SS CH2

On a desolate mountain road, weeds grew wild and thick, while layers of leaden clouds pressed toward the earth, stifling the air until one could scarcely draw breath.

A small merchant caravan was making its way along, but alas, this road had been abandoned too long and seldom traveled. The gravel nearly jolted the cart wheels from their axles. An ordinary person riding inside would surely be vomiting their guts out within the hour, worse off than a woman heavy with child.

So the company had placed their goods upon the carts and proceeded slowly on their own two legs. Only at the very rear of the procession, upon a flatbed cart piled high with sacks, did someone still curl up like a brooding hen.

Ye Fusheng wore a rough cloth long-robe, his hair tied in a loose ponytail with a straw cord. His head rested against the corner of a sack, both hands folded upon his abdomen. If one ignored his crossed legs swinging back and forth, it would have been a rather standard pose of repose.

The others in the caravan walked until sweat poured like rain, yet he alone lay upon the cart, feeling not the slightest jolt, humming a little tune of his own devising with an air of utter carelessness:

“Time flies like an arrow, the sun and moon shuttle to and fro;
Spring and autumn pass through a few more rounds.
Love, resentment, and hatred—right and wrong abound;
Birth, aging, sickness, and death—all beyond our grasp.
Youth contends in pride, blades drawn for a thousand li,
Stirring a pool of calm waters, catching a bolt of heaven’s thunder…”

The further he sang, the more off-key he became, the lyrics ever more absurd. For a moment, those around him burst into laughter—only the foreman was worried to the point of distress: “What are you laughing at! Hurry along. The city gates will close before long. Do you want to spend tonight feeding the wolves in this wilderness?”

The scolding sent everyone ducking their heads, but Ye Fusheng simply grinned: “Foreman, there isn’t so much as a stray dog around here. Rest easy.”

He would have been better off keeping quiet. At these words, the foreman flared with rage: “Blind man, shut your mouth! You’re the one causing all this trouble with your jesting! Cause any more problems, and I’ll break your other leg too!”

Ye Fusheng, hearing this, clutched his left leg with a wounded expression and said in a mournful, drawn-out voice, “Then please, go easy on me, sir.”

The foreman nearly fainted from anger.

These past few years, the world had grown unsettled. Those who traveled north and south were as numerous as carp crossing a river, but when all was said and done, they were poor souls who had left their homes behind. Because in recent years there had been rebellions by feudal princes within and barbarian tribes eyeing the borders like tigers without, travel and trade had been strictly restricted. Yet people must live, and firewood, rice, oil, salt, soy sauce, vinegar, and tea were all indispensable. So the authorities had slightly relaxed their suppression of private merchant caravans. As a result, trading houses and peddlers of all sizes had sprung up like bamboo shoots after rain.

Their group had come from the northern lands, where a battle lasting over a month had just ended. The border markets were temporarily closed, so those who had lost their homes in the flames of war pooled their money and gathered furs, spices, and other goods, intending to take them to southern towns to sell and build up some capital. At the very least, it was a way to survive.

This shameless scoundrel—impervious as a dead pig to boiling water—had been picked up by the foreman in the northern lands. That night, after tallying their goods, they had pitched tents in an open space outside the city to rest. Who would have thought that in the dead of night, the watchman would hear wolf howls not far off? From the sound of it, someone was surrounded by a wolf pack.

The foreman had some skill under his command, so he ordered the others to light fires and stay on guard while he took up weapons and rushed over. He was gone for the better part of an hour, and when he returned, he carried a blood-soaked man upon his back.

The foreman said little, and the others did not ask. They simply took turns pouring medicinal broth down his throat. Only after three to five days did they see this man wake up.

He called himself Ye Fusheng. He was good-looking and well-featured, with a frank and cheerful temperament. Unfortunately, his eyes did not work well, and his right leg had developed a chronic condition from an old injury. At first glance there seemed nothing wrong, but if he walked more than a few steps, the pain bored into his heart like an auger.

Ye Fusheng was twenty-nine this year, in the prime of his youth and strength. Had this happened to anyone else, they would likely have been wailing at the top of their lungs without easing the bitterness in their hearts. Yet this man’s heart was broader than heaven and earth. Not only was he completely unbothered, he frequently caused such commotion in the caravan that the foreman nearly exploded with rage.

After being scolded, Ye Fusheng let it go in one ear and out the other. He narrowed his eyes and carefully studied the sky for a moment, then commanded with an imperious wave of his hand: “Pick up the pace. It’s going to rain.”

His eyes were rather strange. The brighter the sun and the stronger the light, the more blurred and dark his vision became—sometimes he could not even make out outlines. Conversely, on overcast or rainy days and after nightfall, he could see much more clearly. In fact, his hearing and sight at night were sharper than even a small child’s.