Chapter 1: The Sealed Freight Car! Chu An!

Spring bestows its gentle grace, and all things shine with life.

In March, when nature awakens, the breeze carries the warmth of early spring. It is a season that could stir even the great poet Li Bai’s spirit, prompting him to gallop straight to the dazzling lights of Yangzhou. But if this March belongs to the year 1978, and you find yourself lying in a rattling, southbound military transport train, then it is hardly a fine time for you.

That is exactly where Chu An finds himself now. One moment, he was at his computer desk, sipping cold cola and playing PlayerUnknown’s Battlegrounds. But after a late night, he collapsed onto his bed, and upon waking, he was here—on this train. Terror and unease gnawed at him. He had often dreamed of being reborn while reading novels, but he had imagined returning to his own childhood or youth, not to the adolescent days of his father’s generation.

Curled up on his side in the dim, stuffy train carriage, the smells he encountered were anything but pleasant; there was even a hint of pig manure. But he had no mind to care about that now. All he wanted was to ask: which well-meaning angel aunt had pulled off this “good deed”?

He was a promising youth of the twenty-first century. Although he was wary of scams and rarely helped elderly ladies cross the street, he did his share of good deeds for those in need. Even if he hadn’t accumulated merit, he had certainly endured hardship. So how could he be flung into this situation?

If he had to cross over, couldn’t it have been chosen more carefully? Was this a joke—handing him a one-way ticket straight to the battlefield? Yes, having just merged memories with his “previous self,” Chu An already regarded this train ride as a one-way journey.

It was March of 1978. According to his memories, the officer responsible for recruiting soldiers had told him plainly: he was headed to the southwestern border near Vietnam.

His scalp tingled. Others might not know, but he did: at the start of 1979, war would break out with Vietnam. As a border soldier, he would be among the first sent to the front—no escape, a hundred percent.

This was nothing like the skirmishes with India, where three could chase a whole battalion. There was even a battle where the worst injury was a sprained ankle from pursuing the enemy.

Vietnamese soldiers were entirely different. They had been in a state of war for generations—everyone from the elderly to toddlers, in this era, was either fighting or on their way to fight.

Moreover, thanks to China’s long-term support, they had learned all the tactics and strategies from our military. Now, after years of conflict, they had surpassed their teachers.

The crucial point was that Chu An knew, due to the international situation, the troops sent against Vietnam would largely be second-class units.

What were second-class units? They were understrength—where a division should have eleven thousand men, it now had only five or six thousand. These soldiers didn’t focus on training; their daily routines involved production work. When war broke out, these units would be hastily expanded, with a large portion composed of new recruits, some who had been in boot camp for barely a month or two.

Did they have fighting power? Certainly, Chu An knew the army ultimately won this conflict. But that victory was paid for in the blood of tens of thousands of martyrs.

Especially in the early stages, the abundance of new recruits, years without combat, inferior equipment, and other factors led to disastrous losses. Bullets don’t discriminate on the battlefield. Chu An pinched his thigh.

“Hiss—” His mouth twisted with pain.

He was certain: even though he had crossed over and been reborn, he wasn’t impervious to blades or bullets.

This was bad! Wasn’t it said that transmigrators always come with some overpowered system? Where was his?

“Open sesame?”

“Baka baka!”

“System, little system, are you there?”

Chu An kept calling out in his mind, but the only answer was the clattering of the train, echoing like a chant: “Fool, fool!”

“Permission to report, sir...sir, I have a stomachache, need to use the toilet!”

Suddenly, a voice in the carriage interrupted Chu An’s thoughts.

He looked back.

Just a glance, and he turned away, pressing his nose with his hand. The train had been running for most of the day, and now the carriage was quiet.

“Go ahead!” came the voice of the recruiting officer.

Chu An heard the iron door sliding open.

At the same time, the new recruits near the door squeezed inward, clearing space.

When the door was closed, the carriage was nearly sealed—no seats, no toilets, just straw on the floor for bedding. Fresh air and a bit of light came only from a few half-meter iron-barred windows.

Now, someone wanted to use the toilet, and the method was crude. The sliding door was opened, a backpack strap tied around the waist, and a hemp rope on the door for gripping.

For urinating, one faced outside; for what this recruit needed—the bigger job—he faced inside, butt toward the open door.

How to describe it? The train wasn’t fast, but in March, even if this wasn’t the north, doing this while the train sped along meant chilly winds and flying excrement.

If someone had diarrhea, it wasn’t uncommon for it to blow back through the open door.

That’s why everyone squeezed further in, away from the door.

Chu An was lucky; he lay inside, beneath a window.

But just then, his stomach growled untimely.

His face, handsome yet youthful, twisted in discomfort.

He had a stomachache!

“Heh, little intellectual, is it appropriate for you to make that noise when someone’s about to squat over the edge? Sounds like you’re hungry for it!”

The carriage was packed, and Chu An’s stomach noise was heard by the person behind him.

That man chuckled softly.

Chu An glanced back, speechless, but his expression said it all.

“Heh, just joking!”

The man wasn’t fat, but his face was round.

From the merged memories, Chu An knew his name was Li Guoping.

He also knew that nearly thirty men in this carriage were all recruits from the same county. They hadn’t known each other before, but after boarding the train, they’d exchanged names, so those nearby were familiar.

As for why Li called him an intellectual? It was simple.

Chu An was one of only two high school graduates in the carriage.

Unlike later times when college students were everywhere and graduate students abundant, in this era, a high school graduate was definitely an intellectual. If his grades weren’t bad, he could easily get a teaching job at a commune elementary school.

Why add the “little”? Chu An was young—barely seventeen, his birthday just over a month ago.

Back then, elementary school lasted five years, junior and senior high two years each, so Chu An graduated high school at sixteen.

“If you’ve got the runs, report it. You can go together and form a team. But if you do, make sure your butt faces outward, don’t let it drift inside!”

Li Guoping kept talking in a low voice.

Chu An didn’t intend to respond, but he did want to raise his hand and report.

They say you can hold your pee for miles, but with diarrhea, you can’t take a step.

Though newly transmigrated, he had no power to hold back a bout of the runs.

Just as Chu An was about to sit up and report, he was suddenly dazed.

A scene flashed before his eyes.

He saw himself, tied with a backpack strap, gripping the iron door, bare-bottomed in the act.

The vision was quick, but clear.

As he squatted, outside in the wilds, a few children played by the tracks.

At that moment, as he passed by, one child raised a stone and threw it.

The stone struck the back of Chu An’s head.

The last image was of him tumbling back into the carriage, clutching his head, not even having wiped himself.

The ending: he drew his hand from his head and saw it covered in blood.

Chu An was stunned!

What was this?

He shuddered, and as he snapped back, instinctively raised his right hand.

Clean.

But that vision...