3: Chapter 3 Ten households, a bowl of hot soup

When Lu Zhao woke up, the sky hadn't fully brightened yet.

The window paper was a grayish-blue, the stove fire in the room had gone out, leaving only a hint of residual warmth.

He lay on his side. The injury on his back no longer hurt, leaving only a sensation of tightness, as if new skin was stretching out.

He slowly sat up and lifted the bandages covering his wound to take a look.

The wound had almost closed, leaving only a pale pink scar. The speed of healing was astonishing; even he was taken aback.

There were footsteps outside the door—light, short steps; it was a woman's gait.

Then the door was pushed open a crack. Qin Wan poked half her body inside, and seeing him sitting up, she paused: "You're awake? Why did you get up? How is your injury?"

"It's much better."

Lu Zhao re-wrapped the bandages and draped the old padded jacket He Shan had lent him last night over his shoulders—the jacket was big, and the sleeves were long; he had to roll them up twice to reveal his wrists.

Qin Wan brought in a coarse pottery bowl filled with steaming soup—a clear broth with a few wild vegetable leaves floating in it and two pieces of yam sinking at the bottom.

"Granny Xue brewed it early this morning; it's good for replenishing Qi and blood." She placed the bowl on the edge of the kang, "Drink it while it's hot."

Lu Zhao took it; the soup wasn't scalding, just warm. He took a sip; there was a faint medicinal taste in the soup, with a sweet aftertaste.

"Are they all up?" he asked.

"They are." Qin Wan sat on a small stool by the kang, wiping her hands on her apron, "Big Brother He has taken some people to patrol the mountains, Zhong Tiegu is blacksmithing, and Tian Dali has gone to the fields—the winter wheat needs watching.

Granny Xue is drying herbs, Master Wen is teaching A-Fei characters, and Song Shouren is doing the accounts."

She spoke at a leisurely pace, and with every person she mentioned, their image seemed to emerge. Lu Zhao listened quietly, drinking the soup spoonful by spoonful, his body warming from the inside out.

After finishing the soup, he got off the kang. His feet felt a bit weak when they touched the ground, but he stood steadily. Qin Wan tried to help him, but he waved his hand: "I can walk."

He pushed open the door, and the cold wind rushed in, making him squint.

The sky was overcast, with thick, low-hanging clouds. Yangjiao Ravine lay in a mountain hollow, with a dozen or so adobe houses scattered about. The thatch on the roofs was covered with snow, and thin wisps of smoke rose from the chimneys.

In the distance, the mountain ranges were layered in gray shadows. Nearby, there were a few scattered fields on the slope, where the snow on the ridges had been swept away, revealing the brown earth.

From the left came the rhythmic, solid sound of "ding, dang" from blacksmithing.

Lu Zhao followed the sound and walked over. It was an open shed where the furnace fire was burning brightly. Zhong Tiegu was shirtless, swinging a hammer to strike a piece of red-hot iron.

Every time he struck, the muscles on his arms tightened into knots, and sweat streamed down his spine.

"You're up?" Zhong Tiegu didn't stop his hammering, glancing at him, "Are you healed?"

"Mostly healed." Lu Zhao stood at the entrance of the shed, "What are you making?"

"A hoe." Zhong Tiegu picked up the iron piece and dipped it into a water bucket. With a "hiss," white steam rose up, "It's needed for the spring."

He wasn't one for many words; after saying that, he continued working. Lu Zhao stood for a while before turning to walk the other way.

Past the blacksmith shed was a slightly larger adobe house. The door was open, and from inside came the childish sound of reading: "Heaven and earth are dark and yellow, the Universe is vast and desolate..."

Lu Zhao walked to the doorway and looked inside.

Inside, there were a few dilapidated desks and stools. A-Fei was sitting in the front, his back straight, his finger pointing at an old book on the desk, reading word by word.

Wen Qian stood behind him, wearing a faded blue gown with the sleeves rolled up. He held a thin twig and was writing on a sand tray.

He was writing the character for "Person."

"Person, one stroke to the left, one to the right." Wen Qian's voice was gentle, like the charcoal fire burning in the room—not scalding, but warm, "Standing tall between heaven and earth, supporting each other. Remove one side, and it falls."

A-Fei nodded, seemingly understanding, and followed along by tracing on the sand tray.

Wen Qian looked up, saw Lu Zhao, and smiled. He didn't speak, just nodded. Lu Zhao returned the nod, didn't go in to disturb them, and turned to leave.

Walking further ahead, there was a small courtyard. Bamboo poles were set up in the yard, with various herbs drying on them. Granny Xue was bent over, spreading out the herbs from a winnowing basket. Her movements were slow but steady; every herb was arranged neatly.

"Granny." Lu Zhao called out.

Granny Xue straightened up and squinted at him: "You can move around now? Come, give me your hand."

Lu Zhao extended his wrist. Granny Xue placed three fingers on it, paused for a dozen breaths, then let go.

"Your pulse is steady." She brushed the herb residue off her hands, "That family technique of yours is truly something. For anyone else, that injury would have kept them on the kang for half a month."

"Thank you for taking care of me, Granny."

"What's there to thank?" Granny Xue bent down to continue spreading the herbs, "Medicine only cures those who aren't fated to die. That determination in your heart... it's more effective than medicine."

She spoke with hidden meaning, but didn't elaborate. Lu Zhao didn't respond, just stood watching for a moment before turning to walk up the slope.

On the slope, there was a flat area where He Shan and two others were practicing archery.

One was Yan Meng, who had a scar on his left cheek running from his brow bone to his earlobe. His stance was like a pine tree, and when he drew the bow, the lines of his shoulders and back were as if cast in iron.

The other was Song Shouren, who was leaner, but his eyes were sharp and bright as he stared at the straw target fifty paces away.

"Whoosh!"

The arrow hit the bullseye, trembling slightly.

Yan Meng lowered his bow, saw Lu Zhao, and nodded. Song Shouren also turned back, looked him up and down, didn't speak, and continued nocking an arrow.

He Shan walked over: "Just taking a stroll?"

"Just looking around," Lu Zhao said.

"Yangjiao Ravine is just this small place, ten households, thirty-five people." He Shan pointed down the slope, "Tian Dali's family is at the east end, Qin Wan's family is at the west, and in the middle are Granny Xue, Master Wen, Zhong Tiegu, and the others. The one furthest north is empty; Old Mo lives there—he's a wandering craftsman who came last winter. He doesn't like to talk, but he's skilled with his hands and can fix things."

Lu Zhao looked where he pointed. With just a few words, He Shan outlined every house and every person.

The village was very small and very poor, but it had a kind of tense Life Qi, like grass sprouts poking through the snow, determined to push their way out.

"Last night..." Lu Zhao paused, "I heard you and Granny talking about the Black Mountain Liu Family, the Funiu Gang?"

He Shan's expression darkened.

He took out his tobacco pouch, lit it this time, and took a puff. The smoke dispersed quickly in the cold wind.

"The Liu Family are the local tyrants of the three-hundred-mile Black Mountain region." His voice lowered, "The head of the family, Liu Zhenxiong, keeps dozens of thugs and dominates the mountain forests and mines. Every winter, they demand 'mountain taxes' from every village—grain, furs, herbs, whatever they have, they must pay."

"Can't Yangjiao Ravine pay?"

"We can't pay," He Shan exhaled a puff of smoke, "We paid last year, and this year people starved to death. If we don't pay..." He paused, "Liu Three-Knives came last month and threatened to burn the houses down if we didn't pay."

Lu Zhao didn't speak.

"The Funiu Gang is even more vicious," He Shan continued, "A group of bandit cultivators led by someone named Boss Wu. They practice evil arts that drain human essence and blood. They specialize in robbing passing merchant caravans and sometimes come down the mountain to raid villages. Xigou Village was raided last month; two men who resisted were drained dry and dumped at the village entrance."

When he said this, his tone was very flat, as if he were talking about how heavy the snow was today. But Lu Zhao could hear what was underneath it—suppressed anger and a deeper sense of helplessness.

"Does the government not care?"

"The government?" He Shan let out a laugh, devoid of warmth, "The county office is in Black Mountain City, and Liu Zhenxiong's nephew is the clerk there. Report to the officials? By the time you report, your house would be gone by the time you return."

The smoke was finished; He Shan tapped the pipe bowl against his boot sole, and the ashes scattered in the snow.

"Little brother." he looked up at Lu Zhao, "You came at a bad time. It's not peaceful at the foot of Black Mountain."

Just as they were speaking, a shout came from below the slope: "Big Brother He! Food is ready!"

It was Qin Wan's voice.

He Shan patted Lu Zhao's shoulder: "Let's go, eat."

The meal was set up in Granny Xue's room. A large pot was propped up in the center, filled with thick, bubbling mixed-grain porridge.

A circle of stools was arranged around it. Everyone from the ten households who could come was there—except for Old Mo; his door was closed, and no one went to call him.

Lu Zhao was ushered to sit by the edge of the kang, with Granny Xue beside him and He Shan opposite. Zhong Tiegu, Yan Meng, Wen Qian, Song Shouren, Tian Dali, Qin Wan, and A-Fei each found a place to sit. The bowls and chopsticks were all coarse pottery, clinking together.

No one spoke; everyone buried their heads in their porridge. The porridge was hot, so they blew on it before drinking, the slurping sounds rising one after another.

Lu Zhao held his bowl, the steam warming his face. His gaze swept over each face—

He Shan's uprightness, Zhong Tiegu's simple honesty, Granny Xue's kind resilience, Qin Wan's gentle attentiveness, Yan Meng's steady determination, Wen Qian's scholarly gentleness, Tian Dali's simple diligence, A-Fei's cleverness, Song Shouren's integrity.

Ten households, ten types of faces, but in their eyes, there was the same thing: a brightness polished by life, like jade fragments in crushed stone—hard, abrasive, but real.

After finishing the bowl of porridge, his body was thoroughly warmed. Qin Wan got up to refill everyone's bowls. When it was Lu Zhao's turn, she scooped a full ladle, giving him an extra piece of yam from the porridge.

"Eat," she said, just that one word.

Lu Zhao took the bowl, suddenly feeling a lump in his throat. The sense of intimacy he hadn't felt in the three years since his Transmigration—it had arrived.

He lowered his head to drink the porridge, the hot liquid sliding down his esophagus, the warmth spreading through his limbs and bones.

The scar on his back itched slightly, and the purple Qi in his Dantian flowed slowly.

As they were eating, the sound of horse hooves came from afar.

Clop, clop, clop.

Neither fast nor slow, approaching from a distance.

Everyone in the room stopped. He Shan put down his bowl, stood up, walked to the window, and lifted a corner of the straw curtain to look outside.

Yan Meng's hand pressed onto the wood-chopping knife at his waist. Zhong Tiegu clenched his fists. Wen Qian pulled A-Fei behind him. Qin Wan held Granny Xue's hand.

Lu Zhao also put down his bowl.

The horse hooves stopped at the village entrance.

Then, a coarse, harsh shout came in, carrying through the wind and snow:

"People of Yangjiao Ravine! Get out here!"