Sishui Town—named for the muddy river that runs beside it—guarded one of the western gates toward the capital's hinterlands. It wasn't large. The bluestone road was pitted and slick from endless carts; crooked wooden houses leaned over the street; the air held a permanent mix of river stink, animal dung, and cheap wine. Far from the capital's splendor and terror, the town had its own rough, noisy, and fragile rules of survival.
By the time "Lin Yan" reached Sishui with a band of refugees, he was spent. Days of marching on wild fruit, roots, and the occasional scrap had wrung him dry. Sweat had turned the mud on his face to a cracked crust; the stolen coarse clothes hung in torn, foul-smelling strips.
He curled in the lee of a wall, watching the street churn past—vendors shouting, carters swearing, women with baskets, patrolmen scanning with narrow eyes. Hunger burned holes in his gut; dizziness washed over him. He needed food. He needed a corner to disappear in.
Survival—nothing else mattered.
He tried begging like the others, but the pride set in his bones made the gesture stiff and wrong. A few cold coppers, tossed with colder looks—that was all.
Then a commotion rose in the market square.
An old vegetable seller sat in the mud, weeping. Crushed greens lay scattered at his feet. A fat man in fine clothes—jowls shaking—barked orders while two hired thugs tugged at the old man's scrawny donkey.
"Liu Laoshuan! You owe Steward Wang six months' rent! We'll take the donkey and call it kindness!" the fat man crowed.
"No—Zhang-master, please!" the old man clung to his leg, voice cracking. "Without the donkey my family will starve! I've paid most already—Steward Wang, he—"
"Lies!" The fat man kicked him aside. "Here's the contract—black and white! Keep yapping and I'll haul you to the magistrate!"
People gathered—sympathetic, but frozen. Everyone knew Steward Wang's reach. Few dared step in.
Lin Yan watched, eyes flat. He knew that look—the swagger of petty power. He'd seen it on Gao's lackeys a hundred times. Anger flared, but reason held him down.
His gaze slid to the "contract" clutched in the fat man's fist, then to the old farmer's hopeless face. An idea struck.
He slipped from the crowd—not toward the fight, but to a child squatting nearby, scratching characters in the dirt while copying the town scribe across the lane.
Lin Yan crouched. His voice was low and hoarse. "Little brother, a favor. Tell the old grandpa this: ask the county yamen to examine the paper and ink in public. Say someone noticed the contract's ink and paper aren't old—certainly not from half a year ago."
The boy blinked, then saw the single copper Lin Yan pressed into his hand. He nodded and darted off, whispering into the old man's ear.
The farmer froze, then seized on the words like a drowning man to a reed. He lurched upright, voice trembling but loud: "Zhang-master! I—I demand the magistrate examine the deed! This ink—this paper—new work, not half a year old!"
The fat man's face twitched; a flit of panic crossed his eyes. He blustered, "Nonsense!"
"Truth will tell!" the old farmer shouted, stronger now. "If it's real, I submit to punishment! If it's false—may the magistrate judge!"
Murmurs rippled. Eyes turned to the deed. Forging contracts was a serious crime. The fat man hadn't expected a direct strike. Bluff curdled into nerves as the circle swelled.
"Hmph! Lucky old fool! The donkey's skin and bones anyway. We're leaving!" He crushed the deed into a ball, glared, and shoved off with his men.
The old farmer fell on his donkey's neck, sobbing. The crowd thinned, disappointed that the spectacle was over.
Lin Yan slipped back into the shade. He had just turned to go when a tall young constable stepped into his path—broad-shouldered, official vest, the frank face of someone not yet hardened by years.
"You," the constable said, eyes sharp. "I saw you send that boy. What did you tell him?"
Lin Yan's gut tightened. Trouble. He lowered his head, rasping, "Nothing… felt sorry for him, that's all."
"Spare me." The constable leaned in, voice low. "Those thugs work for Steward Wang. Liu Laoshuan's too simple to think of ink and paper tests. You gave him that."
Silence. Sweat pricked Lin Yan's palms. Deny—or—
Before he could choose, the old farmer shuffled up, bowing again and again. "Head Constable Zhao! Please, sir, do right by us! If not for this young man—" He turned to Lin Yan, grateful and tongue-tied.
The constable waved him calm, eyes still on Lin Yan, the edge of threat easing. "I'm Zhao Qi, constable of Sishui. Your name? Where from?"
No point pretending. "Lin Yan," he said softly. "From the north. Disaster came. I fled."
Zhao Qi frowned at the tatters and the bookish line of his face. "You read, don't you? How'd you end up like this?"
A beat. Then the careful answer: "My family… fell into misfortune. I escaped. I know a few characters."
Zhao Qi's shoulders loosened. The man had secrets—but he'd just helped a helpless neighbor stand up to a bully. Not the mark of a villain.
"Forget it," Zhao said gruffly, fishing out two still-warm coarse flatbreads and pressing them into Lin Yan's hands. "Eat first."
The rough smell of grain nearly undid him. His stomach roared. He forced himself not to devour them whole. "Thank you… Constable Zhao."
Zhao scratched his head. "Got nowhere to sleep, do you? East end's an old posting inn. Run-down, but the keeper—Old Wang—is decent and cheap. I'll vouch for you. Maybe he'll take you on for chores."
Salvation, handed plain.
Lin Yan lifted his eyes to Zhao's—clear, with a streak of righteousness. For the first time since his flight, he felt unbartered kindness.
"Thank you," he said again, voice rough with something more than hunger.
Zhao waved it off and led him through turns of bluestone to a two-story house with a weathered sign that read "Post Inn." The wood was scarred, but the place was tidy.
Behind the counter, a lean man in a skullcap clicked an abacus—Old Wang, the keeper. His shrewd eyes skimmed Lin Yan up and down, weighing him like goods—then paused at the difference in his gaze: tired, yes, but not the usual dullness of a beggar.
"Constable Zhao's guest?" Old Wang set the beads aside. "Cheapest is the common floor—five coppers a night. As for work… the back kitchen needs wood chopped and water carried. Bed and meals, no wages. Take it or leave it."
Chopping wood. Carrying water. Words from a life that once would never have touched him.
A bitter smile tugged at Lin Yan's mouth, gone as quickly as it came. He needed a roof. He needed breath.
He met Old Wang's look and nodded. "I'll do it."
An eyebrow rose at the lack of fuss. Old Wang pointed to a side door. "Then start. Pile of wood in the yard. Fill the tanks. Finish, and you get porridge and a mantou."
Lin Yan thanked Zhao once more and went out back. A small mountain of logs waited beside two wide cisterns.
He hefted the axe—clumsy in his hands—and brought it down. Chips flew. His palms sang with pain. Blow after blow, sweat soaked the rags on his back and cut furrows through the mud on his face. The work bit deep, but in that bite was something steady and real.
A roof, for a night. Food, earned by his own hands. Small. Hard. But real. A beginning.
Dusk thickened. In the inn's rear court, only the rhythm of the axe and his heavy breathing remained. In this border-town backwater, Lin Yan—the dragon sunk to the depths—began his life below the waterline.
But Old Wang's shrewd stare, and Zhao Qi's open manner with a hint of caution, told him Sishui's calm surface hid its own currents. How long would this fragile shelter hold?