Chapter One

Seventy years ago, the Great Yun Dynasty was plagued by disasters and wars. People fled from calamity and famine, seeking refuge wherever they could. In Yunshui County of Qingzhou, refugees from all over gathered and formed a village with mixed surnames. The county authorities gave it a name—Qingmiao Village.

Nestled at the foot of majestic green mountains, Qingmiao Village leaned against the misty, sprawling Yunwu Mountain. A clear stream ran through the heart of the village, the lifeblood for generations.

On the morning upstream, peace was shattered by the sound of quarreling. Several women, holding wooden basins, hurried to the riverside and fought fiercely for the best spot to wash clothes. Not a single one was willing to yield.

“You, from the He family, don’t push your luck! You’ve hogged this spot for days. Anyone who tries to use it, you shove aside. What, is this your family’s land?” shouted Zhang Xiulan, hands on hips, towering over the others.

Zhao Xiang, who had snatched the spot, was just as unwilling to back down. She slammed her laundry stick into the water. “First come, first served! I got here first, so it’s mine. If you want it, run faster!”

Her sharp features matched her biting words, her nose turned up in disdain.

“I’ll beat you, you wretched woman! No wonder your husband never comes home!” Zhang Xiulan was hot-tempered, quick to act. In the blink of an eye, she and Zhao Xiang were grappling.

Zhao Xiang’s sore spot was hit. Ever since she married young, her husband had never spared her a glance, and her son grew colder by the day. Life was bitter. She spat back, “You foul-mouthed hag, say that again if you dare!”

“Say it I will! What, am I afraid of you? If I beat you, your spineless husband wouldn’t even dare retaliate!”

Nearby, the husbands of the women tried to break up the fight, only to get dragged into the scuffle themselves.

Basins and laundry sticks flew, clothes drifted away in the current, and the air was filled with slaps and curses.

Not far off, on the ridge, Jiang Yun passed by with a basket on his back, holding a sickle for cutting grass. He kept his head down, skirting the fighting crowd as he headed for his family’s field.

He was shorter than other boys his age, his frame frail, dressed in perpetually dusty, tattered clothes that hung loosely, as light as clouds ready to be swept away by the wind.

Before leaving, Liu Guihua had pinched his ear and warned, “Don’t even think of eating dinner until you’ve cut ten baskets of grass. You won’t be allowed in the woodshed either—go feed the mosquitoes wherever you like!” Ten baskets of grass—an impossible task, but Liu Guihua was in a foul mood and took it out on him.

Jiang Yun’s eyes were always cast down, timid before his sharp-tongued stepmother. Driven out, he sat on the ridge, pressing his hands to his stomach. At noon, Liu Guihua had given him only a bowl of watery soup with no trace of rice; half an incense stick later, hunger gnawed at him again.

He had no choice but to take his basket and search for wild vegetables or fruits.

Footsteps sounded behind him, then receded—two boys whispering.

“What’s he sitting there staring into space for? Maybe he’s simple.”

“Who knows. Let’s just go.”

He’d heard such words more times than he could count. He was tongue-tied and slow, not good at talking, unlike his younger brother Jiang Mo, whose sweet words won everyone over.

Whenever he heard such remarks, he’d bow his head deeper, burying it into his chest.

As evening approached, the wind across the fields was cold, and Jiang Yun’s thin clothes were obviously out of season. To avoid the chill, he endured his hunger and hurried his work, hoping to finish sooner and return home.

The fighting women had long since left, and the surroundings were quiet, save for the occasional birdcall. Jiang Yun’s face was pale as he recalled the ghost stories his mother used to tell him, his hands trembling as he cut grass, helplessness and confusion spreading from his feet to every limb.

At last, he finished the final basket. Struggling, he hoisted it onto his back, gripping the sickle tightly as he made his way through the woods, careful with every step.

Suddenly, a half-eaten bun rolled to his feet—white bread, stained with mud and dirt, but something he’d never tasted. Whenever Liu Guihua steamed buns, she’d drive him out, not even letting him smell them. Only after she, Jiang Mo, and Jiang Shunde had eaten could Jiang Yun enter. Jiang Shunde would finish and go straight to sleep, never caring about him.

He stared blankly at the bun, not bothering who had wasted it. A voice inside urged him to pick it up, to taste it—just a bite.

Before his fingers could touch it, a fierce bark echoed through the woods, sending birds scattering and startling Jiang Yun.

Not far off, in the shadows, stood a man and a dog. The dog was as imposing as a small mountain, its black fur glossy, eyes fixed intently on Jiang Yun, drool dripping from its mouth.

The man was unusually tall to Jiang Yun, his figure hidden in the thick night, silent and oppressive. Even the fierce dog bowed its head and whimpered before him.

Jiang Yun’s strength drained away, and he collapsed in the woods.

His scant knowledge told him the figure before him might be a monster. In despair, Jiang Yun wondered if he might at least get to eat the bun on the ground before dying—even a single bite would be enough.

But from the darkness, a voice called out, “Come on, Dahei.”

The man’s voice was deep and magnetic. He glanced at the strange boy, then turned and left with the dog.

The black dog looked back longingly at the bun but followed the man.

It was a long time before Jiang Yun regained his composure, his back soaked in sweat.

The vast woods were silent, with only the bun reminding him of what had happened.

Tears welled in Jiang Yun’s eyes. He wiped them away, picked up the bun, dusted it off, and ate it in small, careful bites.

On the far west side of the village stood his family’s thatched hut. As he returned home, the oil lamp inside was extinguished. Jiang Yun pursed his lips silently, putting the grass basket in the woodshed.

The noise woke someone inside, who spat bitter insults, “Useless brat, does nothing all day, wasting food...”

In the next room, a teenage boy complained, “Mother, keep it down. I have to get up early for school in town tomorrow.”

The scolding stopped abruptly. His brother Jiang Mo was already sixteen. Suitors lined up for him, but he turned them all down.

When they came to propose, Jiang Yun was made to boil water and serve tea in the kitchen. He had seen suitors bring chickens and ducks, even bride prices of ten silver taels.

In the countryside, most families could only offer five taels, and those marrying a boy gave even less—just three.

His stepmother thought herself above them all, locking Jiang Mo in his room, “My son is as handsome as a fairy and literate—no country bumpkin is worthy.”

Of course, such matters had nothing to do with Jiang Yun. He lay on a pile of straw, savoring the taste of the bun, wondering how he’d get through tomorrow.

The early spring night was chilly, punctuated by occasional bird calls. Jiang Yun slept fitfully, dreaming of being chased by a dog and a hideous monster. The monster nearly caught him, climbed on his back, and threatened to eat him.

He woke with a start, trembling, as dawn crept in.

Jiang Yun dared not sleep again. He quickly got up to prepare breakfast for the family, lest he be scolded.

The Jiang family was not wealthy. Fine white flour was beyond their means. Most of their rice and wheat was sold after taxes, leaving only rough black and yellow flour for themselves.

Even yellow flour was a rare treat for Jiang Yun. He steamed a basket, the aroma making him swallow instinctively.

In the big pot to the left was thin rice soup, and from the jar he scooped some wild greens—a simple farmer’s breakfast.

Liu Guihua stood at the door, glancing at him. “Once breakfast is ready, get out and cut grass. Don’t loaf about all day. Who’s going to do all this work—me?”

Jiang Yun moved his lips, wanting to say he hadn’t eaten yet. But knowing Liu Guihua wouldn’t allow it, he swallowed his words.

At that moment, Jiang Mo got up, apparently hungry, and rushed to the kitchen, shoving Jiang Yun aside. “Don’t block the way.”

Jiang Yun was pushed against the door, clutching his stomach as he stepped outside, picking up the sickle. Its blade reflected his sallow, thin face.

The Jiang family’s hut was in the west, but their field lay in the far east. Years ago, when his mother was alive, she used her dowry to buy two acres of good land nearby. After Liu Guihua arrived, she urged his father to sell it, spending the money on a new vanity for Jiang Mo.

“Yun, are you heading to the field?” Zhang Xiulan called out from afar, spotting his thin figure and hurrying after him with her own basket.

Jiang Yun was not talkative. Seeing someone familiar, he merely nodded, chin lowered in silence.

Since Liu Guihua entered the Jiang family, he had grown increasingly quiet. Somewhere along the way, he developed a stutter, and never managed to shake it. Now he spoke less and less.

A breeze rustled the crops, filling his ears with their whisper. Zhang Xiulan cleared her throat, perhaps feeling awkward, and struck up a conversation.

“I heard that the head of Fenggu Village proposed marriage for his youngest son to your brother Jiang Mo. Did it work out?”

Jiang Yun gripped the basket straps, eyes downcast, and shook his head.

Zhang Xiulan tutted, continuing, “Good thing it didn’t go through—otherwise, the family would be in trouble. Your stepmother praises Jiang Mo to the heavens, but I’ve never seen him cook a meal. What, is he going to be worshipped as a deity?”

Jiang Yun glanced at Zhang Xiulan, barely perceptible surprise in his eyes. All his life, outsiders only praised Jiang Mo...

By March, the mountains were already tinged with green. Jiang Yun and Zhang Xiulan each went to their own fields.

The chilly air brought a sheen of sweat to his back. Women and young men couldn’t bare their chests like the men, nor even roll up their sleeves. Otherwise, idle villagers would gossip and tarnish their reputation.

Jiang Yun could only rest briefly on the ridge, letting the breeze cool him.

He had none of Jiang Mo’s fine jewelry or hair ribbons. His hair was tied with a gray cloth strip, looking messy. His face, small as a palm, was sallow and thin from years of hunger.

Yet the morning light softened his features, his clear eyes filled with rare freedom and ease, and a faint smile touched his lips.

At that moment, his appearance caught the eye of someone watching.