When others transmigrated, they became princes and ministers, or scions of great families.
When Huo Jian transmigrated, he became a squad leader among the seventy thousand surrendered soldiers after the Battle of Guandu. The pit had already been dug, stretching so far he couldn't see the other end.
Luckily, when he opened his eyes, he saw the historical records.
Everyone's fate in this world was written there: who lived, who died, and in what year and month, by whose blade. He reached out to change the line, "Seventy thousand surrendered soldiers, buried in a pit," but his fingers passed right through it.
The course of history could not be changed.
All he could change was the line of tiny writing beneath the records, its ink not yet dry. One character a day.
So he changed the grain transport soldier's "late" to "early," and three days later, the defenses at Wuchao shifted.
He changed the night watchman's "sleep" to "wake," and a supply convoy that was supposed to be completely wiped out returned.
He changed the messenger's "lost" to "delivered," and Cao Cao's camp began investigating the strange behavior of one unit.
Guandu, White Gate Tower, Red Cliffs, Wuzhang Plains: the characters were still as black as if carved into bamboo slips. He couldn't touch a single one.
That was all right.
He couldn't alter the grand course of history. Moving one low-ranking soldier was enough.
As for the seventy thousand surrendered soldiers, for now, he could only save himself.
So he had to rise through the ranks, until the day he could change "Seventy thousand surrendered soldiers, buried in a pit."
