There was no sound, no light, no sensation of movement, only a silent, rushing void that stretched for both an eternity and a fleeting instant. It was a dislocation, a stripping away of self until nothing remained. The universe collapsed into a point of nothing, and when it exploded back into existence, I was sitting in the wrong millennium.

  It began with noise. Not a single sound, but a deafening wall of it, a thousand new auditory threads weaving an unfamiliar tapestry of chaos. I heard the deep, percussive rumble of wooden wheels on stone, the sharp, melodic cries of vendors hawking wares I could not see, the indignant braying of a donkey, and underpinning it all, the constant, flowing murmur of a thousand conversations. They spoke a language that danced on the edge of my memory and an unusual feeling of euphoria swept over me as I felt the words click, going from unknown to understanding.

  Next came the smell, so thick and complex I could almost taste it. It was a stew of existence itself. Fragrant spices hung heavy in the air, mingling with the savory promise of roasting meat. The cloying sweetness of lotus blossoms from a hidden garden fought against the sharp, ammoniac stench of raw sewage and the tang of unwashed bodies. Above it all drifted the pleasant, nostalgic scent of woodsmoke. It was the smell of life, vibrant and raw, unfiltered and overwhelming.

  I forced my eyes open.

  Cool, plastered earth pressed against my back. I was sitting, propped against the wall of a building in what looked like an alley. My own clothes, the familiar denim and cotton of my world, were gone. In their place, I wore the past. A simple, short robe of coarse but clean beige linen was tied at my waist with a sash of folded cloth. The word for it came to me; a duǎn hè, the humble garment of a commoner. My trousers were of a similar, sturdy make, tucked neatly into soft-soled, dark cloth boots that felt surprisingly supple on my feet.

  My hand went instinctively to my waist, finding a small cloth pouch tied to the sash. A furtive touch produced the distinct, metallic jingle of coins. I felt their shape through the fabric: round, with a square hole punched through the center, etched on them were the familiar symbols for Kaiyuan Tongbao, Tang dynasty money.

  No wallet, no phone, no keys. No weapon. No memory of how I came to be here. I was a ghost, a man with no history in this world, yet my body was undeniably my own.

  I pushed myself to my feet, my joints protesting as I rose. At about 180 centimeters, I was accustomed to being only slightly above average for my country, but here, I was comfortably on the taller side. The men flowing past the alley's mouth were shorter, with wiry, corded frames built for labor or the softer physiques of merchants who prospered from it. My own athletic build, the product of years of swimming and martial arts, felt conspicuous. In this new context, I was an imposing figure, and I wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a curse.

  I took a hesitant step out of the alley's relative shadow and onto the main thoroughfare. It was less a street and more a grand plaza, a river of people flowing between towering structures. The road was wide, perhaps a hundred paces across, paved with massive stone slabs worn smooth by centuries of traffic. On either side, buildings of two stories stood with elegant, upturned eaves, their windows covered in intricate wooden latticework. Long banners of silk and hemp, painted with characters that my mind effortlessly translated, flapped in the gentle breeze, advertising everything from shimmering silks and fragrant teas to sturdy pottery and exotic furs.

  The sheer diversity of the crowd was staggering. Most appeared Han Chinese, men and women in various styles of robes and tunics, their status declared by the fabric they wore. But mingling among them were faces from a different world, a world I had only read about. I saw turbaned men with sharp features, large noses, and thick, dark beards; they had to be Sogdians, the merchant princes of the Silk Road. I saw men with skin as dark as polished teak, their clothes vibrant, speaking in lilting tones. Koreans in their distinct, immaculate white robes moved with a quiet dignity, while fierce-looking Turkic warriors, their hair in long braids and their bodies clad in hardened leather, strode through the crowd with an air of contained violence.

  My knowledge of history, one of many hobbies from my old life, provided an anchor in this swirling sea of impossibility. The scale, the international flavor, the sheer wealth and chaos… this could only be one place. Chang'an. The Great Peace. And if this was Chang'an, this maelstrom of trade and foreign faces meant I was standing in the West Market, the heart of the Tang Empire and the grandest, most cosmopolitan metropolis on Earth.

  The realization didn't bring the thrill of a historian seeing his dream made real. It brought a cold, sickening dread. I understood with a start what I'd been thrust into: ChuanYue. Transmigration. A concept I'd only ever encountered in web novels and TV dramas, a fiction I'd consumed for entertainment, was now my reality. There was no friendly system interface, no welcoming golden light, just the raw, filthy, and undeniable truth of it. This was real. I was here, alone.

  But then it was my sense of smell that saved me. The savory, tantalizing promise of roasting meat, rich with cumin and spice, cut through my spiraling thoughts. It was followed by the honest, wonderful smell of baking bread.

  My stomach gave an insistent growl, a primal command that momentarily silenced my sense of loss. I was hungry, thirsty, and terrifyingly alone.

  Looking up, there was a sky of hazy blue, its clarity obscured by the smoke of countless cooking fires and artisans' workshops. In the distance, the tiered silhouette of a massive pagoda pierced the haze. The grid-like layout I could discern spoke of imperial planning and absolute order, but the life teeming within that grid was anything but. It was organic, chaotic, and utterly alive.

  Just ahead, a portly merchant, his belly straining the fine, emerald green silk of his robe, laughed a booming, self-satisfied laugh as his barefoot servants, their backs bent under the strain, loaded bolts of brilliant brocade onto a waiting cart. Not ten feet from his prosperity, a gaunt beggar in rags that barely held together was brutally kicked aside by a city guard. The beggar's face was filled with hollow-eyed desperation, and he crumpled into the dust without a sound. The guard, clad in leather armor and a helmet, gave the wretch a look of disgust before his eyes continued their sweep of the crowd.

  His gaze swept past the merchants, the women, the foreigners, and then it landed on me. He took in my height, my build, my unnatural stillness in the heart of the chaos. His hand, as if by instinct, came to rest on the hilt of the long, single-edged blade at his hip, a straight dāo. A long moment passed between us, an unspoken assessment. Perhaps he saw something that didn't fit. Then, dismissing me as not worth the effort, he moved on, swallowed by the river of people.

  My stomach gave another insistent growl.

  Stretching my arms towards the hazy sky, I felt a few more joints pop in protest. The simple act caused a subtle ripple in my immediate vicinity. A porter, hauling a heavy sack of grain, stumbled slightly as he passed. A pair of young women, their faces painted with the fashionable crimson dots of the era and their hair in elaborate coils, whispered to one another behind their fine silk sleeves. Their glances were a fleeting mixture of curiosity and apprehension. I was a stone dropped into a pond, and the ripples were already spreading.

  Stepping fully into the thoroughfare was like wading into a current. The density of bodies forced me to move with the flow, a piece of driftwood in a human river. The wall of smells I'd noticed earlier returned with renewed force. The pungent, salty aroma of fermented bean paste from one food stall warred with the sweet, cloying perfume of incense from a nearby temple supplier and the acrid tang of a metalsmith's forge.

  My eyes, now more accustomed to the light, began a desperate search. I scanned the endless rows of stalls for something simple, something cheap. I saw vendors selling glistening, honey-glazed pastries stacked in delicate pyramids. I saw whole ducks roasting over charcoal, their skin a perfect, crisp mahogany that made my mouth water. Tables were laden with exotic fruits, some I recognized. All of it was impossibly tempting and far beyond the means of the few dozen coins I could feel in my pouch.

  Then, I found what I was looking for. Tucked between a seller of cheap ceramics and a fortune teller's tent was a small, unassuming stall. It was run by an old man with a face like a weathered map, his skin a latticework of deep wrinkles. His long, thin grey beard and a prominent, high-bridged nose marked him as one of the Sogdians I had seen earlier. He was tending a large, cylindrical clay oven, its top open to the air. With practiced, efficient movements, he slapped flattened discs of dough onto its searing hot interior walls. The air around his small operation was filled with the smell of bread, toasted sesame, and cumin.

  He was selling húbǐng. I knew it from short videos on ancient foods. A staple food, brought from the western regions and adopted by all classes in Chang'an for its simplicity and flavor. It looked filling. It looked cheap.

  I navigated the churning crowd and approached his stall. The old man glanced up from his oven, his dark eyes sharp and appraising. In a single, sweeping glance, he took in my height, my build, and my simple clothes. It was the practiced gaze of a man who had spent a lifetime in this market, reading people in an instant.

  “One of those,” I said, my voice sounding rough to my own ears. I pointed to a stack of freshly baked flatbreads resting on a clean cloth. They were round, about the size of a dinner plate, and generously sprinkled with toasted sesame seeds.

  The old man grunted, his voice a low rumble from deep in his chest. “Two copper coins.” Two wén.

  I reached into my money pouch and pulled out the coins. They were loose, not threaded onto a string and I awkwardly picked out two of the small, bronze discs and placed them on his worn wooden counter.

  He scooped them up with nimble fingers, his eyes never leaving my face. With his other hand, he picked up one of the breads and handed it to me. It was still wonderfully warm, the heat seeping pleasantly into my chilled hands. As I took it, he spoke again, his tone not unfriendly, but laced with a shrewd, professional curiosity.

  “Big fellow like you should be with a caravan or in the City Guard.” He paused, wiping his hands on his apron. “You're not from around here, are you?”

  He didn't wait for an answer, turning back to slap another piece of dough into his roaring oven. The question hung in the air between us, unanswered. It was a simple observation, but in a city I knew to be rife with spies, informants, and a strict household registration system, it was also a dangerous question to be asked.

  I took a bite of the bread. Perhaps because I was hungry, but it was magnificent. The crust was crisp and slightly charred, the inside was soft and wonderfully chewy, and the toasted sesame seeds burst with a rich, nutty flavor. It was the most real thing I had experienced since my arrival.

  I already knew where I was. Now I needed when. I chewed as my eyes scanned the grand thoroughfare, past the colorful banners for silk and tea, and locked onto a large, wooden placard set against the wall of a government building. It was covered in stark, black characters, an official proclamation.

  I squinted at the text. The characters didn’t need any sort of translation, to any modern reader of Chinese like myself they were formal, precise and fully legible.

  “By Imperial Decree, in the Thirteenth Year of the Tianbao Era, new grain levies are authorized for the support of the Youzhou and Fanyang garrisons…”

  I almost choked on my bread.

  I was standing in the capital of the Tang Dynasty at its absolute zenith, just one year before An Lushan would rebel and tear the entire empire apart.

  A primal feeling began to creep up my spine. The unmistakable sensation of being watched.

  My gaze swept casually across the area. The old Sogdian was busy with his oven. The river of humanity flowed on, oblivious. Then I noticed two men, loitering near the stall selling cheap pottery a few yards away. They were dressed in rough, stained tunics, their posture a study in indolent menace. They had the sullen expressions and swagger of local thugs who preyed on the weak. They weren't looking at the pottery.

  For a moment I hoped they wouldn’t notice me. But a tall man gawking like a tourist was surely hard to miss. I tried not to look their way and avoided making eye contact, but I couldn't resist another glance their way.

  It felt better to know if they were considering mugging me.

  They were looking at me. Their eyes weren't filled with curiosity or awe, but with a flat, predatory appraisal. Their gaze lingered on my sturdy frame, then flicked down to the small money pouch still tied to my belt. They had seen me pay. They had noted my awkwardness, my solitude, my otherness. To them, an outsider wasn't a novelty. An outsider was prey.