelled death.
But I survived.
From conscript to platoon leader, from platoon leader to ruler of a remote island, I eventually became the unseen tycoon gazing across the strait from a Taipei skyscraper.
I am loyal to no party. I am loyal only to one thing: keeping my brothers alive.
