Sword of the Dynasty

To live in the world is easy; to survive is also easy. But to truly live—that is not so simple.

If life were really just a series of vessels, then all the props that make up a person’s existence would be: the milk bottle of childhood, the cola bottle of youth, the wine bottle after entering the workforce, the teacup at the height of one’s career, and finally, the IV bottle of old age.

Zhang He had just started working, but before he’d even had a proper encounter with the wine bottle, his time in the workforce seemed about to end.

His name, Zhang He, was just passable—not brash or imposing, but at least it carried a sense of vitality. "Zhang" was the third most common surname in the country, and "He" suggested renown. Yet Zhang He was by no means a prominent figure; in fact, he was just as obscure as many fresh graduates, stepping out of the university gates only to find himself utterly lost in the face of society and the future. All these feelings of confusion merged into the chaotic tide of job-seekers, like herding ducks onto a perch. Zhang He drifted along, ending up in this bustling city in the west, landing a job at a health product company and half-heartedly beginning a career in sales.

It was called a health product company, but everyone knew what that really meant these days. Turn on the TV, and any small channel could spend half an hour of advertising turning straw into gold:

“Kidney Silver Velvet Antler Syrup—restore your delicate complexion in thirty days, lose ten kilos in fifty, feel ten years younger in nine