My last memory was of the white mist from liquid nitrogen.
To be precise, it was that ancient, decrepit liquid nitrogen tank in the laboratory of the University of Sydney's Veterinary School. My supervisor had been nagging to replace it for three years, yet three years passed without it happening. The tank's sealing strip had aged; every time it was opened, it looked like a dry ice stage effect, with white mist surging out and swallowing me whole. I always said this thing would cause an accident sooner or later. He'd reply, "We'll replace it once you graduate." I never graduated, but the tank caused an accident first.
I was organizing specimens at the time. A copper coin slipped through my fingers and fell into the liquid nitrogen with a sharp "ding."
I silently cursed and reached in to retrieve it.
The moment my fingertips touched the metal, it felt as if something had grabbed me. It wasn't suction; it was a yank. Like someone had tied a rope to my ankles and suddenly pulled downward with great force. In that instant, only one thought remained in my brain: Crap, this is exactly how it happens in time-travel novels.
Then—
"Bang!"
I fell face-first into a pile of something warm, smelling of earthy mud.
For a few seconds, I thought of nothing.
My face was buried in the mud; my nostrils were filled with a damp, earthy scent, and my tongue even tasted a hint of bitterness—this mud probably contained some kind of plant ash. My palms pressed into the soft soil, and cool mud squeezed out between my fingers. My knees hurt. My waist hurt. My face hurt too.
Lying in the mud, it took me about five seconds to process three things:
First, I was still alive.
Second, I was no longer in the laboratory.
Third, I had just time-traveled. Really time-traveled. Exactly like in those novels my roommate used to read.
A sense of absurdity welled up inside me. Just last week, I had told my roommate, "That kind of plot is too far-fetched; who just casually time-travels?" Now, well, God had personally come to slap me in the face. And it hurt quite a bit.
"Pah, pah, pah—"
I spat out the mud in my mouth and propped myself up on my arms, trying to stand. My palm pressed against something slippery, cold, and moving.
I looked down.
A large, ink-green cricket was pinned beneath my palm, its six small legs kicking helplessly in the air, its antennae whipping back and forth like a rattle drum.
I stared eye-to-eye with the cricket for half a second.
My first reaction wasn't "Where am I?" or "How do I get back?"—it was: This cricket's right mandible seems smaller than the left one.
My second reaction was: What am I thinking?! I'm crushing someone's cricket!
I quickly let go.
Regaining its freedom, the cricket didn't run away. Instead, it lay beside my hand, shook its wings, and let out a weak, feeble chirp:
"Ji—"
The sound was hoarse and frail, like an opera singer being choked by the throat; it clearly sounded like it was cursing.
I stared at the cricket for a second. My professional instinct had already kicked in, automatically analyzing: Hoarse chirp, possible respiratory issues; abdomen color is too dark, dehydration or digestive problems; right mandible—
"Who goes there!"
A voice exploded from above my head.
The voice carried anger, along with the characteristic huskiness of a boy going through puberty, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
I looked up.
A young boy stood before me.
He looked about fifteen or sixteen, wearing a moon-white round-collared robe with dark patterns embroidered on the collar that I couldn't decipher but could tell at a glance were expensive. A mutton-fat jade pendant hung from his waist, and his hair was tied up neatly, secured with a white jade hairpin.
His appearance was truly handsome. Sword-like eyebrows, starry eyes, a straight nose, and sharp lips; his youthful aura carried a touch of noble arrogance.
But at this moment, that handsome face wore an expression as if he had just been splashed with a basin of cold water—his eyes were wide open, his lips slightly parted, and his knuckles were white from gripping the cricket probe tube in his hand.
His gaze shifted from me to the green porcelain jar beside me, then back to me, going back and forth twice. His face grew greener by the second.
I followed his gaze to look at the green porcelain jar—the rim diameter was about twenty centimeters, depth about fifteen centimeters, a typical large jar used for fighting crickets. Mud I had kicked up when falling out was still stuck to the rim.
I had just climbed out of this thing. No, I had fallen out of it. My time-travel landing spot had precisely targeted someone's cricket jar.
My brain raced. My eyes scanned the room behind the boy—redwood desks, green porcelain jars, writing brushes, ink, paper, and inkstones arranged on the desk, an incense burner smoldering in the corner with wisps of smoke curling up. On the rosewood table also sat a small white porcelain dish containing shelled melon seeds.
This setup, this style, this—
"I asked you a question!" The boy's voice rose another octave, "Who are you? Why are you in my cricket jar?!"
Gu (I, used by royalty).
My heart skipped a beat.
I hadn't read those time-travel novels in vain—only princes or imperial relatives could use that self-reference.
And given the age, attire, and the room full of cricket jars before me...
I looked down at the lump of mud I had flattened, then at the gasping ink-green cricket beside me.
Crown Prince Zhu Zhanji. Emperor Xuanzong of Ming. The Cricket Emperor.
It felt as if someone had set off a string of firecrackers in my brain.
Then I heard my own mouth say something completely out of my control:
"Is your cricket's right mandible smaller than the left one?"
The air suddenly went silent.
Silent enough to hear the cricket shifting its feet inside the jar.
Zhu Zhanji's expression looked as if someone had hit the pause button. His mouth hung open, his eyes widened even further, and the cricket probe tube in his hand froze in mid-air.
"...What did you say?" His voice lowered, not with anger, but with disbelief.
I stood up from the mud, patted the dirt off my knees, and flicked a half-dried leaf stuck to my sleeve. I was covered in mud, my hair was disheveled, and there was a smear of dirt on my face; I looked utterly wretched.
But my eyes were bright.
I pointed at the cricket in his hand: "That cricket of yours, the right mandible is obviously smaller than the left, causing asymmetrical biting. Its chirp just now was also wrong—a normal cricket's chirp should be crisp and loud; that one was hoarse and weak, indicating a problem with its respiratory system or mouth. And—"
I tilted my head slightly to look at the cricket's abdomen: "Its abdomen color is too dark; normally it should be pale yellow or light green. This blackening suggests a digestive issue, or perhaps dehydration."
I finished speaking in one breath, clapped the dirt off my hands, and looked up at Zhu Zhanji.
Zhu Zhanji stared at me for about five seconds.
Then his gaze shifted to the cricket in his own hand.
The "Great General" lay in his palm, its antennae drooping, its six legs supporting itself feebly, looking completely different from its usual majestic self.
Zhu Zhanji pressed his lips into a thin line.
The eunuchs nearby had already fallen to their knees, not daring to breathe. Chief Eunuch Li knelt at the very front, beads of sweat dripping from the tip of his nose down his forehead—he had served in the Eastern Palace for over ten years and had never seen anyone dare to speak to the Crown Prince like this. Let alone someone covered in mud, of unknown origin, who had crawled out of a cricket jar.
"You..." Zhu Zhanji finally found his voice, "You say the Great General is sick?"
"Not sick, but having a problem," I corrected him. "'Sick' implies pathology; this is more likely caused by improper keeping methods."
I paused, glanced at the way Zhu Zhanji was holding the cricket, and added:
"Your palm is sweating. It makes it uncomfortable."
Zhu Zhanji subconsciously loosened his grip.
Then he realized he was being led by the nose again, and a flash of annoyance crossed his face.
"Do you know who you are speaking to?" he gritted his teeth, trying to maintain the dignity of the Crown Prince.
"Yes," I replied calmly, "The Crown Prince, of course."
"Then you—"
"But a Crown Prince's cricket won't heal itself just because its owner is the Crown Prince," I said evenly. "Its right mandible is inflamed. If not treated, it won't be able to eat within three days. Within five days, it will be dead."
Zhu Zhanji's face changed instantly.
Not because of the defiance—but because of the four words: "it will be dead."
The Great General was a cricket he had raised since last year. It was entirely ink-green, brave and skilled in battle, and had never lost a match in the Eastern Palace's cricket circle. He had personally named it "The Great General," fed it himself every day, cleaned the jar himself, and carried it around in his bosom wherever he went.
This was his heart's treasure.
He looked down at the listless Great General in his palm, feeling as if something was blocking his chest.
"How do you know?" His voice lowered, "On what basis do you say this?"
"Because I am a veterinarian," I said, "Because I have treated tens of thousands of animals."
This wasn't entirely boasting. I had studied veterinary science for a year at the University of Sydney, and combined with my volunteer experience at an animal hospital during high school, I had encountered thousands of animals if not tens of thousands. Cats, dogs, cattle, sheep, birds, reptiles, and even a kangaroo joey seized from smugglers—that creature had kicked me so hard I had bruises for three days.
But to Zhu Zhanji, this sounded like sheer fantasy.
"Veterinarian?" He frowned, "Can women be veterinarians?"
"Why not?" I countered, "Women can treat animals just as men can embroider—it's not a matter of 'can or cannot,' but 'want or don't want'."
"This Prince does not know how to embroider."
"I was just making an analogy."
"Your analogies are strange."
"I've been abroad for a long time; I speak quite directly. If you're not used to it, I can—"
"No need," Zhu Zhanji interrupted me, "Just speak like that. At least... this Prince can understand."
I was slightly stunned.
To be honest, asking me to speak like an ancient person was something I really couldn't do. After five years in Australia, I was used to saying whatever was on my mind; asking me to beat around the bush or speak indirectly was harder than performing a C-section on a kangaroo.
Zhu Zhanji fell silent for a moment, looking down at the Great General.
The Great General's antennae twitched slightly, and its six legs slowly paddled once against his palm.
Zhu Zhanji's brows furrowed deeply.
Of course, he knew the Great General had been acting strange recently. For three days, it hadn't eaten, couldn't chirp, and barely climbed around the jar. He thought it was just the changing of seasons and had asked the imperial physicians to take a look. The physicians had looked it over and spouted a bunch of nonsense about "seasonal changes, suitable for rest," prescribing a few warming tonics to be mixed in water and fed to it.
He had fed it, but it was useless.
He was so anxious he couldn't sleep well at night, yet he didn't know who to ask. In the entire Eastern Palace, no one understood crickets better than he did. The physicians didn't understand, and the eunuchs understood even less.
And this woman who fell out of the jar knew what was wrong just by looking at it.
He raised his head and stared at me.
"You treat it."
Two words, not loud, but bitten out heavily.
I raised an eyebrow: "Treating it is fine, but I have conditions."
Zhu Zhanji's expression looked as if someone had stepped on his foot: "You dare to bargain with this Prince?"
"Not bargaining, but discussing the treatment plan," I said calmly. "First, I need a clean set of clothes—I can't work like this. Second, I need a bowl of warm water, a little honey, and a small handful of rice. The rice must be cooked until soft and mushy, softer than porridge."
I paused, glancing at the Great General in Zhu Zhanji's hand.
"Third, put it back in the jar and stop clutching it. It needs rest right now."
Zhu Zhanji looked down at the Great General, hesitated for a second, then carefully placed it back into the green porcelain jar.
Then he turned to Eunuch Li and said, "Go get them. Get everything."
Eunuch Li was stunned—The Crown Prince actually compromised? Since when had this master ever compromised?
"What are you standing there for? Go!" Zhu Zhanji shouted irritably.
Eunuch Li scrambled away on all fours.
I chuckled beside him.
Zhu Zhanji glared at me: "What are you laughing at?"
"Nothing," I said, "Just thinking that you're actually quite reasonable."
Zhu Zhanji: "..."
Reasonable??
Who in the entire court dared to say he was reasonable? Which eunuch or maid in the Eastern Palace dared to say he was reasonable? Even his Second Uncle, the Prince of Han, had to treat him with politeness. And this woman dared to say he was reasonable??
He took a deep breath and decided not to argue with me.
"You mentioned earlier that you've been abroad?" He changed the subject, "Which country? Where?"
"A very far place," I said vaguely, "It takes... several months by ship."
"Farther than the Western Oceans?"
"About the same."
Zhu Zhanji looked at me thoughtfully. He certainly knew about Eunuch Zheng He's voyages to the Western Oceans—his grandfather had always been interested in overseas affairs, and he had listened to many stories himself. Place names like Ceylon Mountain, Calicut, and Hormuz were more familiar to him than the lessons taught by his Grand Tutor.
But the place this woman spoke of, he had never heard of.
"How did you end up in this Prince's cricket jar?" he suddenly asked.
I fell silent for three seconds.
I couldn't dodge this question with "I've been abroad for a long time."
"I don't know either," I admitted honestly, "I was originally... working in a place, then everything went black, and I fell here. Maybe God saw that I was a good veterinarian and sent me to save the Great General."
This answer obviously didn't satisfy Zhu Zhanji. He stared at me for several seconds, his gaze sharp, as if interrogating a prisoner.
I did not avoid his gaze. The first lesson I learned in Australia was—look the other person in the eye when speaking, regardless of their status.
I didn't know if this habit was considered rude in the Ming Dynasty, but I didn't care.
Zhu Zhanji withdrew his gaze and fell silent for a moment.
"Where do you live now? Do you have any family?"
"No," I said, "Just me alone."
This was the truth. In this era, I truly was alone.
My tone was plain when I said this, but my fingers unconsciously clenched the corner of my garment.
Zhu Zhanji noticed this small movement.
He fell silent for a moment, then turned to Eunuch Li and said, "Arrange a room for her. One facing south, with good ventilation."
Eunuch Li had just returned and was stunned again by this statement: "Your Highness, this—"
"This Prince has decided," Zhu Zhanji's tone brooked no argument, "Also, have someone send her two sets of clean clothes. The eggs and silver ear fungus she mentioned are to be delivered daily."
I was startled.
I hadn't expected this teenager, who had been flying into a rage moments ago, to voluntarily arrange accommodation for me.
"You don't have to—" I started to say something.
"Don't misunderstand," Zhu Zhanji turned his face away, the tips of his ears turning imperceptibly red, "This Prince means that the Great General's illness is not yet cured, so you must continue treating it. We'll talk after it's healed. This Prince just... doesn't want the Great General to be without a doctor."
Looking at his slightly reddened ear tips, I suddenly felt that this tsundere Crown Prince wasn't so annoying after all. The panic and unease I had felt upon arriving in this new world were diluted by his words.
"Alright," I smiled. "Then I'll stay. But I have one more condition."
"More?" He turned back to glare at me.
"Don't call me 'Hey' or 'that woman'," I said. "My name is Song Yu'an."
He snorted. "This Prince remembers."
He turned and walked two steps, then stopped again, saying without looking back: "Come treat the Great General tomorrow. Don't be late."
"Understood."
"And—" His voice paused for a moment, "Change your clothes first. Looking so dirty is improper."
With that, he strode away.
I looked down at myself—covered in mud, hair disheveled, indeed a mess. I couldn't help but laugh. First day of time travel: stepped on the Crown Prince's cricket, talked back to the Crown Prince himself, and got taken in by the Crown Prince. What an absurd start.
I bent down and gently moved the Great General's jar to the windowsill—good ventilation there, no direct sunlight, but the temperature was suitable. The Great General lay on the soft mud inside the jar, its antennae swaying slightly, as if waving hello to me.
"Little guy," I whispered, my voice so soft it felt strange even to myself, "We're both outsiders here. Let's look out for each other."
The Great General chirped "Ji." This time the sound was much stronger than before, the trailing tone even curving upward slightly, as if responding to me.
I smiled and stood up to change clothes. Just as I took a step, my foot stepped on something, making a faint "click" sound. I looked down—it was a tube of lip balm. Small, cylindrical, plastic packaging, the most ordinary kind you'd find on a supermarket shelf. It was the one I brought back from Sydney, always kept in my pocket. It had traveled through time with me.
I bent down to pick it up and clenched it in my palm. The warm touch of the plastic casing against my palm felt completely out of place in this world of mud, green porcelain, and sandalwood scent. Suddenly, my nose felt a bit sore.
I tucked the lip balm into the sleeve pocket of my new clothes, keeping it close to my body. Then I took a deep breath and followed the humble-looking little maid.
As I crossed the threshold, I looked back. The setting sun shone through the window lattice, falling on the green porcelain cricket jar, gilding its rim with a layer of gold. The shadow of the Great General was cast on the jar wall, small and motionless. Beside the jar, the dish of shelled melon seeds remained untouched.
I withdrew my gaze and stepped over the threshold. In my pocket, the lip balm pressed against my ribs, like a silent secret from another world.
I didn't know if I could ever go back. But at least for now, there was a cricket that needed me.
(End of Chapter 1)