Chapter 2: Ger
Fang Zichen stayed at the village chief’s house for one night, but the next day, he wanted to move out.
He really couldn’t stay any longer.
When he arrived in the village last night, he had already noticed that this village was generally poor. Most of the houses were built with mud and thatch. The village chief’s home was slightly better, but…
Only six rooms for over a dozen adults, it was unbelievably cramped.
He had shared a room with He Xi last night. The room was small and narrow, and its location wasn’t great either, being somewhat close to the pigpen. These past few days, the village chief’s family had been busy searching for someone, so the pigpen probably hadn’t been cleaned. The smell was truly intoxicating.
He barely slept in the first half of the night. In the latter half, he dozed off briefly out of exhaustion, but even that short moment gave him the illusion… that he was sleeping right inside the pigpen, sharing a bed with the pigs.
Horrifying.
Early the next morning, Fang Zichen tactfully expressed to the village chief that he had no money to return home and wanted to stay in the village for a few days, just not at his place.
Is that possible?
Of course, it's possible.
After breakfast, the village chief and a few of his sons led Fang Zichen to a house, saying he could stay there.
Then Fang Zichen was stunned.
The house had four rooms - one on the left, one in the middle, and two on the right, arranged in a U-shape with a large courtyard. It was spacious enough.
But…
Is this even livable?!
Fang Zichen wanted to stomp his feet, curse, and seriously ask the village chief and his family:
"Did you not see the crack in the wall as wide as a bowl? Did you not notice that more than half of the thatched roof has been blown away?"
And… the wall is tilted at nearly a 50-degree angle!
This has to be a Grade-10 condemned building!
[Grade Dangerous House in China refers to a government-classified system ranking buildings by structural risk. A Grade-10 rating signifies the highest danger level, meaning the structure is at imminent risk of collapse and must be demolished immediately]
"Do you hate me? Is that why you’re making me live in this kind of place?"
He Xi, feeling familiar with him after sharing a bed, took the initiative to explain: "This is our ancestral home, built during my great-grandfather’s time. Later, the family grew too big, so we moved out. This house hasn’t been lived in for years, but us brothers will help you fix it up, and then it’ll be fine."
Fang Zichen’s face turned slightly green. "Won’t it collapse?"
"No," He Xi said confidently. "That wall looks like it’s about to fall, but it’s actually sturdy! It’s been like that since I was a kid, and it still hasn’t toppled. If you don’t believe me, go push it and see."
Fang Zichen actually did. He gave the wall a couple of kicks. Some dust fell, but the wall didn’t budge—truly ugly but sturdy.
He Xi and his brothers rolled up their sleeves and helped repair the damaged roof. When they ran out of thatch, they went into the mountains to cut more. The weeds in the yard were cleared by a few women who came by later to deliver supplies.
In these times, everyone was poor. Even a three-legged stool had been taken when the village chief moved out.
The house was so empty it didn’t even have a ghost in it.
The village chief’s family set up a bed for him, gave him a small pot, half a jar of oil, a pinch of salt, and a few pounds of "rice."
Whether it was actually rice was debatable. Last night at the village chief’s house, he had eaten this stuff, and the taste was absolutely lethal. Swallowing it felt like swallowing poison. Half a bowl in, Fang Zichen felt like his throat had been scraped raw. It was disgustingly bad.
The village chief’s family, young and old, all ate this. The village chief’s wife even told him it was called coarse rice (糙米).
Most people in the village ate this. Only those with slightly better conditions could afford white rice during festivals.
Fang Zichen: "..."
What kind of place have I ended up in where white rice was a luxury?!
Grandpa Yuan Longping, please come save them!!!
[Yuan Longping (1930–2021): a renowned Chinese agronomist known as the "Father of Hybrid Rice" for developing high-yield strains that significantly improved food security in China and beyond]
The village chief’s family bustled in and out, and Fang Zichen felt too awkward to just stand around, so he helped them all afternoon. Though, if he were honest, he didn’t actually do much. He didn’t know how to fix a house, so he just handed things over, swept here and there with a broom, and somehow still ended up covered in dirt and sweat without actually cleaning anything properly.
There was a water vat in the kitchen, made of some ridiculously heavy material. When Fang Zichen tried to move it while cleaning, it didn’t budge.
Probably too heavy to carry and not valuable enough, so the village chief had abandoned it.
The vat was bone-dry. After seeing the village chief’s family off, he headed to the river.
The sun hung low in the west. He glanced up and estimated it was around 5 PM.
The broken pot at home was still cold.
This was usually dinnertime, so there shouldn’t have been many people outside, but the riverbank was lively—because Zhao Ger had fallen into the water.
Zhao Ger had slipped into the river while washing clothes.
Summer rains made the current strong, and before the women and ger could react, he had already been swept far away.
Someone screamed: "Zhao Ger fell in! Go call for help!"
Someone panicked: "What do we do?!"
"Does anyone know how to swim? Save him!"
The riverbank was full of women and gers washing clothes or vegetables, few knew how to swim.
A few ran off shouting: "Help! Help! Zhao Ger fell in! Someone, come quick!"
From a distance, Fang Zichen saw a crowd gathered by the river, looking frantic. When he heard the shouts, his body moved before his brain could think, and he sprinted over.
Zhao Ger was struggling desperately in the water, already choking on mouthfuls. His chest ached from the pressure, and though he heard people shouting on the shore, no one came to save him.
Zhao Ger couldn’t swim. He flailed helplessly, but his limbs were losing strength. The despair and agony of death crept in.
By the time Fang Zichen reached the riverbank, the person in the water had already lost consciousness and was sinking.
This is bad.
Someone is going to die.
Fang Zichen kicked off his shoes and, without hesitation, dove into the river. The current was fierce. By the time he dragged Zhao Ger back to shore, he was exhausted.
"…Someone, help!" he called out.
But the crowd didn’t move. Some even covered their eyes and turned away, refusing to look at them.
Fang Zichen’s eyelid twitched. Gasping for breath, he carried Zhao Ger ashore himself.
He was wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt—thin and soft, something he usually slept in. Now soaked, it clung to his body, revealing his well-defined physique.
An eighteen-year-old boy, seemingly slender at a glance, was unexpectedly toned beneath his clothes.
His abs were lean but firm, not exaggerated but undeniably powerful.
To onlookers, the way he held Zhao Ger, disheveled and half-dressed, seemed shamelessly intimate.
"Who is he?" someone whispered, covering their eyes.
"No idea. Never seen him in the village before."
"Goodness, where did this person come from? How indecent!"
"I think he’s the one who brought Lao He’s sixth uncle back yesterday. I caught a glimpse from my door, short hair, looked strange. Must be him."
Amid the gossip, someone suddenly shrieked:
"What are you doing?!"
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