The green-skinned train swayed and rattled, its carriages packed with people.
The luggage racks were crammed with woven plastic sacks and burlap bundles, while passengers who had been unable to buy seat tickets squatted in the aisles.
The air was thick with the smells of sweat, tobacco, and the astringent taste of cheap tea leaves steeped in hot water.
“Grandpa, give me the orange peels. I’ll throw them away for you.”
A childish voice came from the rear of the carriage.
The speaker was a little boy just over four years old. He wore a blue cotton jacket washed nearly white, its sleeves a little too short, exposing two chubby, lotus-root-like arms.
His features were exceptionally handsome, with thick brows, large eyes, and a straight nose that looked as though it had been carved with a knife. Yet his cheeks still had a babyish plumpness to them, making him especially endearing whenever he put on a serious expression.
The elderly man by the window was peeling an orange. Hearing this, he looked down and smiled.
“Oh, little one, are you riding the train alone?”
“No, my mom is sleeping in the carriage behind us.” The little boy took the orange peels and carefully gathered them in his small hands so that none of the juice would drip onto the floor.
“She’s not very well. She gets dizzy, so she needs to rest more.”
The old man clicked his tongue sympathetically, then took another orange from his pocket and pushed it toward him.
“Here, eat this.”
The little boy did not take it. He put both hands behind his back and shook his head.
“I’m not hungry. You eat it, Grandpa.”
The old man forcibly stuffed it into his hands. “Take it! Grandpa has plenty of oranges—an entire sackful.”
The little boy hesitated for two seconds before accepting it. He then bowed properly.
“Thank you, Grandpa.”
Afterward, he turned around and carefully tucked the orange into his trouser pocket.
He did not eat it.
A woman beside them who was holding a child had seen everything and could not help asking, “Little one, why aren’t you eating it?”
“I’m saving it for my mom.” He patted his bulging pocket, looking as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “My mom is thinner than me. She needs the nourishment more.”
The woman’s nose stung. She broke off half of the corn cake she had been eating and held it out.
“Here, here, take it. Auntie still has some. Your mom gave birth to a good son.”
Tushan Xiaobao blinked his black, grape-like eyes and bowed again.
“Thank you, Auntie.”
He took it and tucked it into his pocket as well.
He was extremely practiced at this whole routine.
In truth, he was not hungry at all.
Before they had set out, Uncle Longzheng had stuffed his pocket full of roasted pine nuts, while Dadunzi had forcibly pressed three roasted bamboo shoots into his arms.
Grandpa Ginseng had even hung a short piece of ginseng rootlet around his neck, saying that if he held it in his mouth at a crucial moment, it could sustain him for an entire day.
But Mom was different.
Mom’s body was even more fragile than the dying old locust tree inside the barrier.
She would be out of breath after walking only a few steps. If the wind grew slightly stronger, she would start coughing, and sometimes what she coughed up was red.
Although Tushan Xiaobao was only four, he had grown up among a group of yao. Through constant exposure, his mind was far more astute than those of children his age—not just by a little.
He knew perfectly well that Mom was holding on.
Holding on so that she could send him somewhere safe.
As for where that place was—Mom had said to go find his dad.
Xiaobao had never seen his father.
But Uncle Fengqi had secretly told him that his father had especially abundant yang energy. As long as Mom stayed by his side, her body would recover.
So, on this trip out of the mountains, Xiaobao had set himself a task: win over that father of his.
No matter what kind of person his father was—even if he was as ugly as Taotie—as long as he could make Mom stop coughing blood, Tushan Xiaobao would accept him.
The train swayed again, and the iron door at the junction between the carriages clanged loudly.
Xiaobao steadied himself by gripping the back of a seat. Holding the enamel mug he had borrowed from the train attendant, he made his way back one step at a time.
There was half a mug of lukewarm water inside. He held it in both hands and walked extremely slowly, afraid of spilling it.
As he passed a row of seats, a middle-aged man in a Sun Yat-sen suit suddenly stretched out a leg to block him.
“Boy, why do you keep running back and forth? Where’s the adult?”
His tone was not particularly friendly.
Xiaobao looked up at him without saying anything, then turned sideways and walked around the man’s leg.
“Hey, I’m talking to you!” The middle-aged man frowned. “What kind of wild child are you? Running around the train and getting in the way.”
“I’m not getting in the way.” Xiaobao stopped and turned back, his expression perfectly calm. “Uncle, please move your leg. The aisle is narrow enough already.”
The middle-aged man could not save face. “What kind of way is that for a child to speak? Doesn’t anyone discipline you?”
The old man peeling oranges beside them was displeased first. “Old Zhang, say less. The little fellow just helped me throw away my trash, and he’s very well behaved! You, on the other hand—look at how far you’ve stretched your leg. Do you think you’re sitting by your own kang?”
The woman holding the child also joined in. “That’s right. What a good child. Why are you shouting at him?”
The middle-aged man gave an awkward smile, muttered a couple of words, and drew his leg back.
Xiaobao did not spare him another glance. Holding the enamel mug, he continued toward the carriage behind them.
He passed through the junction between two carriages.
There were fewer people in the next carriage. In a corner by the window, a young woman was curled up on a hard seat, her head resting against the window glass and her eyes closed.
She wore a gray padded jacket covered in several patches. Her hair was casually pinned up with a wooden hairpin, revealing a section of neck so pale it seemed almost unnatural.
Her complexion was poor, and there was little color in her lips. Her brows were drawn together by an exhaustion that seemed impossible to dispel.
But even so, the two young men in the seats opposite who had been sneaking glances at her were still staring openly now.
This woman was thin, and she was ill, but that face—
How should one put it? Even if it were covered with a layer of ash, it still could not conceal how captivatingly beautiful she was.
Tushan Yao.
A thousand-year-old nine-tailed fox, now dragging along half a life while riding a green-skinned train.
Xiaobao walked up to her and gently placed the enamel mug on the little table by the window. Then he took the orange and half a corn cake from his pocket and arranged them neatly in a row.
“Mom, drink some water.”
Tushan Yao did not open her eyes. Her voice was hoarse and lazy. “I’m not thirsty.”
“Then eat something. This was given to me by the grandpa who was peeling oranges, and an auntie gave me the cake.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Then just hold the orange in your mouth. You don’t have to chew it—let it melt on its own.”
Tushan Yao finally lifted her eyelids and glanced at her son.
She had no idea who this little cub took after. At only four years old, he already acted like a fussy little housekeeper, managing everything under the heavens and on the earth—including her meals.
“You eat it yourself.”
“I already ate.” Xiaobao patted his belly. “I’ve been holding the ginseng rootlet Grandpa Ginseng gave me in my mouth all morning. It filled me right up.”
Tushan Yao was about to say something when an itch rose in her throat. She turned her head and coughed twice.
Xiaobao immediately leaned over and gently patted her back with his little hand.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m not going to die.” Tushan Yao held down his hand, her voice flat. “Stop patting. It tickles.”
One of the two young men opposite finally worked up the courage to speak to her.
“Uh, comrade, are you feeling unwell? Should I call the train attendant for you?”
Tushan Yao did not even turn her head. “No need.”
Two short words, crisp and decisive, cold enough to freeze.
The young man, having received no encouragement, awkwardly withdrew.
Xiaobao watched from the side and silently gave his mother’s social skills a score of zero.
This would not do.
Once they reached his father’s place, if Mom was still like this, how could Dad willingly lend her his yang energy?
He sighed, very loudly, with an air of experience utterly unsuited to his age.
Tushan Yao shot him a sidelong glance. “What are you sighing about?”
“Nothing.” Xiaobao climbed onto the seat and sat down beside his mother, resting his little head against her arm.
“Mom, what does my dad look like, anyway?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t even know what my dad looks like?”
Tushan Yao was silent for a moment.
She truly did not remember.
The memories of that night had been erased completely by the backlash of merit. If her belly had not grown larger day by day, she would not even have known whom she had slept with.
Later, Uncle Fengqi and Uncle Longzheng had spent three years investigating outside. Only then had they found, through the records of the troops stationed near that forest at the time, the one person who fit all the conditions—Huo Yunzheng.
He had been a special forces battalion commander back then. He had since been promoted to regiment commander and was stationed in a military district somewhere in the north.
A pure-yang constitution, carrying merit, with the time and place all matching.
Other than him, there was no one else.
“What he looks like isn’t important.” Tushan Yao closed her eyes. “As long as he’s usable.”
Hearing this, Xiaobao secretly pursed his lips.
Mom made it sound so easy, but before he had left, he had heard Uncle Longzheng muttering to Uncle Fengqi—
“With Yaoyao’s body, she won’t make it through this winter.”
At the time, he had hidden behind the door and bitten his own lips until they bled.
He did not want Mom to die.
Tushan Xiaobao buried his face in his mother’s sleeve and sniffed hard, refusing to let his tears fall.
The train passed through a tunnel, and the carriage darkened for several seconds.
By the time the light returned, Xiaobao had already gathered up every emotion on his face and once again become that composed little adult.
He took the orange from his pocket, peeled it, and separated it one segment at a time. He picked out the largest piece and held it to Tushan Yao’s lips.
“Mom, open your mouth.”
“…”
In the end, Tushan Yao opened her mouth.
The orange was so sour that her brows drew together.
Xiaobao tucked the remaining orange segments back into his pocket, saving them for her next meal.
The train continued north. The scenery outside gradually changed into plains. The fields, their crops already harvested, lay bare, while villages with smoke rising from them occasionally flashed past.
They would arrive in another forty hours.
Tushan Xiaobao leaned against the window and watched the land outside grow flatter and flatter as he made his calculations.
Once they arrived, he first had to find Dad.
After finding Dad, he had to make Dad acknowledge him.
After Dad acknowledged him, he had to make Dad willingly—
Those four words were very important. Uncle Fengqi had repeatedly reminded him that Mom could not forcibly take it; the yang energy of a person with merit could only be given if that person volunteered.
This was a combination attack.
Tushan Xiaobao felt that although he was only four years old, he could handle it.
——————————Those who do not like little skits may skip this part——————————————
Little Skit:
Xiaobao (with a serious expression): Uncle Longzheng said Dad has plenty of yang energy. Does that mean Mom will get better as long as she hugs him?
Uncle Fengqi (blushing): That depends on what kind of “hug” you mean. Your mom needs in-depth treatment…
Xiaobao: Got it. Once we get there, I’ll lock Dad and Mom in the same room!