Born for You

Ancient streets wound their way through the city, eaves towering above, bustling shops alive with clamor—vendors’ cries, laughter, whispers—all blending into a kind of ordered chaos.

Beneath a pale, weathered wall, a woman huddled in a corner, hugging her knees. Her clothes were tattered, her gaze lifeless as a dead fish, her lips quivering as she uttered babyish, inarticulate sounds. Suddenly, a snow-white steamed bun rolled to a stop before her. Her eyes lit up; she snatched it and devoured it ravenously.

Before her stood Hua Wu, clad in blue, around twenty, his square face and small eyes set in a dusky complexion. A cunning smile played on his lips as he watched the woman eat.

The woman looked at Hua Wu in terror. Hunger had dulled her caution, so she lowered her head and continued to gnaw at the bun. In moments, white foam frothed at her lips, her eyes glazed over, and her legs convulsed as she died.

“No!” Chen Yage jolted awake from the nightmare, cold sweat beading her brow. The look of terror on the dying woman’s face left her deeply unsettled—did she want to say something? Or was it merely unwillingness to die?

A midsummer night, tranquil and profound, the heavens spangled with stars, the moon casting a gentle, silvery glow. Occasionally, a cool breeze drifted by, bringing with it a welcome freshness.

Chen Yage sat down in the corner of her room with a volume of Li Bai’s poetry cradled in her hands. Her mind was in turmoil, and for her, nothing soothed the spirit more effectively than Li Bai’s verse—a thousand times more potent than any medicine.

Some say there is a demon in every heart, and Chen Yage had long since become possessed—but not by an ordinary demon.

She loved Li Bai to the point of obsession! She would live for him, die for him, spend her life reading his poetry.

She cherished every poem he ever wrote; each day, she had to read at least one Li Bai poem before she could eat or sleep in peace.

She remembered once, rising early and busying herself all day, so exhausted by evening that she fell asleep without reading. In her dreams, she let out a pig’s shriek and a lion’s roar: “Oh, how perilous! More treacherous than the sky itself is the Road to Shu!” Her parents, thinking a burglar had broken in, crept into her room armed with kitchen knives—only to see her sit bolt upright, shaking her head and declaiming, “See how the Yellow River’s waters come from heaven, surging to the sea, never to return!” Her parents promptly fainted dead away, and it was Chen Yage who woke them the next morning.

Soon, drowsiness overtook her. She picked up a bottle of milk from her desk and drained it in one gulp. Moments later, a wrenching pain twisted her stomach, doubling her over on the floor. So it is when bad luck knocks—even a glass of water can choke you, and a cup of milk can become deadly poison.

She rolled back and forth on the floor, sweat beading on her brow. She tried to crawl to the bed to call for help, struggled for a long time, but collapsed just inches from her phone.

Still clutching her treasured volume of Li Bai, her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, brows knit in pain. A metallic taste rose in her throat, and she coughed up a mouthful of bright red blood, blooming like a ghostly, enchanting flower.

Her vision blurred, her consciousness faded, and at last, all she could see was endless darkness.

In the darkness, she heard a cacophony of voices—many people chattering at once, scolding, arguing, but never quite clear enough for her to make out their words.

Half-asleep, Chen Yage stretched and rubbed her tired eyes—her eyelids felt so heavy. After much effort, she finally forced them open. The dazzling sunlight stung her.

She squinted, looking around, and saw legs clad in ancient garments. Could this be the underworld? Or the King of Hell’s court?

To convince herself it was an illusion, she rubbed her eyes again and stared wide-eyed at the crowd—yet they were all still dressed in robes and hair buns from ages past.

The King of Hell on TV always wore ancient attire, but his court was supposed to be gloomy, not bathed in sunlight. Had his accommodations improved? Shouldn’t his minions have blue faces, long tongues, and brandished blades? Yet these people looked more like honest country folk.

Chen Yage smiled at those around her; after all, a smile is the best weapon in any situation.

Glancing down at herself, she noticed her own clothing—grey, with two large holes and covered in grease. The fabric was coarse, like something bought from a street stall. It was one thing for the clothes to be shabby, but did they have to be so filthy? More importantly, when had she changed into ancient dress?

The stench of sweat and grime overwhelmed her. A wave of nausea shook her, and she sat up, retching uncontrollably, like a summer thunderstorm—one round after another.

At first, the crowd scattered as if they had seen a ghost. Then, seeing her simply vomiting, they circled back and stared intently.

Chen Yage forced a sheepish smile and thought, “What are you all staring at? Haven’t you ever seen a beauty before?”

Granted, her behavior had been less than elegant, but surely it was a normal reaction.

Ignoring their odd looks, she continued to retch, her stomach churning until she felt she might throw up her very heart and lungs.

She remembered once playing a prank by dropping a fly into her best friend Xiao Ke’s milk tea—only to drink the cup herself by mistake. She’d never been sicker, and spent three days on an IV in the hospital before she recovered. Truly, that was suffering for tea.

At length, she felt somewhat better. She patted her chest, closed her eyes, and took a deep, greedy breath of fresh air.

Just then, a young man in white with sword-like brows and eyes bright as stars seized her hand, lifting her from the ground like a frail sparrow. She was already weak with hunger and fatigue, and his grip left her no room to struggle.

She let herself be dragged along, confused, until he released her hand and she stumbled, falling hard. She ground her teeth in irritation—what manners! What a brute! He must be a blight upon society, the bane of innocents everywhere. As she prepared to vent her anger, the young man said, “This beggar’s alive and well. What have you to say now?”

Clearly, he wasn’t speaking to her. She followed his gaze to a richly dressed man, fanning himself languidly.

This was Wang Fugui, the local bully who, relying on his father’s wealth and power, spent his days idling, bullying men and harassing women.

But Wang Fugui was nothing like his name suggested—no air of prosperity about him. His thick, downward-slanting brows, triangular eyes, and bloated body with lecherous gaze made him look more like a doomed villain.

He, too, looked astonished to see her alive. He strode over and kicked her viciously. “Weren’t you dead? How are you alive? You ate arsenic—how are you still breathing? Hua Wu, where the hell did you get that arsenic?”

In his panic, Wang Fugui let slip more than he intended.

“Young master, the arsenic was real—I swear it! I checked—she wasn’t breathing…” Hua Wu began, but Wang Fugui smacked him on the head with his fan.

“You useless fool! Is this what you call dead? Get out of my sight!”

Chen Yage stared at Hua Wu, clutching his head. Wasn’t he the man from her dream? How could this be? What was happening? She longed to curse Wang Fugui for his kick, but realizing she had no idea what was going on, she bit back her anger, though in her heart she cursed his ancestors to the eighteenth generation.

Fated in the Tang Dynasty: Poet Immortal, Please Stay! Chapter 1—Fated in the Tang Dynasty: Poet Immortal, Please Stay! End of update!