Dragon Boat Race Chapter 1

Volume One: A Glimpse of the Shadow

Preface: A single oar plunges into the turbulent waves of a foreign land, a sickly frame ponders in the gloom. Who says a scholar is useless? Watch as cunning strategies are hidden in the silk pouch.

Chapter 1: Racing Terror

Epigraph: The dragon boat drums cease, a whirlpool swallows the brave beneath the river; the soul awakens in terror on the sickbed, a tiger’s gaze in the tent recognizes the stranger.

The river wind howled, and the drumbeats were like thunder, resonating deep within people’s chests.

“Steady! Keep your center of gravity low! Watch the rhythm on the starboard side!” Qin Gong stood at the bow of the dragon boat. His bronze skin gleamed with a sheen under the scorching May sun. His 185-centimeter height made him seem like an unmoving anchor. He was not just the drummer; he was the soul. With every swing of his arms, his full biceps and back muscles displayed immense power. The drumbeats precisely dictated the frequency of the team’s paddling, like the pulsing of a heart.

“One-two! Heave-ho! One-two! Heave-ho!” The team’s shouts shook the heavens. Sixteen paddles sliced uniformly through the murky, surging river water. The dragon boat, like a true flood dragon, sped across the shimmering surface, the bow kicking up white spray that dampened the tense faces of the crew.

This was the final round of the annual Dragon Boat Championship, and the atmosphere was reaching a fever pitch. The competition against the champion university team from the neighboring city was fierce. The two standard dragon boats were practically neck and neck. The drumming, the shouting, and the cheers from the spectators on the bank merged into a boiling ocean of sound.

“Gong-ge! The number three paddle on the right is getting messy! They’re about to push!” The spotter yelled hoarsely, his voice swallowed by the immense noise.

Qin Gong’s gaze was sharp as an eagle’s. He instantly caught a slight wobble in the opposing boat’s hull and a sudden change in their drum rhythm. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding, and roared, “Port side, power up! Listen to my command—press them!” His arm muscles bulged. The drumsticks fell harder and faster. The drumbeats, which had been steady and deep, suddenly became rapid and high-pitched, like a battle horn signaling a charge!

“Hoo!” The port side crew responded with an explosion of strength. The dragon boat lunged forward, gaining a slight advantage of half a boat length. The red ribbon of the finish line was in sight; the light of victory seemed within reach.

However, at this critical moment, a sudden change occurred!

“Crack!” A grating, teeth-jarring sound, not from Qin Gong’s boat, but from the opposing university team’s dragon boat. A young crew member on their starboard side, too eager for victory, distorted his movement. His paddle slammed hard into a submerged piece of rotten wood or a hidden reef. Accompanied by flying splinters, the crew member instantly lost his balance from the massive recoil, crying out as he tumbled into the river!

“Man overboard!” Cries of alarm erupted. The atmosphere on the bank instantly shifted from boiling excitement to shock.

The spot where he fell was extremely close to Qin Gong’s dragon boat. The churning waves and the struggling figure were only a few meters in front of him. Qin Gong’s heart constricted sharply. The instinct to save a life overrode the desire for victory. It was almost a reflex—

“Stop paddling! Rescue!”

Without the slightest hesitation, he shoved his drumsticks into the arms of his deputy. He didn’t even have time to take off his life vest. With a perfect dive, he leaped into the surging, icy river water. The powerful inertia carried him quickly toward the struggling figure.

“Don’t panic! Relax! I’ll take you up!” Qin Gong’s voice was muffled by the buzzing of the river water filling his ears. He skillfully secured the other person’s chest from behind, avoiding being grabbed by the panicked victim. He kicked his legs forcefully, trying to bring both of them toward the surface.

The fallen crew member had swallowed water and was coughing, his limbs still flailing unconsciously. Qin Gong was about to adjust his posture to signal the nearest rescue boat when a massive, indescribable suction suddenly pulled at his feet! It was as if a giant mouth had opened up out of nowhere at the river bottom, frantically dragging them downward.

“What is going on?!” Qin Gong was horrified. He had grown up by the river and was an excellent swimmer, but he had never felt such a strange, powerful, and localized whirlpool. He kicked desperately, his strong core muscles exploding with power, trying to fight the unnatural drag. But the suction grew stronger and stronger. The surrounding river water became pitch black and bone-chilling. The light seemed to be swallowed up, disappearing rapidly. He felt the air in his lungs about to run out, his consciousness being dragged toward the abyss by the boundless darkness and suffocation… The last sound echoing in his ears was the terrifying, hollow roar of the current…

…

Pain.

The first signal of returning consciousness was a deep, bone-piercing ache that permeated his limbs and body. It felt as if all his bones had been crushed and then reassembled, and every muscle had been torn and forcibly stitched back together. His throat was as dry as cracked earth. Every breath pulled at his chest, bringing a tearing agony.

Qin Gong struggled to lift his eyelids, which felt as heavy as a thousand catties. His vision was blurry and spinning. It took a long time before he could barely focus.

What met his eyes was no longer the familiar ceiling of the gymnasium, the glaring white walls of a hospital, or the messy desk in his dorm room. Instead, it was a low, rough ceiling, where he could see clear wood grain and knots, emitting a faint smell of mold, dust, and a certain… indescribable, bitter herbal scent. Beneath him was a hard, uncomfortable plank bed, covered with a thin, coarse cloth sheet that chafed his sensitive skin.

Where was this? A temporary tent for the rescue team? It didn’t look like it…

He tried to turn his neck to survey his surroundings. A violent wave of dizziness and a sharp pain in his neck muscles struck him, forcing out a suppressed groan.

“Strategist? You… you’re awake?!” A voice, filled with surprise, slightly young, and even a little fearful, sounded beside him. It carried a certain accent, not the Mandarin he was familiar with.

Strategist? Who was he calling?

Qin Gong laboriously, inch by inch, turned his head. He saw a boy, no older than fifteen or sixteen, wearing a short, gray coarse cloth tunic, leaning over the bed. His face showed undisguised concern and a hint of… reverence? The boy’s hairstyle was strange; his hair was tied into a topknot and secured with something that looked like a wooden stick.

“Water…” Qin Gong opened his mouth. The sound that came out was terrifyingly hoarse and dry, like the last gasp of a worn-out bellows.

“Ah! Right away! Please wait!” The boy seemed to have been reminded. He quickly ran to a rickety wooden table nearby, picked up a ceramic bowl, poured some water from a large ceramic jar, and carefully brought it over. He knelt on one knee by the bedside, awkwardly supporting Qin Gong’s heavy head with one hand and bringing the rim of the bowl to his cracked lips.

The cool liquid, with a slight earthy taste, slid down his throat. Though the taste was unpleasant, it was like sweet dew, temporarily alleviating the burning, fiery pain. Qin Gong greedily swallowed a few small sips. The cold sensation sliding down his esophagus seemed to awaken a little strength in this body.

Using the boy’s support, he managed to prop himself up slightly with his elbows. This simple movement made his vision go black, leaving him breathless. He forced himself to calm down and examine his surroundings more closely.

This was an extremely rudimentary space, looking like a hastily constructed military tent, made of wooden posts and thick cloth. The space was small. Besides the plank bed beneath him, the rough wooden table, and a few tree stumps serving as stools, there was almost nothing else. Some miscellaneous items were piled haphazardly in the corner; he could vaguely see rolled-up furs and several ceramic jars. The air was filled with a complex mixture of dust, sweat, leather, and that bitter herbal scent.

Most importantly—the furnishings here, the boy’s clothing and hairstyle, and the pervasive “ancient” atmosphere all told him that this was absolutely not any era or place he recognized!

“I… Where am I?” Qin Gong’s voice was still weak, but it carried an undeniable question and a hint of unconcealed alarm. He had to figure out the situation.

“Reporting to the Strategist, this is the camp of our Northern Expedition Army’s Vanguard.” The boy seemed relieved that he had stabilized somewhat and answered respectfully, his tone carrying the natural deference for the title of “Strategist.” “A few days ago, while you were marching with the army, you were ambushed by the Northern Di barbarians’ skirmishers. You were severely wounded in the chaos, fell from your horse, and have been unconscious ever since. Everyone was worried sick. Fortunately, the Commander…”

Northern Expedition Army? Vanguard Camp? Strategist? Northern Di? Barbarians?

A series of completely unfamiliar terms, only found in history books or TV dramas, hammered at Qin Gong, making him dizzy. His heart sank continuously. He looked down at his body—he was wearing a white, coarse inner garment, with visible wear and tear on the collar and cuffs. And this body… it was thin, the arms slender, the skin a sickly pale color from long-term lack of sun exposure. The fingers were long but weak. This was definitely not his 185-centimeter, dark-skinned athlete’s body, which had been honed by long-term, high-intensity training and was full of explosive power and endurance!

A preposterous, yet the only possible, terrifying thought slithered into his mind like a poisonous snake, tightly gripping his sanity.

Could it be… transmigration? Not just spatial, but temporal? And… he had transmigrated into a sickly Strategist who couldn’t even truss a chicken?! Heaven help him, where was his proud physique? Where were his beautiful muscles?!

He abruptly raised a hand to touch his face—the touch revealed an unfamiliar bone structure. His cheekbones seemed higher, his nose bridge straighter, his chin more pointed. The skin was delicate but lacked elasticity. He struggled to get out of bed. When his feet touched the ground, a wave of weakness hit him, and he nearly collapsed. The boy quickly held him up with force. “Strategist! Your injury hasn’t healed! You’ve suffered a great loss of vitality. The Commander specifically ordered you to rest well and absolutely not move around!”

“Mirror… give me a mirror!” Qin Gong desperately grabbed the boy’s arm, his voice trembling with a fear he hadn’t noticed. He had to confirm it with his own eyes!

The boy froze, a look of confusion on his face. He seemed not to understand why the Strategist, who was usually so composed (perhaps the original owner’s trait), was acting so strangely—first asking questions, and now demanding a mirror. But he dared not ask more. He obediently rummaged through the pile of belongings in the corner and pulled out a bronze mirror with chipped edges and a dull, yellowish surface. He hesitantly handed it over.

Qin Gong snatched the mirror as if it were a lifeline. He took a deep breath, as if facing judgment, and tremblingly held the mirror up to his eyes.

In the dim, blurry surface, a completely unfamiliar face of a young man was reflected. He looked to be in his early twenties, with delicate, handsome features—one might even call him beautiful. His nose bridge was straight, his lips thin and pale. The combination was indeed a “good-looking” face. But at this moment, the face was as white as paper, utterly bloodless. There were heavy, dark circles under his eyes. His lips were cracked and peeling. A thick, pervasive aura of sickness, weakness, and an indescribable melancholy was etched between his brows.

This was not him!

Qin Gong, the dragon boat captain who sweated on the race track, full of sunshine and strength, was truly gone! In his place was this sickly Strategist from some unknown dynasty and timeline, a man who looked like he could be blown away by a gust of wind!

The immense shock and intense sense of rejection made his vision go black. The bronze mirror in his hand clattered onto the rough ground. The boy, terrified, quickly supported his swaying body. “Strategist! Are you alright? Please don’t scare me again!”

Just then, the tent flap was violently pulled open by a large hand with distinct knuckles and old scars. A tall, imposing figure walked in against the somewhat dazzling light outside, instantly bringing with him an air of dusty severity and invisible pressure, as if the dim light inside the tent flickered with his presence.

“He’s awake?” A deep, magnetic voice, slightly husky, rang out. The tone was steady, yet contained an undeniable authority and the certainty of someone long accustomed to command.

Qin Gong instinctively looked up, his heart constricting sharply from the sudden pressure.

The man who entered was wearing dark, dull metal armor. He was extremely tall, estimated to be close to 190 centimeters, with broad shoulders and back. Even encased in cold armor, one could feel the latent, leopard-like explosive power and toughness beneath. His face was chiseled and defined, like it had been carved by an axe. His sword-like eyebrows slanted toward his temples, his eye sockets were deep, his nose bridge high like a mountain ridge, and his lips were tightly pressed into a cold, resolute line. His jawline was so firm it seemed capable of cutting the air. His eyes were sharp, like a hawk circling high above, locking onto its prey. They were currently fixed on Qin Gong’s pale, weak body, which was slightly trembling from shock and exhaustion, carrying a look of scrutiny, inquiry, and a faint, yet definite… concern of a strong person for a weak one.

The man merely standing there was like an unmoving mountain. His entire being exuded the bloody scent and iron-willed authority forged by years on the battlefield, instantly freezing the air in the already small tent and making breathing difficult.

The boy beside him immediately released Qin Gong, bowed, and spoke with utmost respect, even a hint of fear: “Reporting to the Commander, the Strategist just woke up and drank some water.”

Commander?

Qin Gong’s heart pounded again. The title he had heard upon waking now perfectly matched the awe-inspiring, tangible man before him.

Was this the supreme commander of the so-called “Northern Expedition Army”? The man the boy said had brought him back from the “pile of dead men”?

Wu Ge (Qin Gong instinctively felt this was his name, based on the boy’s address and the man’s aura) scanned Qin Gong’s body—pale to the point of transparency, yet struggling not to collapse—and finally settled on his eyes. Those eyes, bewildered and lost due to the shock of transmigration, the physical pain, and the current predicament, yet deep down faintly flickering with a tenacious resilience, like stubborn weeds, and a light of astonishment that did not belong to this sickly frame.

He strode to the bedside. The metal soles of his boots made a dull thud on the ground, and the plates of his armor made a slight, cold friction sound with his movement. He looked down at Qin Gong, who was sitting on the edge of the bed and had to look up at him. His voice remained steady, but carried a life-and-death, non-negotiable force:

“Since you are awake, rest well. Since this Commander dragged you back from the gates of hell, I will not let you die easily again.”

His words were direct, devoid of flowery comfort, and even carried the soldier’s characteristic dominance and roughness. Yet, strangely, in this desperate situation, they gave Qin Gong a faint but real sense of security—at least, temporary safety.

Qin Gong looked up at this ancient man, feeling the waves of weakness and pain emanating from this unfamiliar body, and the memories of the modern world surging like a tide in his mind. The clamor of the dragon boat race, the anxious faces of his teammates, the bone-chilling cold of the river water, the terrifying suction of the whirlpool… all intertwined and collided with the rudimentary, primitive tent, the respectful but strange boy, and the imposing ancient marshal, forming a bizarre, absurd, yet intensely real scene.

He knew that his life, from the moment he leaped into the river to save someone, had completely and decisively broken away from its original trajectory, plunging into a completely unknown, perilous, yet potentially vital, timeline.

And the man before him, Wu Ge, the commander of this ancient army, would undoubtedly become his first, and perhaps most important, coordinate in this strange, cruel world—an existence he must rely on, but also be wary of.

He took a deep breath, forcefully suppressing the metallic taste rising in his throat and the tumultuous chaos and fear in his heart. He used all the composure and strength this sickly body could muster, meeting Wu Ge’s sharp, knife-like gaze. He slowly spoke. Though his voice was still hoarse and weak, he tried hard to maintain clear articulation:

“Thank you… for saving my life, Commander.”

Survive first. He tightly gripped the coarse bedsheet beneath him, swearing to himself in his heart, as if clutching the last straw. Only by surviving first, by adapting here, could he slowly figure out all these unbelievable changes, and perhaps find… the way back.