The sky was just beginning to lighten, still before the rooster crowed, when Chen Ping'an got up. The thin bedding did little to keep in warmth, and besides, back when he was an apprentice at the kiln, he'd already developed the habit of rising early and sleeping late.
He opened the door and stepped into the soft-earth courtyard. After taking a deep breath and stretching his limbs, he walked out of the yard. As he turned his head, he caught sight of a slim figure bent at the waist, hands gripping a wooden bucket filled with water. She was using her shoulder to push open the courtyard gate — it was Song Jixin's maid, just returning from drawing water at the iron-locked well on Xinghua Alley.
Turning his gaze away, Chen Ping'an ran through the alleys toward the east side of the town. Mud Bottle Alley was on the west end, and the easternmost gate of the town had someone stationed there who handled the comings and goings of merchants, kept watch during curfew, and also collected and passed along letters from outside. Chen Ping'an's job today was to deliver those letters to the townspeople — one coin per letter, a job he'd worked hard to secure. He had already made arrangements to take over the task starting today, the second day of the second lunar month, when the dragon raises its head.
In Song Jixin's words, Chen Ping'an was born under a poor star — even if fortune walked through his front door, he couldn't keep it. Song Jixin liked to say things that sounded profound, likely lifted straight from books. Chen Ping'an didn't always understand them. Like the other day when Song said, "The biting spring chill kills young men," — Chen Ping'an was baffled. He did know that even after winter passed, it could still feel colder in early spring. Song had called that "reverse spring cold," comparing it to a cavalry's feigned retreat that turns deadly. That's how people ended up dying at life's checkpoints.
The town wasn't surrounded by city walls — no bandits, no thieves, barely even pickpockets. The "city gate" was really just a row of crooked old wooden fences, with a roughly formed gap wide enough for people and carts to pass through. That passed for the town's front face.
As Chen Ping'an jogged past Xinghua Alley, he saw many women and children gathered by the iron-locked well. The pulley creaked constantly as buckets of water were drawn up.
Rounding another street, he heard the familiar sound of recitation drifting from not far away — the local academy. A few of the wealthier families in town had pooled money to open it, hiring a teacher from another place. When Chen Ping'an was younger, he often crouched outside the window, eavesdropping. Though the teacher was strict with students, he never shooed away kids like Chen who came to "borrow" lessons. But after Chen Ping'an became an apprentice at the dragon kiln outside town, he had no more time for schooling.
Farther ahead, he passed by a stone archway built on twelve pillars. Locals called it the "Crab Arch," because of the twelve "legs." As for its real name, Song Jixin and Liu Xianyang had differing opinions. Song claimed with confidence that an old County Gazetteer said it was called the "Grand Academician's Arch," an imperial bestowment to honor a great official's civil and military achievements. Liu Xianyang, who like Chen Ping'an didn't know much, scoffed, saying it had always been just "Crab Arch," called that for hundreds of years — why mess it up with some nonsense name? He once asked Song Jixin, "Is the Grand Academician's hat bigger than the well mouth at the iron-locked well?" leaving Song flushed with embarrassment.
Chen Ping'an jogged a full circle around the twelve-pillar arch. Each side had four large characters carved into plaques, the scripts varied and odd: "Undaunted in duty," "Rare words, natural truth," "Seek not without," and "Spirit pierces the heavens." Song Jixin had said that except for one set of four characters, the other three had all been painted over or altered. Chen Ping'an didn't understand any of it. Even if he were curious, it would be futile — he didn't even know what kind of book a County Gazetteer was.
Not far beyond the arch stood an old, lush locust tree. Beneath it lay a section of tree trunk someone had dragged over and hacked roughly into shape. With a stone slab propped under each end, it made for a simple bench. In summer, townsfolk liked to cool off there. Wealthier households would even chill a basket of fruit in the well and share it with the children playing under the tree's shade.
Chen Ping'an, used to climbing hills and wading streams, ran effortlessly to the fence gate and stopped by the lone yellow-mud house. He wasn't even out of breath.
Few outsiders came to this town. Now that the imperial kiln — once a money tree — had shut down, there was even less reason for new faces to appear. Old man Yao once got drunk and told his apprentices, including Chen Ping'an and Liu Xianyang, that they had worked for the one and only imperial kiln — making porcelain for the emperor and empress. Even if a commoner was rich or a noble was powerful, if they so much as touched it, they'd lose their heads. That day, Old Yao had looked especially proud.
But today, Chen Ping'an saw something odd — outside the gate, seven or eight people were waiting to enter, men and women, young and old — all strangers.
That was unusual. Locals didn't use the east gate much — there were no kilns or farmland that way.
Across the wooden fence, these out-of-towners stared at the thin boy in straw sandals. Chen Ping'an only envied their thick clothes. They must be warm, able to withstand the cold.
The strangers clearly didn't belong to a single group. Yet they all looked inward — some indifferent, some peering past the boy into the town beyond.
Chen Ping'an found it strange. Didn't they know the court had banned all dragon kilns? Or perhaps they did know, and had come to take advantage of the situation?
Just then, a young man with a strange tall hat and green jade pendant grew impatient. He stepped forward and reached for the gate — it wasn't locked — but before touching it, he suddenly stopped, slowly withdrawing his hand. He clasped his hands behind his back and smiled at the boy inside, saying nothing.
Out of the corner of his eye, Chen Ping'an noticed various reactions among the others behind the man: some disappointed, some amused, some frowning, others sneering. Subtle emotions — all different.
Then came a shout — a messy-haired middle-aged man flung open a door and cursed at Chen Ping'an. "You little bastard, chasing after coins already? Waking me up like a ghost call! Rushing off to see your dead parents, are you?!"
Chen Ping'an rolled his eyes. He wasn't bothered. In a backwater town with barely any books, getting mad over insults was a waste of breath — better to just jump into a well and be done with it. Plus, that grumpy gatekeeper was always the town's punchline. Even bold women scolded and hit him openly. He often boasted to toddlers about the time he supposedly fought off six grown men at the gate, splattering blood everywhere like a muddy road in the rain.
He grumbled at Chen Ping'an, "Whatever crap you're up to, wait your turn."
No one in town took the man seriously.
But when it came to outsiders entering the town, he had the final say.
The man walked toward the gate, scratching his groin as he went.
With his back to Chen Ping'an, he opened the gate and began collecting embroidered pouches from each visitor — slipping them into his sleeve — before waving them through one by one.
Chen Ping'an had long since stepped aside. The eight strangers entered in five groups. Among them, one was the tall-hatted man with the jade pendant, and two were children — a boy in a bright red robe, and a delicate girl who looked like a perfect porcelain doll.
The boy was half a head shorter than Chen Ping'an. As he passed, he mouthed two silent words — clearly provocative.
The woman holding his hand coughed lightly. Only then did the boy behave.
Behind them, the girl was led by a broad-shouldered, white-haired old man. She turned her head and chattered at length to Chen Ping'an, pointing back at the boy.
Chen Ping'an couldn't understand a word, but it was clearly tattling.
The old man cast a sidelong glance at the boy in straw sandals.
Under that glance, Chen Ping'an instinctively took a step back — like a mouse meeting a cat.
Seeing that, the once-chirpy little girl immediately lost interest. She turned her head away, as if even one more glance would dirty her eyes.
Chen Ping'an may have been inexperienced, but he could read the mood.
As the group disappeared into the town, the gatekeeper chuckled, "Want to know what they were saying?"
Chen Ping'an nodded. "Sure."
The man grinned. "They said you're good-looking. All compliments."
Chen Ping'an gave a half-smile. You think I'm an idiot?
The man saw through him and laughed louder. "If you weren't a little stupid, would I let you deliver letters?"
Chen Ping'an didn't argue — no sense risking his copper coins.
The man looked off toward the town, rubbing his scraggly beard. He muttered, "That woman earlier… legs like scissors — could kill a man."
Chen Ping'an hesitated, then asked, "That lady practices martial arts?"
The man stared at him blankly, then solemnly said, "Kid, you really are dumb."
Chen Ping'an was utterly confused.
The man told him to wait, then came back from the house with a stack of envelopes — about a dozen.
After handing them over, he asked, "Do you believe that fools have their blessings, and good people get repaid?"
Chen Ping'an held the letters in one hand, and opened his other palm. "We agreed — one coin per letter."
The man, annoyed, slapped five copper coins into his palm. With a grand wave, he said, "I'll owe you the other five!"