Communication is not confined to language alone.

When the room was finally left with only himself, Wu Qingchen let out a long breath, slowly walked to the bedside, slowly lay back, and gently closed his eyes.

He had thought that after such a bizarre day, sleep would elude him; his mind would toss and turn, unable to rest. Yet, after lying down for only a short while, though his thoughts churned in confusion, a deep exhaustion swiftly claimed him.

He had no idea how much time passed before a dazzling light began to seep through his tightly closed eyelids. Enormous clouds appeared all around him.

It’s happening again!

No sooner had this thought crossed his mind than he was pulled to the edge of a deep blue vortex, surrounded by shifting, magnificent colors. Ahead, an ever-growing, blinding white light loomed.

Perhaps a second, perhaps two—whatever the measure, the white light enveloped him completely, then vanished as quickly as it had come.

Blue skies, layered white clouds. When awareness returned, Wu Qingchen’s feet were planted firmly on grass-covered earth. The air carried the fresh scent of soil and plants, and a gentle breeze brushed his skin.

At his feet lay a branch, clearly just disturbed, and a small stone that had just been nudged.

It has begun.

He was not distracted by extraneous thoughts. Realizing he had once again entered the medieval world, Wu Qingchen’s first thought was simply, “It has begun.”

This was thanks to the emergency training: for the crucial first half hour upon entering the medieval world, dozens of computers, dozens of projection screens, and scores of military personnel had been dedicated to explaining the detailed action plan to him.

Closing his eyes, Wu Qingchen reviewed it all, step by step.

First, protect yourself.

He took a deep breath, surveyed his surroundings, and took his first step.

For this inaugural journey into the medieval world, Wu Qingchen had practiced his gait dozens of times in the cafeteria the night before—how to walk carefully, for the weeds and shrubs on either side were quite tall.

His walking posture was peculiar: hands tucked inside sleeves to avoid scratches, left elbow raised to push aside branches, eyes scanning the ground, legs moving in a slow, alternating outward sweep.

To put it more vividly: if Wu Qingchen were shown on screen, equipped with a metal detector, the audience would immediately recognize it as a scene from a jungle mine-clearing operation.

His destination was an old tree. Wu Qingchen was intimately familiar with this “old friend”—perhaps the most knowledgeable person about it in the entire medieval world.

Naturally so: no native of the medieval world had ever been surrounded by a dozen giant projection screens, seeing this tree from every angle—its height, girth, forks, canopy. Nor had anyone analyzed its roots, weight, sunlight, growth, and health with the aid of two supercomputers.

The bark bore striations, smooth at the base, fissured higher up. Broad, alternate, papery leaves, deep green, without any irritating scent.

After repeatedly confirming the safety features emphasized by the arborists, Wu Qingchen was sure this was his first target.

The “target,” in this case, meant that his approach wasn’t about environmental concern; he snapped off a branch and deftly plucked several leaves.

The leaves were thick, broad, without sharp edges, rich in fiber...

Of course, all this knowledge had been hastily imparted to him by the tree experts.

Quickly, Wu Qingchen gathered enough leaves and moved on to the shrub experts’ advice: he found several clusters of shrubs nearby and broke off flexible branches.

Next came knowledge from the vine specialists: he collected a small bundle of tough, thornless vines growing on the shrub stems.

Finally, the craft expert’s skills: with these materials, using techniques he had practiced many times, Wu Qingchen swiftly wove a pair of gloves—soft branches for structure, leaves for covering, vines for binding.

Market price: eight yuan...

Indeed, the gloves looked rather ugly; the rotating team of experts had not intended for Wu Qingchen to sell them online.

A few hundred meters away, the other two men of the medieval world were still working. Wu Qingchen couldn’t simply stand by and watch—language barriers, unclear circumstances, abstaining from labor would only complicate matters.

Moreover, he would soon have to enter a thicket of crops, whose tightly packed leaves were razor-sharp, making it imperative to protect his hands.

And his feet—he spent a little more time wrapping his wooden-shod feet with another eight-yuan layer.

Once equipped with gloves and foot coverings, Wu Qingchen peeled a small patch of bark from the tree, found a smooth, round stone nearby, selected two or three more vines from the leftover materials, drew a deep breath, resumed his cautious mine-clearing posture, and returned to the edge of the crop thicket.

He parted two encroaching crop leaves, crouched carefully, and found a hand rake lying quietly on the grass. Its handle was smooth, the digging end cracked in several places, the whole tool rather aged.

It had been a long time.

Wu Qingchen felt a surge of emotion. The last time he held this rake, he had been comfortably at home. Now, thousands of miles away, surrounded by thousands of soldiers, his future no longer his own.

Thinking these thoughts, his hands expertly tied several knots, binding the bark securely to the rake with vines, subtly shifting its balance—a personal improvement, his first tool modification upon entering the medieval world, and indeed, in his life.

Standing up, he adjusted his sleeves, tightened his robe, straightened his skirt, and carefully arranged his clothing to better suit his work.

Safety preparations: gloves, foot coverings.

Preparation: tool improvement, clothing adjustment.

Once more, he recalled the experts’ bold, black-lettered action summary. Wu Qingchen mentally checked off the last item—everything was ready for the next step.

He stepped into the crop thicket, arriving at the exact spot where he had first appeared in his midday dream.

“Los, Vos, Etos, de, Retov?”

From a distance, an unfamiliar older man tossed a short phrase in his direction.

This time, Wu Qingchen was no longer baffled by the strange syllables. The half-hour emergency language training kicked in: linguists, cryptographers, sociologists, and various other experts’ explanations flooded his mind.

Los was his name.

He had just returned to the crops; the older man’s expression was clearly concerned.

The final four syllables likely meant, “You’re back?” or “Are you alright?”

Moreover, the phrase “Are you alright?” had been uttered by this man during Wu Qingchen’s first and second visits to the medieval world, and had already been deciphered by the experts—its pronunciation in those instances differed significantly, so it could be ruled out.

Thus, the most probable meaning of the older man’s phrase was: “Los, you’re back?”

These thoughts flashed through Wu Qingchen’s mind; within three to five seconds after the man spoke, he had deduced its approximate meaning.

He also chose the pre-planned response.

“Ye.”

He uttered a simple monosyllable.

During his first strange dream, this monosyllable appeared five times in exchanges between the older and younger men. The experts had already determined its meaning: yes, it is, that’s right.

As he spoke, Wu Qingchen deliberately rasped his voice, wore a practiced look of slight strain, pressed his right hand to his throat, and suppressed several coughs.

A symptom of lost voice.

During the night’s training, the soldiers who interacted with him most—Wu Qingchen didn’t know much about military organization, but guessed they were staff officers—had concluded: direct conversation with natives would be extremely difficult and unrealistic, but avoiding all language interaction would be unwise, leading to unnecessary trouble or conflict.

The final solution: don’t feign deafness, but simulate partial muteness, pretending to have a mild loss of voice.

This had clear advantages: if Wu Qingchen was confident in his medieval language skills, he could communicate directly in simple terms; if the phrases were vague or complex, his “lost voice” would justify responding with ambiguous, simple sounds.

Moreover, there were many causes for voice loss—inflammation, vocal cord calluses, polyps, misuse, irritants, congestion, swelling, and so on—all common in the medieval world. The older man’s voice was raspy, and he often coughed.

Thus, the staff officers believed that feigning voice loss would not seem unnatural or require explanation; the older man and Wu Qingchen’s other relatives would seek their own reasons and wouldn’t be overly alarmed.

Indeed, seeing Wu Qingchen clutch his throat and cough, the older man did the same, spoke another, slightly more complex sentence—Wu Qingchen caught the first half as another inquiry about his wellbeing, the second half likely relating to his lost voice.

Wu Qingchen coughed forcefully twice, then replied vaguely. The older man shook his head, waved emphatically, raised his voice for a final sentence, then returned to his work.

“Don’t talk, get to work.”

This phrase had also appeared in the conversations between the two men during Wu Qingchen’s first and second dreams. He understood it clearly, bowed his head, and a silent smile appeared.

---

Because the time ratio between the two worlds was thirty to one, events in the medieval world had to be fully recorded and then replayed at thirty times slower speed for clarity in the real world.

In the real world, ten seconds later.

Almost simultaneously—at the Pentagon in the United States, the Kremlin in Russia, and a secret location in country Z.

“YES!” “Ura!” “Excellent!”

In three vast operations rooms, waves of jubilant cheers erupted.

Success. The strategy worked.

From start to finish, Wu Qingchen had hardly spoken a word, offered no explanation, simply responded vaguely twice, accompanied by carefully designed gestures and actions collaboratively crafted by officers from several nations, successfully prompting the older man to find a reason for Wu Qingchen to avoid any complicated conversation for at least two or three days.

Earth stands as his support, and communication transcends language.