Chapter 001: The Constable

The gentle sunlight poured over him, warm and comforting, yet Yao Qian felt chills surging through his heart.

He slowly opened his eyes and found himself standing in a modest hall. The room was not large, spanning several meters across, with walls mottled and worn—some areas had loosened and cracked, revealing the uneven stones beneath. On either side of the walls stood shelves; to his left, the shelves held ceremonial placards inscribed with commands like "Silence" and "Keep Away." These had accumulated a thick layer of dust, their original colors obscured. Beneath the placards, webs tangled together in circles, and a black spider was feasting greedily on a hapless fly.

To his right, the shelves were different: lined with several single-handed knives from top to bottom, flanked by coils of rope. Perhaps these were used often, for both the knives and ropes, though aged, were relatively clean.

In front of the shelves stood several chairs, once painted red but now chipped and mottled, their crooked positions resembling spotted dogs.

Yao Qian glanced around and saw three others standing beside him.

All three were young, about twenty, dressed in black uniforms. Each had a single knife slung across their waist, and on the other side hung a black badge, engraved with a bold "Constable" character in intricate script. At this moment, they listened deferentially to a middle-aged man seated at the head of the room; yet from their restless gestures, scratching and fidgeting, it was clear they were impatient, though forced to restrain themselves like school children under a teacher’s scolding.

Yao Qian cast a glance at the middle-aged man in the seat of honor, who was also clad in black, but his badge was copper-colored. His face was broad, ears prominent, and his sturdy build stretched his uniform taut. A scar slashed across his brow and temple, ending above his ear, lending him a rugged air.

Yao Qian knew this man well—he was their immediate superior, Wang Zhonghai, the county constable of Pingyang, and an elder of their clan.

As if sensing Yao Qian's gaze, Wang Zhonghai paused and turned to him.

"Yuan Zhen, are you fully recovered from your injury? If not, after roll call, go home and rest properly. You don’t need to go out with them; there’s nothing urgent anyway."

It took Yao Qian a moment to realize "Yuan Zhen" referred to himself—his courtesy name was Yuan Zhen.

Seeing that Old Wang had shifted focus, the three finally relaxed and began to speak words of concern, their camaraderie evident.

Yao Qian shook his head, refusing: "I've rested long enough; the injury is healed. If I stay home any longer, I’ll start to rot. I’d rather join everyone and stretch my legs."

Old Wang nodded, considering, "Very well. Today you’ll go out with Xiaosan and Xiaowu, but remember—not to rush into anything. Safety is most important."

Once again, he reminded Yao Qian.

Yao Qian could only shake his head with a bitter smile and agree.

The other three, impatient from before, seized the opportunity, grabbing Yao Qian and running out. Within moments, they were gone from sight.

Old Wang shook his head wordlessly, but said nothing more. These four were the children of his former colleagues, whom he treated as his own nephews, and would never be harsh.

Besides, in a small town like Pingyang, major cases were rare; the constables went out mostly for show, spending their patrols in leisure, often settling in some spot for drinks and music.

Meanwhile, Yao Qian followed the three out of the magistrate’s office, sighing deeply.

He knew he would not return to his former life.

The memory of crossing mysteriously into this world still seemed absurd. He remembered lying in bed, dreaming of drifting among the stars, though the details of the dream had faded. Upon waking, he found himself in a world reminiscent of ancient China and had inherited the role of a junior constable from his deceased father.

As for the body's original owner, it was both laughable and tragic—apparently frightened to death. Of course, that was Yao Qian's guess; his mind was blank about what had truly happened.

Another thing was his eyesight—since awakening, he noticed his eyes felt strange. At first, it was a slight swelling, but now he saw tiny blood spots clouding his vision, occupying most of it, making things blurry, as if shrouded in a bloody film. This was hard to adapt to.

Yet he sensed no danger, only a peculiar feeling that once these blood spots filled his sight completely, it might bring some benefit. The sensation was mysterious and inexplicable, but it gave him a measure of peace.

Letting go of his tangled thoughts, he looked around. Beneath his feet stretched a long street paved with blue stone, flanked by traditional buildings, their architecture echoing ancient China.

The street bustled with people, all dressed in period garb—some in wide robes, resembling scholars or officials; others in coarse linen, the common folk; and some in martial attire, carrying swords and knives.

Along the street, vendors hawked their wares: candied hawthorn, hairpins, and cosmetics, their cries mingling in the lively air.

Yao Qian was unfamiliar and unskilled in the duties of a constable, so he followed closely behind the three, observing attentively.

They were childhood friends of the body's original owner, their families intertwined through generations, bonds deep and enduring.

At each stall, one of them would step forward for a friendly chat, stopping and starting along the way. It took them more than an hour to patrol the entire street.

At the end, turning back, even their youthful vigor couldn’t prevent them from sweating profusely, beads rolling down their foreheads.

Yet none complained. Instead, faces alight with excitement, they stared at the young man leading them, eyes gleaming as if beholding a beautiful maiden.

Over the past days, Yao Qian had absorbed most of the original owner’s memories and understood the three intimately.

The leader was Chen Zekuan, the group's chief, generous and capable; in the past two years, he had solved several cases. Recently, his family and Old Wang were working to promote him to county constable in Pingyang's subordinate counties.

The other two were brothers, Chen Can and Chen Wu.

According to imperial regulations, only one brother could inherit a post, but in remote places like Pingyang, local custom often trumped the rules.

Both were rugged and strong, skilled with knives; ordinary hooligans stood no chance against them, and they served as the muscle of the group. If any vendor caused trouble, the brothers would handle it.

Yao Qian, as the youngest and weakest in the group, usually played the bystander or lookout—practically dispensable.

As he pondered this, Chen Zekuan took out a hefty money purse, weighing it in his palm. The chime of coins rang out, clear as music.

Money—all of it!