Chapter 21
Fang Zichen came out of the Ma family's courtyard and noticed a few people loitering outside.
The earlier commotion had been quite loud, and the Ma family didn’t live in a secluded area—it was likely many people had heard it.
He even saw a man still holding a plate of rice, clearly having rushed over from the dinner table.
The man was clearly eager for gossip.
"Fang boy," someone greeted him.
Fang Zichen smiled faintly, nodding politely, once again the refined and scholarly man he usually appeared to be.
It was true that he was skilled at fighting, but in a way, he maintained his surface demeanor quite well.
Though Fang Zichen had lived in Xiaohe Village for nearly a month, he spent most of his days running to town, so he wasn’t particularly familiar with the aunties and uncles in the village. After exchanging greetings, they didn’t know what else to say. Fang Zichen excused himself, saying he was going home for dinner, and left.
"That boy is amazing!" a man remarked, watching his retreating back with admiration.
Once the person in question was gone, the group began gossiping.
"He really is. I was peeking over the wall earlier—damn, with one swing of his stick, the Ma family’s table split in two!"
"How much strength does that take?! If I recall correctly, that table was bought from Lao Feng’s place. The wood they use is tough!"
"Why did Fang boy cause trouble at the Ma family’s today?" someone less informed asked.
"You haven’t heard? According to Wang Damei, that family went back on their word and wanted to take Zhao Ger back to work like an ox for them!"
"Tch. A bunch of dirt-poor peasants, yet they act like the wealthy masters in town, expecting others to serve them. As if they’ve got the fortune for it." The speaker’s tone was sour—clearly not out of sympathy for Zhao Ger, but envy.
Fang Zichen caught a bit of the chatter from afar, curled his lip, and headed home.
Zhao Ger sat at the entrance of their yard, constantly peering down the road.
Guaizai lay on his lap, playing with his own fingers.
It was already dark, and with no sign of Fang Zichen’s return, Zhao Ger had gone to wait by the gate. If not for Fang Zichen scolding him last time and spotting Liu Laizi and his gang lurking around, he might have already run to the village entrance to wait.
"Father—!" Guaizai suddenly called out, scrambling off Zhao Ger’s lap and dashing forward with his arms outstretched.
Zhao Ger stood up just as Fang Zichen’s tall figure appeared at the gate.
"Whoa, you little rascal." Fang Zichen didn’t bother holding him properly, instead slinging him under his arm like a sack.
Guaizai looked up at him excitedly. "Father not home. Wait for Father."
The noodles had already been rolled out, waiting to be cooked upon his return.
Zhao Ger stoked the fire in the stove, and soon the kitchen brightened.
Once the noodles were ready, Fang Zichen handed him the deed of sale.
Zhao Ger wiped his hands and took it but didn’t open it. He looked at Fang Zichen, puzzled.
Fang Zichen smiled and motioned for him to look himself.
The paper was slightly yellowed, neatly folded, but clearly old—the edges nibbled by insects.
As if suddenly realizing something, Zhao Ger’s hands began to tremble.
"What… is this?"
Fang Zichen watched him. "Your deed of sale."
The moment the words left his mouth, Zhao Ger froze. Then his eyes reddened. He stood motionless, gripping the deed so tightly his fingertips turned white.
Fang Zichen had never experienced anything like this, yet when he saw Zhao Ger’s tears, he inexplicably understood the feeling.
Hatred and helplessness.
This sheet of paper seemed light, easily torn, yet it was like a thousand-pound chain around the neck, trapping Zhao Ger in the Ma family’s grasp.
He couldn’t escape—no matter where he fled, as long as this chain existed, he would never be free.
Every hardship he had suffered over the years was because of it.
How could he not hate it?
"Zhao Ger?" Fang Zichen called softly, tilting his chin toward Guaizai.
Guaizai stood by the table, his chin barely reaching the edge. From the opposite side, only his little head was visible.
The table had been bought cheaply from the village carpenter—a defective piece.
After bringing it home, Zhao Ger realized it was too tall for Guaizai. The boy was small for his age and had to stand to eat every meal.
Fang Zichen had once joked that eating standing up could stretch the intestines, allowing him to eat more.
Guaizai’s eyes welled up with tears. He clutched his chopsticks but didn’t eat, gazing pitifully at Zhao Ger with a pout, on the verge of crying.
"Don’t cry. If you cry, Guaizai will cry too," Fang Zichen said.
Zhao Ger took a deep breath, wiped his face, and waited for the heat in his eyes to fade before sitting beside Guaizai. He cupped the boy’s face, kissed the top of his head, and said softly, "It’s okay, Daddy’s fine. The noodles will get soggy, eat up."
Guaizai nuzzled into his palm and said in a small voice, "Daddy eat too." Then he turned to Fang Zichen, who was still standing by the stove, and trotted over to tug at him. "Father eat too~"
Zhao Ger thought the deed, bought by Fang Zichen for three taels of silver, should rightfully belong to him. But when he handed it over that night, Fang Zichen refused.
"You keep it. Once I’ve saved enough, we’ll go to the magistrate’s office to register your household and documents. We’ll destroy it then."
This wretched thing was better off gone.
Zhao Ger didn’t speak for a long time before finally whispering, "Okay."
The docks had been busy lately, rushing to unload cargo. The noon break was cut to an hour, and the foreman announced that anyone willing to work through it would earn two packs per copper coin.
The temptation was strong.
Where there’s reward, there’s effort—nearly everyone chose to work through, except Fang Zichen, the "delicate" one.
Noon was unbearably hot. Fang Zichen was tempted but decided his life was more important.
For a rich second-generation like him to lower his head and earn money through hard labor was already remarkable progress. As long as he stayed alive, money would come eventually.
After lunch, he went to chat with the foreman’s cousin as usual.
Half the afternoon passed before he learned why the foreman was in such a hurry—an official ship was coming.
The docks weren’t large, and merchant ships had to make way for official ones.
This ship wasn’t carrying government goods but wounded soldiers returning from the border.
Twenty years ago, such a policy didn’t exist.
Back then, if a soldier was disabled in battle, they’d receive discharge papers. Those who hadn’t completed their service could pay a fee and return on their own.
With poor transportation, many disabled soldiers who survived the battlefield died on the journey home.
Now, the emperor, in his benevolence, decreed that border officials must properly arrange for the return of disabled soldiers. Local officials, upon receiving the order, decided to have them escorted back by official ships—water travel was faster.
"This war has lasted six years. Who knows when it’ll end," the cousin sighed, shaking his head. "A man from my village came back from the border. When he first returned, he was so thin I barely recognized him."
"He lost a leg," the cousin gestured at his knee. "Cut off right here by a barbarian’s blade, clean through."
"But he was lucky to survive. Twenty men from our village went, and only he returned."
Fang Zichen said nothing.
This was normal.
When the border needed soldiers, conscription swept up the poor who couldn’t pay their way out.
Most were simple farmers, unfamiliar with weapons. Thrown onto the battlefield with little training, they froze at the sight of enemy blades and charging horses.
They were nothing more than cannon fodder, easy prey for the enemy.
No wonder so many died.
Fang Zichen grew up in peaceful times. He’d never seen bloodshed, and though he was bold and good in a fight, he couldn’t imagine standing on a battlefield, smoke and dust swirling, facing enemy blades and hooves. Would he fare any better?
Probably not.
Fistfights were child’s play.
But chopping off heads or being chopped, that was a matter of life and death.
He’d probably freeze too.
"I heard," the cousin glanced around, lowering his voice, "they might conscript again next year."
Fang Zichen’s eyelid twitched. "Impossible. Didn’t they just draft this year?"
"Not sure," the cousin said gravely. "The boss was here last time, having tea, and let it slip. I only caught a bit."
Fang Zichen set his bowl down, his throat dry. "Is this reliable?"
Conscription every year? Is the emperor trying to incite rebellion?
"Should be," the cousin said. "The boss has connections in the capital. They’ve heard the court is considering it. We’re too far from the capital to get news quickly. Just giving you a heads-up, don’t spread this."
Fang Zichen nodded. "I won’t."
The rest of the afternoon, Fang Zichen was distracted. A few coworkers who usually chatted with him noticed his listlessness and asked what was wrong.
Fang Zichen shook his head. "Probably heatstroke. Feeling a bit tired."
"Then carry one less bag!" one of them said. "You’re something else! Lasting almost a month before complaining. Buy something good to eat later, build up your strength."
Fang Zichen’s eyes lit up.
After work, he did just that.
Most stalls had already packed up, but a butcher’s shop was still open, with two palm-sized pieces of pork head meat on the counter.
The butcher called out, "Young man, want some? Eight coppers a catty for you."
Pork wasn’t cheap, the better cuts went for ten to twelve coppers a catty. Head meat was cheaper, usually nine coppers.
Fang Zichen felt his purse. "I’ll take it for six."
The butcher hesitated. "Taking it all?"
"Yep."
"Fine, six coppers a catty then."
It wouldn’t stay fresh till tomorrow anyway.
Looking at the meat, Fang Zichen grinned, his mood lifting.
No comments:
Post a Comment