With the racket Fang Zichen’d been making, even a board as thick as a skull probably wouldn’t have held up.
Though the bones had been cleaned, the broth still had a thin layer of oil. Fang Zichen personally supervised Guaizai as he drank a small bowl, then patted his head in satisfaction. “Son, if you work hard, six feet tall isn’t just a dream.”
“Mhm!” The broth was delicious, not greasy at all. Guaizai had never eaten anything fancy and wasn’t picky—as long as it was edible, he was happy. Puffing out his chest, he declared, “Guaizai grow big big, taller than tiger-slaying hero!”
Fang Zichen laughed. “That might be overdoing it.” Too tall would be scary.
Zhao Ger asked, “Last time you said you get three days off a month. You’ve taken two already. When are you taking the last one?”
There were only a few days left in the month. Fang Zichen said, “The day after tomorrow. Why?”
Zhao Ger nibbled the tip of his chopstick, thumb rubbing the rim of his bowl. Softly, he said, “Last time you said you’d go to the government office to register the household during your break.” As long as the deed of sale existed, he couldn’t rest easy. Only once Fang Zichen registered the household would they truly be a family.
Fang Zichen didn’t think much of it. “Yeah, why?”
“We’ll need the village chief as a guarantor,” Zhao Ger said, exhaling slowly. “Tomorrow evening, bring back two catties of meat to give to him.”
You couldn’t ask for a favor empty-handed. Fang Zichen understood. “Got it.”
Zhao Ger added, “Get fatty meat.”
Fang Zichen preferred lean meat, but villagers rarely ate meat—maybe once every ten days or so—and cooked with just a few drops of oil. Their stomachs craved fat, so most liked fatty meat.
The next evening, Fang Zichen carried a slab of white, fatty meat to the village chief’s house.
Wang Damei was delighted to see him. The village chief wasn’t back yet, so Fang Zichen chatted with her for a while before going inside to see the old man.
The room wasn’t well-ventilated. Eating, drinking, and relieving himself all happened there, so even though it was clean, there was still a faint odor. Fang Zichen noticed but kept a straight face. Old people loved to chat, and the old man invited him to sit by the bed, asking all sorts of questions.
Fang Zichen had been a good student—obedient and good at sweet-talking. Before transmigrating, his grandparents had adored him. After chatting for a while, the old man was so pleased he grinned from ear to ear.
Since breaking his leg, the old man had been gloomy and listless, never in the mood to talk to anyone. Hearing him laugh so heartily now, Wang Damei, outside the room, found it miraculous.
The village chief and Hexi didn’t return from the fields until nearly dark. By then, Fang Zichen’s throat was dry from talking, and his stomach felt queasy. He told the village chief his business then tried to leave.
“Hungry?” the village chief asked.
“No.”
“Then why the hurry?”
“I gotta poop,” Fang Zichen said. “Really badly.”
Village Chief: “……”
By modern timekeeping, the government office didn’t open until nine. On his day off, the village chief took him to town in an oxcart, which also carried a few bundles of firewood for sale along the way. Fang Zichen didn’t mind, though he was sleepy. The cart jolted so much that even after several trips, he still couldn’t get used to it.
He thought: Must be because my butt’s too delicate.
The village chief was nervous the whole way. Though he was the village chief, he rarely saw officials—maybe just the soldiers sent to collect grain taxes every autumn.
Even then, he was always trembling in their presence.
Like a lowly employee meeting the big boss, he was so anxious his palms sweated.
Commoners feared officials!
The village chief was so tense Fang Zichen worried he might pass out. “Uncle, you nervous?”
The village chief flicked the ox with a twig, then glanced back at him. “A little. Aren’t you scared?”
Fang Zichen shook his head. “Nope.”
He didn’t see why he should be. He hadn’t broken any laws, respected his elders, and was a good person—his mental fortitude was solid. Why be afraid?
Only those with guilty consciences feared officials.
After selling the firewood, the village chief led Fang Zichen to the government office. Fang Zichen strolled in as casually as if he were sightseeing.
He’d already asked around—the official in charge of household registration and documents was the universally distrusted Lao Wang.
[The name Lao Wang is often used in Chinese jokes and internet memes to represent an untrustworthy or sneaky person, particularly as a nosy neighbor or the stereotypical "other man" in infidelity jokes, making it a humorous cultural shorthand for unreliability.]
Lao Wang was busy when a voice came from outside.
“Lao Wang, I’m here to see you.”
Hands behind his back, Fang Zichen sauntered in like a superior inspecting his subordinates.
Lao Wang was happy to see him.
Though his name was Lao Wang, he was only in his thirties—a handsome older brother who loved eating at Zuixiao Restaurant. After a few encounters, he’d hit it off with Fang Zichen.
Fang Zichen could spin tales about anything under the sun, making conversations with him highly entertaining. Though on rare occasions his words were infuriating.
“What brings you here?” Lao Wang asked. “No work today?”
“Here to register my household,” Fang Zichen said. “And to void my fulang’s deed of sale.”
“Oh.” Lao Wang’s gaze shifted to the village chief. “And this is?”
“The village chief,” Fang Zichen replied. “My guarantor.”
The village chief bowed nervously. “Greetings, Your Excellency.”
Lao Wang nodded and didn’t ask further. “Wait a moment, then.”
The village chief didn’t dare move, planning to stand the whole time. Fang Zichen, however, had no intention of standing. Without a hint of hesitation, he pulled out a chair and sat across from Lao Wang, utterly at ease.
Lao Wang just glanced at him and said nothing.
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