The Knife Has Not yet Fallen on a Snowy Night, but Flowers Bloom in the Spring Pen

The first thing he did when he woke up was touch his crotch. Still there. Jingshifang's knife did not cut him, but cut him through time and space - the second son of a merchant who was seventeen years old, died with a red-hot knife; when he opened his eyes again, he became Shen Yan, a scholar from a poor family, and froze to death in a shabby thatched hut on a snowy night. Someone brought him medicine in this life. A woman with gray hair and a patched cotton jacket, with a cut on the back of her hand, held his hand and breathed, her eyes were red and swollen but she looked at him with a smile. He had never been hurt like this in his previous life. So this time, he wants to live well. The imperial examination is held once every three years. A poor student stands alone in a white shirt. The road ahead is a mountain of swords and a single-plank bridge. But he had already died once, so there was nothing to fear. This time, he wants to write flowers with that pen for two lifetimes.