In the Ming Dynasty, I became invincible simply by extracting memories!

The silence in the cell lasted for a long time.

Shen Lian leaned against the cold stone wall, silently counting in his mind—nearly an hour had passed since Wei Liangbi left. In that hour, footsteps echoed three times at the end of the corridor, each time from a night patrol of the jailer.

Fang Xuejian squatted in the corner, clutching a handful of straw in his hand. He seemed to be weaving something, but he kept weaving and unraveling, clearly distracted.

"Shen Lian," Fang Xuejian said in a low voice.

"Um."

"Do you really think that old fox Wei Liangbi will obediently wait two days?"

The cell was dark, with only a sliver of grayish-white light filtering through the vents, casting a small, blurry patch of light on the opposite wall, like a half-open, half-closed eye. Fang Xuejian crouched in the corner, his face hidden in the shadows.

Fang Xuejian's question precisely touched upon what he had been pondering—Wei Liangbi wouldn't wait. That intelligence chief, who had been immersed in the Embroidered Uniform Guard for over twenty years, wasn't skilled at interrogation, but at probing. He would use various methods, from every angle, to constantly probe, pressure, and challenge until you revealed a weakness. Like a cat toying with a mouse, he wouldn't rush to bite, but would play with it to his heart's content first.

"No," Shen Lian said firmly.

The half-finished knot of grass that Fang Xuejian was weaving slipped out from between his fingers and scattered on the ground.

"What will he do?" His voice lowered even further.

Shen Lian did not answer; he was thinking about the last look Wei Liangbi gave him.

It wasn't malice, it was scrutiny.

A person who has been immersed in the power arena for twenty-three years sees everyone as if they were an official document that needs to be verified.

That's how Wei Liangbi feels about him now.

"He'll start with you," Shen Lian said.

Fang Xuejian froze. His fingers were still in the position of pinching the straw, but his whole body seemed to be frozen in place.

"I?"

"He wouldn't dare touch me. But after I left, you were the only person I ever came into contact with. In his eyes, there must be something about you that he wanted to know."

Fang Xuejian swallowed hard.

"Then what should I do?" he asked.

Fang Xuejian's face was hard to see clearly in the darkness, but what was in his eyes was very clear—something more clumsy. It was the kind of seriousness that only someone who had repeated the same experiment a hundred times in the lab, and would still stare at the beaker to see the results on the hundred and first time, would possess.

"Stick to one thing and say nothing." Shen Lian's words were firm and resolute. "No matter what methods they use, just stick to one thing—you know nothing."

Fang Xuejian remained silent for a few seconds, silently repeating that sentence, as if he were mentally preparing himself.

"Okay," he said.

Just one word. Decisive and straightforward, without hesitation or further questions.

A strange feeling suddenly welled up in Shen Lian's heart. From the first day he met this person in the imperial prison, he had never asked him why he knew those things, never questioned his cheat ability, and even when he was in the most danger, he never thought of betraying him.

A gust of wind blew in through the vents in the cell, carrying the chill of late autumn and the smell of rust.

Shen Lian's back was pressed against the wall, the chill from the stone seeping into his skin through his prison clothes. He shivered, but quickly suppressed it.

"Fang Xuejian," he called out.

"Um?"

"If—" Shen Lian paused. He had thought about this sentence several times, each time feeling it was too heavy, yet also feeling he had to say it, "I mean, if they really tortured you, and you couldn't take it—"

Fang Xuejian looked up at him.

"Just say I made it all up," Shen Lian said, his voice soft but each word clearly enunciated. "Everything was made up by me. You were just fooled."

"Shen Lian," Fang Xuejian spoke, his voice not loud, but carrying a weight Shen Lian had never seen in him before, "What the hell do you take me for?"

Fang Xuejian stood up from the corner. His legs were numb from squatting, and the sudden movement made him sway. He braced himself against the wall with one hand, his fingernails digging into the cracks in the stone. He didn't rub his legs; he just stood there, looking down at Shen Lian.

"I am a scholar," Fang Xuejian continued. "A scholar is not a high-ranking official, but scholars believe in the principle that 'poverty and lowliness cannot sway one, and power and force cannot subdue one.'"

Becoming a Xiucai (a successful candidate in the lowest level of the imperial examinations) was extremely difficult. During the Ming and Qing dynasties, the preliminary examinations were held twice every three years, with thousands of applicants from the entire county each time, but only twenty or thirty were admitted. The acceptance rate was even lower than that of today's top universities. Many people remained Xiucai even after their hair turned white. In the novel "The Scholars," Fan Jin was considered lucky to pass the Xiucai exam, Zhou Jin was over sixty years old and still hadn't passed, and Fang Xuejian was one in ten to pass.

His voice suddenly rose a little, echoing in the small cell.

"You saved my life—if I were to sell you, would I even deserve to be called a human being?"

Fang Xuejian's face turned bright red.

Fang Xuejian is simple-minded, but not stupid.

Shen Lian knew.

Shen Lian didn't laugh, but there was something in his eyes that Fang Xuejian had never seen before.

It's not gratitude, not being moved, but a deeper sense of relief, like entrusting something to someone else.

"Alright," Shen Lian said, "then let's take a gamble."

Fang Xuejian squatted down in front of him, the two of them less than two feet apart. His breath sprayed on Shen Lian's face, carrying the aroma of rice porridge and the metallic smell of rust.

"Shen Lian," he said, his voice suddenly becoming very soft, as if he were revealing a secret, "Can I ask you something?"

"What is it?"

Fang Xuejian hesitated for a moment, "What you mentioned before—Yan Shifan's accounts, the secret edicts of the Embroidered Uniform Guard, Zou Yinglong's impeachment—were all things you knew from your research on the history of the Ming Dynasty in your previous life?"

Fang Xuejian's eyes shone excessively bright in the dim light.

"Yes," Shen Lian said calmly, "Of course, some of it was made up, hmph."

Fang Xuejian suddenly paused, staring blankly at Shen Lian, and said, "You're really something, Shen Lian. Yeah, when you're out in the world, you have to choose your own identity. Why didn't I ever think of making up a name for myself? Making up some stories, keeping myself on edge all the time. You say you're a spy, or... how about I say I'm a descendant of Fang Xiaoru? What do you think?"

Shen Lian immediately became agitated: "Are you crazy! Fang Xiaoru's entire family was executed long ago. Are you trying to get yourself executed by slow slicing by fabricating this identity? Your academic and cultural knowledge is probably in the negative."

Fang Xuejin then realized what was happening, scratched his head, and grinned sheepishly.

Laughter, which had been absent for a long time, echoed from the prison cell.

"Shen Lian, I've been here for four months now, and sometimes I wonder why I'm the one who's unlucky?" Fang Xuejian muttered to himself. "In my previous life, I studied chemical engineering, just an ordinary person. When I was a graduate student, my advisor took on a military project to research new composite materials. There was a group of people in the lab who dealt with beakers and reactors every day."

Shen Lian was taken aback when he suddenly said that.

His finger paused for a moment, then drew a square on the ground, and then drew several small circles inside the square.

"My supervisor was an old man, over sixty, with half his hair white. He wore reading glasses with tape wrapped around the temples. He didn't talk much, but every time he did, he got to the point. Once, I had a week's worth of experimental data that was all wrong, and I was so frustrated I wanted to bang my head against the wall. He stood beside me for a while, watched for a moment, and then said something—"

Fang Xuejian's voice suddenly choked.

“‘It’s okay if the data is wrong, just redo it. If someone gets scared by the data, they’ll never be able to do scientific research.’ He pronounced these words carefully, as if they were a very important statement. ‘Then he helped me wash the beaker and let me start from scratch.’”

Shen Lian watched as Fang Xuejian drew those circles and squares on the ground.

"And then?" Shen Lian asked.

Fang Xuejian paused for a moment.

"Then—what else? I was unlucky enough to time-travel." He said, a forced smile spreading across his face. "The day I time-traveled, I was squatting in the lab firing glass. My advisor said that if this project succeeded, it could be used in the military, and the country wouldn't have to spend so much money importing glass. I fired it all day, my eyes were blurry, and on my way home I missed a step on the stairs—"

He raised his hand and gestured in the air, as if simulating the action of falling down the stairs.

"When I woke up again, I was in the imperial prison. I was covered in wounds and my face was covered in blood. A disheveled guy was squatting next to me. When he saw that I was awake, he said, 'Brother, you're really lucky to be alive.'"

He glanced at Shen Lian and smiled. This time it was a genuine smile, revealing a set of white teeth.

"That person wasn't you. It was another prisoner who was taken away for interrogation and never came back. I wonder when I'll be taken away too."

Shen Lian changed the subject.

"What's your advisor's name?" he asked.

Fang Xuejian was taken aback for a moment: "Why are you asking this?"

"Just asking."

Fang Xuejian lowered his head, wrote a character on the ground with his finger, and then wiped it off with his palm.

"His surname is Chen," Fang Xuejian said softly. "Professor Chen. I won't tell you his given name, you wouldn't remember it anyway."

How do you know I can't remember?

Fang Xuejian looked up at him, his eyes holding something strange—not a tease, but something softer, as if confirming something.

"Because you've never seen him," he said. "You've never seen him walking around in the lab, never seen him squatting down to pick up broken glass for me, never seen him wearing his reading glasses, his brow furrowed into a deep frown as he looked at data. What good is knowing just a name?"

Fang Xuejian gathered the straw on the ground together, piled it into a haystack, and then flattened it with his palm, as if he were doing something very serious.

"Sometimes I wonder how he's doing over there," Fang Xuejian said, his voice muffled. "I wonder if anyone has taken over that project. Has anyone organized the data? Has anyone washed the beakers?"

He dug his fingernails into the cracks in the ground.

"But what's the use of thinking about these things? There's no going back."

"There's no going back."

Yeah, what are we doing in this imperial prison?

It's not like the script for "Party A, Party B," where people would die.

The cell remained quiet for a long time. Shen Lian could hear his own heartbeat and Fang Xuejian's breathing.

"You studied Ming Dynasty history in your past life," Fang Xuejian suddenly spoke, his voice returning to its usual tone, tinged with curiosity and a hint of teasing, "Did your advisor also have students?"

Shen Lian nodded.

"Yes. My advisor's surname is Lin, and he's also an old man, with even whiter hair than your Professor Chen."

"What's he like?" Fang Xuejian asked urgently.

Shen Lian pictured Professor Lin in his mind—short, round-faced, wearing metal-framed glasses, with small but bright eyes behind the lenses. In summer, he wore a faded shirt with frayed cuffs. In winter, he wore a military overcoat, walking back and forth in the library corridors, the hem of the overcoat brushing against the bookshelves, stirring up a layer of dust.

"He's not much of a talker," Shen Lian said, "but every time he speaks, he gets to the point. Just like your mentor."

Fang Xuejian chuckled and said, "All mentors are the same."

“It’s different,” Shen Lian said. “He has a habit—he likes to draw little figures in the margins of books. I’ve seen that every book he’s borrowed has one. The figures are drawn very poorly, with big heads and small bodies, and he even writes annotations next to them.”

"What did the annotation say?"

"It says—'This part is questionable and needs further investigation.'" Shen Lian sighed. What good would it do if it were tested? The old scholar is a killer, he's turned into a panda from all that studying. "But that 'needs further investigation' part has never been tested."

Fang Xuejian smiled.

"Does your mentor have any junior female students who make your heart flutter?" Fang Xuejian suddenly asked, his tone cheeky, turning back into the guy who was still thinking about making glass after spending three months in prison.

Shen Lian was stunned for a moment: "What?"

"Junior sister," Fang Xuejian's voice was tinged with laughter, "there are junior sisters in science and engineering labs, and probably in humanities too, right? None of the graduate students your advisor supervises—"

"No," Shen Lian interrupted him.

"Really not?"

"Really not," Shen Lian said. "My advisor doesn't mentor female students. He said he's not good at mentoring female students and is afraid of holding them back."

"When we first joined the group, we didn't know anything. She even managed to blow up a thermometer while trying to light a stove. Professor Chen asked me to mentor her, which was quite annoying at first—I couldn't even finish my own experiments, let alone teach her how to identify equipment, memorize parameters, and write lab reports. Every time she made a mistake, she would just chuckle and say, 'Sorry, senior, I messed up again.'"

"Later, she gradually got the hang of it. One night, we were working overtime in the lab until 11 p.m. when we fired a batch of clear glass. She jumped up with joy, grabbed my sleeve, and said, 'Look, look, it's clear!'"

His voice paused for a moment.

"That was the happiest day of my graduate school years."

Shen Lian watched him quietly, not wanting to interrupt his reminiscence.

"After I traveled through time, I sometimes wonder—will she look for me? If I disappear, will she call the police? Will she put up missing person notices in the lab? Will she put a bouquet of flowers on my workstation? She said she would wash my clothes for me when my sleeves got dirty, and I haven't even eaten her cooking yet."

His voice was so low that the last few words were almost inaudible.

"But then I stopped thinking about it. Thinking about these things only makes me feel bad; it's no use at all."

Fang Xuejian remained silent for a while.

Coming to his senses, he clicked his tongue and said, "Your advisor is a very honest person, and so are you."

The cell fell silent for a moment.

Shen Lian didn't reply. He opened his eyes in the darkness and looked at a face he had never seen before, a face that only existed in the original owner's memories.

Liu Rushi's face.

She laughed in the original owner's memories, cried in the original owner's memories, embroidered, made osmanthus cakes, and washed clothes by the river in the original owner's memories. Those scenes were so vivid, as if he had experienced them himself.

"Shen Lian." Fang Xuejian's voice brought him back to reality.

"Um?"

Fang Xuejian asked, "You said—if someone inherits another person's memories, shouldn't they also inherit that person's feelings?"

"I can't answer your question," Shen Lian began. "I'm not a psychology major."

"But I think—" Fang Xuejian paused for a moment, "When it comes to feelings, if you can't figure it out, then don't. If you're good to her and she's good to you, that's enough. Who cares whose memories they are?"

The image of Liu Rushi appeared in Shen Lian's mind. Not the face from the original owner's memories, but the face he had seen with his own eyes—standing in the courtyard of the resettlement site, sunlight shining on her face, her head down, her fingers twisting a handkerchief, her eyes red-rimmed, and her lips trembling slightly.

"Shen Lian." Fang Xuejian's voice came from the corner, sleepy and indistinct.

"Um."

"Tell me, why did we time travel?"

Shen Lian was stunned for a moment. Fang Xuejian was different today.

"I've thought about it for a long time," Fang Xuejian's voice trailed off, as if he were talking in his sleep, "I can't figure it out. In my past life, I was a researcher, I didn't steal, rob, or harm anyone. And you? You were a scholar too. How did we end up here?"

"You mean, if you're going to time travel, why can't you time travel to the Ming Dynasty and become a prince? I know that script."

Yes, he could also write a script about wealth and honor, but who would have thought that he would end up in prison and be executed as soon as he transmigrated?

He was a death row inmate who had been involved with the White Lotus sect.

Shen Lian heard Fang Xuejian's breathing gradually become even and long.

"I don't know," Shen Lian replied softly.

Fang Xuejian did not respond. He had fallen asleep.

Shen Lian stared ahead in the darkness. He couldn't see anything. He remembered Fang Xuejian's words—"What's the use of thinking about this? There's no going back."

Yes. There's no going back.

He didn't know why he had transmigrated here. He didn't know if it was by chance or fate.

He didn't want to die. He was also afraid of dying.

Once you're dead, you can't do anything.

He recalled the little figure Professor Lin had drawn in the margin of the book, with a large head and a small body, and the note next to it read, "This part is questionable and needs further investigation."

He now has doubts as well.

He was going to find the answers to the questions that needed to be answered.

Two more days.