The first thing that happens after I transmigrate is that my own ancestor interrogates me.
I say, “Marquis Zhongwu,” and Zhuge Liang’s eyes widen in shock.
I say, “Six campaigns against Qishan,” and Zhuge Liang says he never went six times.
I make soap and blow up the kitchen. I try making glass, but it’s full of bubbles. I wash my hands three times before making tea, and they still smell of ink.
The only thing that works is my mouth.
I say “lever,” and Zhang Fei translates it as “the liver-and-gallbladder principle: move heaven and earth with the strength of your liver and gallbladder.” Three hundred men shout in unison, “Man and lever as one!”
I say “lifting weights,” and the whole army starts doing squats. Liu Bei squats down and can’t get back up.
I say “everything wants to fall,” and Liu Bei hears, “Go with the will of Heaven.”
I can’t control how my words come out. But sometimes the twisted versions are more useful than what I actually said.
Guan Yu doesn’t have to die at Maicheng. I prepare the defenses ahead of time, so he can return and face Lu Meng head-on.
Pang Tong doesn’t have to die at Falling Phoenix Slope. Zhao Yun blocks the arrows, and Pang Tong survives with broken ribs, ready to keep making cutting remarks.
Zhuge Liang doesn’t have to work himself to death. I say the words “Marquis Zhongwu,” and he understands how things end. Once he knows the ending, he can change it.
That’s my greatest trump card: it’s not that I know the future, but that I make them know the future.
