"Nathan, Nathan, get up and drink your medicine."

Half-awake and muddle-headed, Nathan Whitfield heard a girl calling him.

There was something almost strange about her voice, like it had a pull to it. The first time, it sounded far off, light and hazy, like it was drifting in from the sky. By the second call, it was right by his ear, clear as day. His fading thoughts, which had been drifting apart little by little, suddenly stalled, then drew back together like light shrinking into one point.

Where was he?

The orphanage?

Had to be.

The only people who called him Nathan were the folks there.

Heh... a dump truck flattened him and he still did not die. Damn, his life really was tough.

What a waste, though. That new car he had scrimped and saved for, barely used for ride-hailing for two months, and it got crushed into a sheet of scrap... And if they had somehow pulled him out alive after he got trapped in there, he was probably crippled for good anyway.

How was he supposed to pay off the loan?

How was he supposed to live after this?

"Nathan, hurry up and drink the medicine. Grandma even mixed in some incense ash she got from the temple today. With the Bodhisattva watching over you, your sickness will get better real soon."

Nathan Whitfield was still lost in that jumble of thoughts when the girl's voice came again by his ear, bright with hope, even a little excited.

Grandma?

He was an orphan. Since when did he have a grandma?

Incense ash?

You could drink that stuff?

And Bodhisattva's blessing... if he swallowed it, was he going to crap out a coil of mosquito incense later?

This had to be those little brats messing with him again.

They had even dragged in some girl he did not know... How long had he been away from the orphanage? And those little punks were already itching to get themselves smacked?

Still not enough of a beating.

"You little brats, every one of you just wait. Wash up and get your backsides ready. Once this young master gets over his injuries, I’ll deal with you one by one!"

The shaking on his arm grew stronger. Nathan Whitfield struggled and finally pried open his heavy eyelids.

After a brief daze, his eyes suddenly widened.

Above him were several blackened roof beams. Crooked as could be, and that wasn’t even the worst of it. The bark hadn’t been stripped clean, the knots still stuck out, and whatever had been done to preserve the wood was nothing more than old-fashioned smoke curing. One look and anyone could tell it had been thrown together in a rough, careless way.

The walls looked even worse. Yellow mud mixed with black mud, chopped straw kneaded in, all of it dark, uneven, pitted, and crude. It didn’t look solid in the least. He figured if he scratched it with a fingernail, a chunk might come right off. If a hard rain came through, he honestly wondered whether the place would cave in on the spot.

He turned his head a little and saw that he was lying flat on a kang bed covered with a worn, ragged mat. Over him was a tattered cotton quilt full of patches. Sitting sideways by the edge of the bed was a girl dressed in patched clothes just like the quilt. In one hand she held a dark clay bowl, and with the other she was gently shaking his arm, looking at him with open, eager hope in her eyes.

This wasn’t the orphanage.

Then where was he?

Nathan Whitfield stared blankly at the unfamiliar girl before him. Her hair was dry and yellowed, her face sallow, her body thin as a reed. Then, all at once, his mind gave a loud buzz. Countless scraps of memory came crashing in like a flood and swallowed him whole.

He had crossed over.

His life clearly wasn’t as tough as he’d once thought. That roaring dump truck hadn’t just killed him cleanly—it had rammed him straight back more than sixty years, into 1959, into the body of another boy who also happened to be named Nathan Whitfield.

This boy had been just as unlucky as he was. His birth parents were soldiers. Not long after he was born, with enemy forces pressing close, they had no choice but to leave him—still not even half a year old—in the care of a local family.

In those years of war and chaos, his adoptive parents had wandered from place to place, fleeing famine just to stay alive. It wasn’t until before the founding of the new nation that they finally settled down in Lingqian Village, at the foot of the mountains on the outskirts of Sijiu City.

He had two older sisters. The eldest was twenty-one and had married off two years ago. The second sister was nineteen—the very girl now sitting by the bed, waiting to feed him his medicine. Her name was Audrey Whitfield.

His adoptive father and mother were both still under forty. Back then people married young. His adoptive mother had been only sixteen when she gave birth to the eldest daughter. An early pregnancy had already damaged her health, and before she’d properly recovered, she gave birth again to the second daughter. That broke her body down badly, and for several years after that she couldn’t conceive.

The couple had always wanted a son. The old grandparents wanted one even more, a grandson to carry on the family line. So when his birth parents brought him over, his adoptive parents and grandparents were all beside themselves with joy. They had even specially given him the name "Genlai."

The meaning was plain enough: the root of the Whitfield family had arrived.

During the first years after liberation, things across the whole country had looked bright, and once the Whitfield family had settled down, they had honestly lived pretty well. His adoptive mother recovered her strength too, and one after another she gave birth to three more children—two sons and a daughter.

Even after having their own sons and grandsons, his adoptive parents still treated Nathan Whitfield as their own flesh and blood. They never looked down on him for not being born to them. When he deserved a scolding, they scolded him. When he deserved a smack, they smacked him. And when it was time to care for him, dote on him, and love him, they never held back.

Nathan Whitfield had known since he was little that he wasn’t Arthur and Mrs. Whitfield’s biological son. He never said it out loud, but deep down, he had always kept one thing in mind: someday he had to repay them for raising him.

The minute he finished primary school at fifteen, he went straight into the production team. He was only counted as half a labor hand, yet he kept fighting to do the work meant for full-grown workers, all so he could earn a few more work points for the family. Nobody could talk him out of it.

In the end, his body was too weak to hold up. One rainy day, he hauled manure out to the fields, sweated through his clothes, then got caught in a drenching rain. That single day knocked him flat.

And once he went down, he stayed down for more than three months, from late summer all the way into early winter. He swallowed who knew how much medicine, but nothing worked. By the time Nathan Whitfield got smashed by that dump truck, this boy with the same name should have just breathed his last.

1959... production team... great famine...

After the flood of memories slowly settled, those few words kept circling in Nathan Whitfield’s head.

A village in the middle of the three-year natural disaster—that kind of place could really starve people to death.

How could his luck be this rotten, landing in a time like this... Could he still go back? His original body had probably already been flattened by the dump truck, right?

Could they even put the pieces back together?

And then there was that damned loan.

Grrr...

Nathan Whitfield was still lost in all kinds of messy thoughts when his stomach suddenly growled a few times. Right after that came a fierce wave of hunger, so sharp it felt like his chest and back had caved in together, twisting, squeezing, grinding against each other. It was so uncomfortable it was almost unbearable.

"Hungry, aren’t you? Come on, drink your medicine first. I’ll get you a bowl of food after that. Once you’ve had the medicine and eaten, then sleep good and proper. You’ll get better soon enough."

His second sister, Audrey Whitfield, lifted the medicine bowl to his lips. At once, a thick herbal smell rushed into his nose. Instead of easing him, it made the hunger in his belly hit even harder. Almost on instinct, he snatched the bowl from her hands and drained it in one breath.

Bitter?

Didn’t matter.

When a person was starving, anything that could go down the throat counted as good stuff.

Incense ash?

If it could fill his stomach, forget mosquito coils—even if somebody scraped out a whole censer and handed it to him, he’d still eat it.

The moment that bowl of hot medicinal broth went into his stomach, Nathan Whitfield could clearly feel where the warmth traveled. As the heat spread through him, it was like his whole body had been soaked through from the inside out. The comfort of it was hard to put into words.

"Nathan, be good and wait. Your second sister’s getting your food."

Seeing that Nathan Whitfield had drained the whole bowl of medicine in one go, Audrey Whitfield took the empty bowl with a face full of delight, turned, and climbed down from the kang. Even her steps sounded lighter than usual.

"Did he drink it?"

From the stove area came his adoptive mother Margaret Whitfield’s tired voice.

"He did, he did. He even held the bowl himself this time. He’s got some strength back now! I’ve got to wash this bowl quick and get him a big bowl of food. He hasn’t eaten proper for days. He must be starving."

Audrey’s voice was bright with happiness.

"Wash what? There’s still medicine dregs at the bottom. Just put the food in it. That prescription was something your grandma finally managed to beg for. Don’t go wasting it."

Margaret was the kind of woman who knew how to run a poor household. Every little thing was counted and used carefully. The family hadn’t starved, and at least half the credit belonged to her.

"Ouch! That’s hot!"

All of a sudden, Audrey cried out from the stove room, and right after that came Margaret’s scolding again.

"Pinch your earlobe, quick. You silly girl, how old are you now? Still so clumsy and jumpy. Be careful when you feed your big younger brother. He’s only just starting to recover, and he’s still weak. If you dare burn him, just see if I don’t pinch you hard."

"Got it, got it. I’ll set the bowl on the windowsill outside to cool first. I’ll bring it in once it’s not too hot to hold, then I’ll feed him."

The first half of Audrey’s words came from the doorway; the second half drifted in from the window, so she was clearly already carrying the bowl out into the yard.

Nathan felt warmth spread through his chest.

In his last life, he’d been an orphan. He had never known what having a family felt like. Yet not long after crossing into this place, he found himself wrapped up tight in thick, honest family affection.

It felt... really good.

All at once, he didn’t want to go back quite so badly.

After gathering a little strength, he tried to get off the kang and look around this home that belonged to his new life. But the moment he turned over, something slipped down from his chest. He raised a weak arm, reached under the quilt, and pulled it out.

It was a gold lock, about the size of a baby’s palm. Heavy too, at least a couple of ounces. Its surface had gone a little dull with age, obvious at a glance that it was an old piece.

A longevity lock. And pure gold at that.

Nathan turned it over in his hands again and again. Then suddenly, his vision blurred. Right after that, a strange space appeared in his mind without the slightest warning.