Chen Ping'an munched on a tanghulu he hadn't tasted in nearly a decade, the sweet and sour flavor tinged with memories, as he carried a locust branch on his shoulder back to Niping Alley. Passing a dilapidated residence—more desolate even than his ancestral home—Chen Ping'an felt a pang of guilt. He wondered whether he should first borrow some silver from Master Ruan to repair the house. Though he had grown up in this alley, he had never once seen a soul dwell within its crumbling walls.
Previously, while battling the mountain-moving ape across the rooftops, he had lured the creature here on purpose, leading to the old ape smashing a gaping hole through the roof. Chen Ping'an felt compelled to take responsibility for this wreckage; otherwise, the house would be left to suffer under wind and rain. What might have endured for two or three more decades would now struggle to survive another five years. Its wooden beams would decay swiftly—much like Chen Ping'an's own body after being forcefully "guided" by Cai Jin Jian—both in a state of collapse, riddled with unseen fractures.
This kindred sense of ruin stirred him deeply. He resolved to mend the house. Not for grandeur or splendor, but at the very least, it should be made solid and sound.
He had considered using a gold essence coin to exchange for silver or copper with someone like Old Yang of the Yang Shop, or Master Ruan the blacksmith. Yet an instinct warned him—gold essence coins were truly rare treasures, never to be replenished once spent. Silver and copper could be earned with labor, be it hard or soft. So Chen Ping'an decided to ask Master Ruan for a loan first. If that failed, only then would he consider parting with a coin, however painful the cost. But once a problem lay clearly before him, he could not bring himself to feign ignorance. Chen Ping'an deeply feared owing anyone.
Returning to the courtyard, he leaned the branch gifted by the young girl against the wall. The priceless whetstone still sat within the bamboo basket, though now hidden inside the house rather than left in plain sight. If time had allowed, Chen Ping'an would've dug a ten-foot-deep pit to bury the unassuming yet invaluable sharpening stone—named Dragon-Slaying Platform, a name alone more precious than even three sacks of gold essence coins.
He heard the cry of chickens from the neighboring courtyard. When Song Jixin and Zhi Gui had left town, they'd neglected their coop of hens and chicks, and the poor things were likely starving. Chen Ping'an grabbed the keys, took a handful of rice from home, and opened the chicken cage next door, feeding them slowly through his fingers.
Afterward, he opened the kitchen door to check for any remaining grain. Better to use it than let it spoil. But upon entering, he was taken aback—a massive jar of rice sat there. Lifting the lid, the scent alone was enough to fill him. Pots, bowls, and utensils lined the cupboards; a row of hams and dried fish hung from the wall. Everything was neatly arranged, clean and orderly, every item in its proper place.
Then his gaze fell upon a pile of firewood beside the stove. Drawn closer, he crouched down. Just as he suspected—these were the remains of the wooden figure Zhi Gui had once tried to hack apart with a kitchen knife. She knew nothing of chopping wood; despite much effort, she had barely made a dent. If it had been Chen Ping'an, he would've split the human-sized log to pieces with three swift strikes.
Now he crouched and looked more closely. The figure was peculiar—its surface was etched with red dots, irregularly scattered across its body. Some areas were densely clustered, others sparsely spaced, each dot the color of cinnabar. Lifting one severed arm for closer inspection, he discovered tiny black characters engraved beside each red point. The dots were the size of rice grains, and the characters even finer—almost invisible to the naked eye. Only someone with Chen Ping'an's eyesight could have noticed such detail; an ordinary person would see nothing but a smattering of red and black specks.
He attempted to reassemble the broken parts. Before long, the wooden figure stood whole again. Fortunately, none of its major components were missing. Unfortunately, many red dots and their black inscriptions had been marred or destroyed by Zhi Gui's knife. Perhaps seven or eight tenths of the original markings remained intact.
Standing, he opened the kitchen window, letting in more light. He knelt again and examined the figure meticulously, unwilling to miss even the smallest detail. Nearly an hour slipped by.
Though he could not recognize most of the characters, he strained to memorize their structure. Deep in his heart, Chen Ping'an had always harbored a longing to learn. As a kiln worker, he had often climbed to the mountaintop to gaze toward town—not just to find the direction of Niping Alley, but to seek out the schoolhouse.
As a child, dark-skinned and thin, he would often squat at the base of its wall, listening to the rhythmic chant of recitation drifting from above. Though he understood none of it, the sound brought peace, as if every hardship of the day melted away in that chorus of learning. Yet for an orphan of Niping Alley, education was a luxury even more out of reach than tanghulu—something to admire from afar, never touch.
Now, eyes closed, Chen Ping'an tried to reconstruct the wooden figure in his mind. If any detail was uncertain, he skipped it for the moment, determined not to break his focus. Even so, he ended up with forty to fifty red-marked points whose corresponding inscriptions were unclear. He methodically went over them one by one. After a deep breath, he meant to try again—but the moment his eyes shut, his head throbbed with dizziness. He wisely stopped. Some efforts cannot be forced; brute persistence often only leads to disorder. His time learning ceramics had taught him that well—not through talent, but from enduring Old Yao's relentless scolding.
He disassembled the wooden figure again and stacked it in a corner of the kitchen. After securing the courtyard gate, he decided he must make another trip to the town's east gate. He still wished to greet the gatekeeper before officially becoming Master Ruan's apprentice—after which he would likely move and no longer have time to deliver letters. He had already tried to visit the man once, but hadn't found him.
Jogging toward the east gate, he found the yellow-mud house still locked tight. With a sigh, he sat down on the familiar tree stump where Zheng Dafeng often rested. The town, unlike the mountains, had no shrine to a mountain god or ceremonial seat.
Chen Ping'an sat there in rare idleness, letting time pass. Eventually, the sound of wagon wheels echoed down the street. He turned to see an ox cart at the lead, followed by two enclosed carriages. The ox cart was filled with children, two of whom had familiar faces: Li Baoping in her crimson cotton jacket, and Shi Chun Jia with her rosy cheeks. The others, Chen Ping'an guessed, must be the young pupils Shi Chun Jia had mentioned—Li Huai, Lin Shou Yi, and Dong Shui Jing.
The five children chattered and laughed, their energy infectious. The cart driver was an unfamiliar middle-aged man. Behind him, seated quietly, was the elderly sweeper from the school. Apart from Li Baoping, whose red coat bespoke the wealth of the Li family of Fulush Street, the other four children were plainly dressed—especially Shi Chun Jia, whose family ran the New Year's talisman shop in Qilong Alley. Though well-fed and comfortable, they were not of high status. One boy beside her stood out—cold-eyed and pale, his black fox-fur robe unmistakably expensive.
Li Huai's father, Li Er, was the town's most notorious weakling. His sister, Li Liu, had long since left with their parents to seek a living elsewhere, leaving Li Huai behind in his uncle's care. Now, like the others, he too would be leaving home…