In 1984, Zhang Xing was the village’s disgrace, a live-in son-in-law his own father had sold to a provincial capital for five hundred yuan.
His aunt by marriage thought he was filthy and told him to leave his shoes in the hallway. “You’re from the countryside. What makes you think you can live in my house?”
His fiancée knocked on his door in the middle of the night to warn him, “So what if you signed the agreement? Don’t think you can touch me.”
His rival, Young Master Zhao, publicly humiliated him and tried to ruin his future:
“The provincial capital isn’t a place for someone like you. Get back to your miserable mountain village while you can!”
But none of them knew that this poor young scholar, who did nothing but study, carried the soul of someone from forty years in the future.
Zhang Xing merely smiled and waved at his fiancée.
“Don’t worry. I’m not interested in little kids who still smell of milk.”
She stormed off, fuming.
But Zhang Xing knew that by tomorrow night at the latest, she’d be back, begging him to let her in.
