The fifteenth day of the first month was the Lantern Festival.
“Pop, pop, pop…”
Fire crackled within the hearth, bursting the grains of rice inside into clusters of pure white puffs.
Ergouzi squatted beside the fire, using a stick to quickly pull the puffed rice from the ash, blowing on it before stuffing it into his mouth.
“Crunch, crunch…”
How delicious!
After half a month of labor, he had constructed a small thatched hut over five chi wide using firewood and straw, enough to shelter him from wind and rain.
He had already planted half a mu of rice seedlings in this snowy expanse.
Watering them daily with gourd water allowed them to mature and be harvested in about ten days, and the earliest batches had already yielded an abundant harvest.
Now he could finally afford to be extravagant for once and eat a full, satisfying meal.
Roasting and eating at the same time, before he knew it, he had consumed over sixty rice panicles.
After finishing, he drank some water, causing the puffed rice to expand in his stomach until he finally felt full.
Yet once he had eaten, a hint of regret crept in; it felt too extravagant.
In the future, he must never be so wasteful. Eating cooked rice every single meal was something even wealthy landlords dared not do.
His uncle’s family owned several dozen mu of land, but apart from his cousin who practiced martial arts and required cooked rice at every meal, the others subsisted on thin porridge accompanied by a few strips of salted vegetables.
He wasn’t even a tenant farmer yet—how could he possibly eat cooked rice every day?
From now on, he still needed to eat more wild vegetables to trick his stomach.
His stomach shouldn’t be too delicate; eating bran and wild greens was fine as long as it filled him up.
Having eaten and drunk his fill, he stepped out of the thatched hut to stretch his limbs.
After more than ten days of rest and recovery, all his injuries had healed. He felt as though he had grown a bit taller and possessed more strength.
Could it be that he was born to be beaten, and the more beatings he took, the taller he grew?
The thought brought a shake of his head. Surely not; he had taken plenty of beatings over the years.
When his uncle came home after drinking and whoring, Auntie would beat Ergouzi to vent her anger.
When his cousin was bullied at the martial arts school, he would return home and beat Ergouzi to recover his self-esteem.
When his younger cousin cried and made a fuss, his older cousin would devise various ways to beat Ergouzi for him to watch, which never failed to make the little boy laugh happily…
He was truly the joy of his uncle’s family, making immortal contributions to livening the atmosphere and easing family friction.
Yet despite suffering so many beatings in the past, he had never noticed himself growing taller.
He guessed it was simply because he was eating well and sleeping well now.
Standing in the snow, he stretched lazily and walked over to the patch of rice seedlings.
Because they had been planted at different times, some were already golden and mature, while others had yet to produce panicles.
On the rice stubble that had been harvested only yesterday, fresh green sprouts had already emerged.
He discovered that after being watered with gourd water, the stubble could sprout and thrive just as well, meaning he wouldn’t even need to sow new seeds.
Pulling out the gourd, he watered the seedlings once more.
Right beside the rice patch grew a cluster of green wild vegetables.
The leaves of these plants were green on top and white underneath, covered in fine fuzz.
Their root stems were about the size of a finger; eaten raw, they were crisp, sweet, and filling.
Because the roots somewhat resembled little chicken legs, everyone called them Little Chicken Leg.
He had accidentally dug up a single plant while clearing wasteland for rice earlier, and rather than eating it, he had replanted it in the ground and watered it daily.
After growing over the past few days, it had already flowered and set seed. The seeds had fallen to the ground, sprouted anew, and formed a lush patch of seedlings.
After finishing the watering, he returned to the thatched hut and hoisted a straw-woven sack containing over half a bag of rice.
Today was the Lantern Festival, and once it passed, everyone would begin planning for the spring plowing.
He needed to sell this grain and then go find Old Moneybags Huang to rent a piece of land.
Time waited for no man; if he delayed, everything would be rented out by others.
He couldn’t stay on this mountain much longer either. Yesterday he had spotted two people gathering firewood at the foot of the opposite ridge, which had kept him on edge for a long time.
Fortunately, his chosen spot was elevated, the snow and ice were slick, and the ground was choked with jagged stones and virtually no trees, so the woodcutters hadn’t ventured over.
If anyone discovered that he had grown such thriving paddy rice on a barren, icy stone hill…
He certainly wouldn’t come to a good end; no one would let him off.
Besides, these mountains might look like uncultivated wastelands, but they all belonged to someone—they weren’t places just anyone could occupy.
The path down the mountain was coated in thick ice and snow. He took several more tumbles, ending up bruised and battered, though he was thankful the grain in the sack hadn’t spilled.
He didn’t return to Snake Creek Village, instead taking a narrow footpath around it toward Sanchazi Town.
Sanchazi Town lay twenty li from Snake Creek Village and was the furthest place Ergouzi had ever traveled in his life.
In his mind, Sanchazi Town was vast and prosperous, lined with houses of blue brick and dark tile, dozens of shops, and bustling crowds in a lively market.
Carrying the sack, Ergouzi walked for half a day until one of his straw sandals wore through, but he finally reached the town.
With the heavy bag on his shoulder, he gazed around the streets. The town was bustling with comings and goings, making him slightly nervous yet brimming with curiosity.
By the roadside stood a tailoring shop filled with bolts of colorful cloth.
The patrons stepping in and out were all neatly dressed in well-fitted garments.
Ergouzi glanced down at his own tattered trousers, which barely reached his knees, and felt a pang of shame.
They had been torn during his last beating, and the subsequent weeks of scraping against branches and rocks on the mountain had reduced them to mere shreds.
Overcome with inferiority, he lowered his head and hurried past the front of the shop.
Beyond the tailor shop lay a pork stall.
Slabs of butchered pork rested on the wooden cutting board, the fat gleaming at least two or three fingers thick.
“Fresh buns for sale! Big, round meat buns!”
Cries rang out from all directions.
“Meat buns that ooze oil with every bite!”
“Sugar-coated haws!”
“Steamed cakes…”
As he walked, Ergouzi’s gaze was constantly drawn to the various vendors hawking their wares.
Especially the meat bun seller—he could catch the rich, enticing aroma from far away.
Meat buns and sugar-coated haws were things he had tasted perhaps once or twice before his fifth year.
The memory of that fragrant, sweet taste remained unforgettable for a lifetime.
Swallowing hard several times, Ergouzi pressed forward with a resolute stride into the thick of the market.
The market was already packed with nearby villagers, each staking out a small patch to display miscellaneous goods.
There were jars and urns, bamboo baskets, eggs, straw sandals, old clothing, reed mats, and even children and women being traded…
Carrying his sack, Ergouzi first circulated through the market to inquire about the going rates.
Grain prices fluctuated throughout the year; they were cheapest right after the autumn harvest and began to climb steadily after the New Year.
By spring plowing, when seeds were in demand, prices often soared.
Those who had grown too desperate or had consumed their seed grain due to illness were forced to borrow or buy at inflated rates.
Thus, selling rice right now would fetch a fine price.
Finding a small vacant space, Ergouzi squeezed in, dropped his sack, and untied the mouth to reveal the golden grain within, immediately drawing numerous curious eyes.
In most households, little surplus grain remained after the New Year; families had to scrape by on bran and wild greens until the autumn harvest brought new crops.
“Young lad, how are you selling this rice?”
“This grain isn’t bad at all—good enough for seed stock!”
“Twenty-five wen per sheng!”
A cluster of unfamiliar old men gathered around to inspect the goods. Having never faced such a crowd, Ergouzi grew flustered, his face reddening as he answered.
Ordinary families could not afford standard wooden beam scales, nor were they convenient to use, so most transactions were measured by sheng and dou.
One sheng of rice weighed roughly sixteen liang, though unhusked rice was lighter, and container sizes varied.
Several elders scooped up handfuls of the grain to examine it; the kernels were plump and uniform, without a single empty husk, prompting immediate interest from buyers.
Ergouzi lacked his own measuring sheng, but such utensils were common enough that he borrowed one nearby.
These measures were simple to make—merely a section of hollowed bamboo cut to the correct volume.
As a hard currency, grain sold briskly, especially given the exceptional quality of his harvest.
Counting the copper coins with one hand while measuring out the grain with the other, Ergouzi quickly emptied the large sack.
His lined jacket soon grew heavy with coins, clinking softly with every step.
He kept a strict tally of every single wen that passed through his hands, arriving at a total of seven hundred and seventy-five wen.
In anyone’s hands, this was a veritable fortune.
Tucking the coins safely inside, Ergouzi emerged from the market. Passing the meat bun stall once more, he was waylaid by the irresistible scent.
He stood by the roadside, biting his lip, fingers clutching the coins tightly as he wrestled with temptation for a long time.
At last, with a hard swallow and a grimace of resolve, he turned away from the buns and headed toward the neighboring pork stall.
Inquiring about prices, fatty belly pork went for eighty wen per jin, lean meat for sixty, and spare ribs for only forty.
Steeling his heart, Ergouzi spent eighty wen on a full jin of fatty pork.
Seeing that his customer was a child, the sharp-dealing butcher included a tough scrap of lean meat in the paid weight.
Next, he purchased an old hoe for three hundred wen.
A firewood knife cost him another two hundred and fifty wen.
Such iron tools were costly, but since he intended to farm, they were indispensable.
Moreover, aside from agricultural work, the knife offered protection should he encounter bandits along the road.
Beyond these absolute necessities, he refused to spend another copper, even though his trousers were tattered to the point of indecency.
Of the seven hundred and seventy-five wen he had just earned, only a hundred and forty-five remained.
Yet he still gritted his teeth and bought a small block of dark, bitter salt.
A man could go ten years without meat, but he could not live without salt.
The rough, black chunk of salt—smaller than an egg—cost him a full hundred wen.
Now, only forty-five wen remained in his possession.
As he strode out of Sanchazi Town, Ergouzi had a firewood knife tucked at his waist, a hoe slung over his shoulder, and a string of pork dangling from his hand.