Chapter One: Rebirth—The First Strike, Slay the Venerable Huang

In the early hours of November 23, 1979, Qin Jun was once again awakened by the biting cold.

Gazing at the dark, low, drafty house, he suddenly realized that he was back in his old home from decades ago.

He had been back in this time for quite a while now and had already figured out why he had returned to being fourteen years old.

According to his memories, his future life was a cycle of working—either laboring or on the way to labor.

In the 1970s, he worked for the collective; in the 1980s and 1990s, he worked for private businesses, individual proprietors, or contractors.

After the turn of the millennium, he was screwing bolts in foreign-invested factories.

Later, when the economy worsened, even those jobs disappeared.

In desperation, he went to the century-old renowned gun-making village at the India-Pakistan border to make money.

With his strong mechanical skills, he earned money easily, and quickly made a fortune.

However, after earning one million, he wanted two million; finally, he decided to make ten million before retiring and living a quiet life.

Unexpectedly, after walking down so many dark paths, he was suddenly thrown back to the late 1970s.

Half a month had passed since his rebirth in 2024, yet he still found it hard to adjust to the cold of this era.

Huddled under the blanket, he looked out through the single-pane window at the sky; it must be around three or four in the morning.

There was no way around it—in this time, when communication was mostly shouting, a rural fourteen-year-old boy didn’t have a watch.

Once fully awake, Qin Jun remembered that today was "Minor Snow," one of the twenty-four solar terms.

He had prepared for this day for a full half month.

Filled with a hint of excitement, Qin Jun began fumbling to put on his clothes.

After a whole night, the warmth from the kang bed-stove had completely dissipated.

No matter how tightly he wrapped himself in the quilt, he could feel no warmth at all.

This was understandable, as the house he was sleeping in was originally a woodshed—drafty and leaky; it was no wonder he felt cold.

If it weren’t for the kang and the three brothers squeezing together, this weather would have been unbearable.

Lying in bed, unable to fall back asleep, he decided to get up quickly.

Sleeping in was out of the question in this era.

In the future, sleeping in was a luxury; now, it was a form of suffering.

Not only was it cold, but he was hungry too.

Waking up in the middle of the night brought a sharp pang of hunger.

The body he now inhabited—seventeen years younger—felt like a bottomless pit; no matter how much he ate, he never felt full.

Moreover, in those days, he could barely eat much at night.

Not wanting to lie in bed enduring the cold, Qin Jun carefully avoided his second brother and youngest sibling, slowly dressing himself.

Wearing a worn cotton jacket and pants was better than just the quilt.

At first, the clothes felt stiff and cold, but after a while, warmth returned.

He carefully got out of bed and put on his cotton-padded shoes.

Filled with cotton, thick, bulky, and black, the shoes were a bit cumbersome but warm enough.

Walking out of the room in the dark, Qin Jun shivered as soon as he opened the door.

Winters in the 70s and 80s were truly cold, and sadly, he only had these stiff, worn clothes.

He stomped his feet, feeling his toes go numb; if he didn’t move soon, they might freeze solid.

At that moment, a gust of wind blew.

Qin Jun instantly felt his face, ears, neck, and hands—any exposed parts—being cut by invisible knives, sharp and painful.

The phrase “wind like knives” was once a metaphor, but now it was reality.

And it didn’t stop there—the icy wind kept sneaking in through his pant legs and sleeves, crawling into his body.

“This time period is truly cold!” Qin Jun sighed. If it weren’t for the hunger, he wouldn’t have ventured out so early on such a freezing morning.

Knowing he couldn’t last long, Qin Jun began to move quickly.

Just a little movement brought him to the courtyard gate.

Fumbling around, he found the sack he had prepared long ago.

Of course, he didn’t forget to tuck the firewood-splitting axe wrapped in the sack behind his waist.

He carefully rolled up the sack and tucked it under his arm.

Slowly opening the door, he stepped out of the yard.

Looking back at the dilapidated courtyard, Qin Jun sighed; this was true poverty.

He closed the gate firmly and quickly walked down the dark alley towards the eastern edge of the village.

As he walked, he kept checking his surroundings.

The dead of winter at dawn was the darkest and coldest time; naturally, no one would be out.

His footsteps echoed far but were met with no response.

In this era, the village didn’t even have a dog, as there was no surplus grain to feed one—if there was grain, it would rather be fed to pigs.

Leaving the village, he immediately felt an eerie chill; the surrounding vegetation was quite dense.

One had to admit, the rural ecology in the 70s and 80s was remarkably well preserved.

Except for some cultivated irregular patches, the rest was covered in shrubs.

If this were the Northeast, Qin Jun wouldn’t dare to venture out at dawn due to the many wild animals.

But the land of Qilu was different; even in the late 70s, apart from some deep mountains, carnivorous animals were rare.

Even if encountered, it would mostly be lone wolves, not packs.

Qin Jun wasn’t afraid of lone wolves.

Since he had been working in the collective since age twelve and was now fourteen, he had grown stronger.

Also, over these past two weeks since rebirth, he had been diligently nourishing himself, becoming healthier and stronger.

As the saying goes, “A teenager can out-eat an adult.” Relying solely on the meager family rations, he surely couldn’t get full.

Even when he occasionally hunted a rabbit, it was just a treat; going to bed early, he often woke hungry and cold around three or four a.m.

This was why Qin Jun had to get up so early, struggling to find food.

Unfortunately, it was winter, and wild animals were scarce.

There were no large animals, only wildcats, weasels, and mice, with rabbits being very rare.

Wildcats and mice were out of the question—no matter how hungry, he couldn’t eat those.

Therefore, Qin Jun’s target was the weasel, commonly known as the “Yellow Spirit.”

He came out at dawn because weasels and black-mouthed stoats only hunted at dusk and dawn.

For weasels living near villages, dusk wasn’t ideal since humans were still awake.

So dawn was their best hunting time.

But for hunters who knew their habits, this was a fatal weakness.

Qin Jun couldn’t afford a gun yet, or he would have already made a fortune.

Still, even without weapons, he could earn his first pot of gold since rebirth.

Relying solely on experience, using traps to catch weasels was no challenge.

Weasels are social animals; once you find their traces, catching them becomes easier.

Qin Jun, reborn and armed with decades of memory, knew many methods to hunt weasels.

The simplest was traps and snares; more difficult was using poison smoke; the hardest was hunting with guns.

Not due to poor marksmanship, but lack of money to buy guns.

But without guns, couldn’t he make traps?

After half a month, he was certain he had no special powers—no system, no personal storage space.

He could only turn his memories from past and present into his “golden finger.”

With future knowledge, he clearly remembered that when his nieces and nephews born in the 80s went to primary school, their textbooks included passages on how to catch weasels.

Of course, the textbooks never taught directly; instead, they described how hunters caught weasels to earn foreign exchange.

It was simple: dig a deep pit, not very wide, but pour water to freeze the walls solid.

Once a weasel jumped in, it couldn’t climb out.

Qin Jun planned to use this method instead of snares.

He lacked good materials for snares, and weasels’ incisors were tough enough to easily bite through ordinary wire mesh.

So, tightly controlling these clever little creatures wasn’t easy.

Last night, Qin Jun had already baited the traps; now he only needed to check for results.

After leaving the village, he slightly altered his direction.

Now heading north, facing the northwest wind, he walked against the wind.

Though weasels are nearly blind, their sense of smell is extremely sharp.

He wanted to see if there were signs of weasel activity nearby; if so, he could set traps along their usual routes.

For some time now, he had gotten used to walking into the wind.

Over the past ten days or so, Qin Jun had roughly mapped out the weasel groups’ activity range around the village.

He had already identified several groups, which allowed him to strategically place traps and bait.

The bait was live-caught mice; catching them was not difficult, using mouse traps and cages.

The countryside was teeming with mice, so catching enough was easy.

Qin Jun caught some himself and enlisted friends’ help to catch more, gathering a fair number.

He had set the bait last night and now just needed to check for results.

However, in the dim pre-dawn light, without a flashlight, Qin Jun moved slowly.

Fortunately, he was still near the village edge; the ground here was quite flat.

Under the moonlight, he could still see his surroundings clearly.

He had also marked each trap, making it easy to find them in the dark.

Soon, he arrived near the nearest trap.

This group of traps was set beside a narrow granite rock.

Along this rock, Qin Jun had placed three traps in succession.

Wherever weasels moved here, they couldn’t avoid his traps.

Sure enough, when he checked one trap in the darkness, he found prey inside.

This was at the eastern edge of the village, near a flat yard used for threshing wheat, now piled with straw.

Weasels often hid in firewood piles, stone mortars, and beneath earthen walls.

A few days ago, Qin Jun had seen groups of weasels here.

Weasels were timid and easily scared.

They would never swagger openly in open yards.

So, they preferred to move along ditches and embankments near yards, hiding in shadows.

The long narrow rock limited their routes.

Once here, they had to stick close to the rock, giving Qin Jun an advantage.

Thus, the first trap in this perfect location had caught something.

Judging by size, the weasel in the trap was fairly large.

Though he couldn’t measure it, it seemed over forty centimeters.

Such a big weasel could easily fetch fifty yuan.

Fifty yuan for one weasel! Did he really catch one so quickly?

Thinking of the weasel’s value, Qin Jun felt reassured.

This was the late 1970s, not the 2000s.

At this time, few goods could be exported for foreign currency; mostly raw materials.

Weasel pelts were excellent for earning foreign exchange.

Their fur was naturally fine and dense, with rich underfur and a glossy sheen, making them premium materials for fur garments.

The tail hair was water-repellent, durable, and elastic—perfect for high-grade brush making.

Most importantly, many foreign aristocrats favored them.

For instance, Russian painters especially liked brushes made from weasel tail hair.

Wealthy Europeans loved cloaks made from weasel pelts.

Because of foreign demand, China began large-scale weasel trapping from the 1950s and 60s.

Back then, twelve weasel pelts could be exchanged for a ton of oil, and twenty-five pelts for a ton of steel.

Due to the high price, ninety percent of the world’s weasel pelts came from China.

In the 1970s, one pelt was worth twenty-five yuan—equivalent to a month’s wage for a grade-one skilled worker.

By the early 1980s, the price had risen to fifty yuan.

Fifty yuan was a substantial sum; few workers earned that much monthly.

Catching one weasel could easily bring in fifty yuan.

Qin Jun found this textbook method surprisingly effective; his first trap had already succeeded.

Perhaps alerted by the noise, the weasel in the icy pit raised its head warily.

Seeing the green, glowing eyes startled Qin Jun at first.

In the darkness, eyes shining a vivid green would startle anyone.

But he quickly remembered he had heard that weasel eyes glowed green at night.

This was the “Yellow Spirit.”

Sadly, it was trapped and helpless, unable to jump out or climb up.

Once caught in such a pit, whether “Big Yellow” or “Little Yellow,” the only option was to wait for death.