Chapter Three: Benefiting the World Together

Liang Yu wandered casually through the small courtyard. He sauntered up to the threshold, leaned against the doorframe, and peered inside, asking, “Ming, why haven’t you cooked yet? Are we skipping a meal today?”

Zhong Ming sighed, seeming to understand Liang’s intentions. “I just haven’t had the chance…”

Instantly, delight lit up Liang’s face as he called out, “Let me do it! How can a great talent like yourself be troubled by such trivial chores? Leave it to me, Ergou will handle everything.”

Without waiting for a reply, Liang darted into the house, scooped rice from the jar, then fetched water to rinse it. He poured the cleaned rice into a small pot on the stove, acting with practiced ease.

As the rice porridge began to cook, Liang flattered, “Ming, what’s that saying? Scholars shouldn’t touch the stove, or they’ll dirty their hands.”

The boy in rough linen replied helplessly, “It’s ‘A gentleman stays out of the kitchen.’”

Scratching at his messy hair and grinning awkwardly, Liang repeated, “Right, I remember now—‘A gentleman stays out of the kitchen.’”

Liang had led a hard life from an early age, drifting about with no chance for schooling. He didn’t care much for study. Even when Zhong Ming tried to teach him a few simple lessons, he’d just yawn and say, “All this talk about what the Sages said, or what gentlemen ought to do—I don’t get it, and it gives me a headache. I won’t learn it!”

Only when he needed a favor from Zhong Ming would the black-faced boy trot out a few clumsy classical phrases, trying to prove his scholarly ambitions and win Ming’s favor. This had become his customary prelude to a request.

This time, Zhong Ming saw through him as always, and guessed the reason for Liang’s troubles. “Where’s the money you collected this month? It’s only halfway through and we’re out of grain at home. I know you have an appetite, but you couldn’t have finished off half a jar of rice in just two weeks.”

Another awkward grin. Liang started counting on his fingers, “Those first few days, Granny Wu’s house had nothing to eat. You know she’s all alone and half-blind—if I didn’t bring her some rice, she’d starve. Then Uncle Li the carpenter just had another child—a boy again—so now they have three sons. The little bit of grain from the county office isn’t nearly enough, so I lent them some. Just a couple of days ago, Little Fish’s mother came with an empty rice sack, asking to borrow some grain. Her baby’s just started on porridge—no rice, and she’ll get sick. The mother’s hungry too, no milk to feed the child, so I lent her some as well. And then…”

As Liang listed all the families he’d helped, Zhong Ming found himself unable to scold him. He could only say, “Still, you have to leave a little for yourself.”

A mischievous grin played at the corner of Liang’s mouth. “But I have you, Ming! Besides, you’re the one who said, ‘When in fortune, help the world.’ Now that I, Liang Ergou, am doing a little better, how could I let the people of Muddy Village suffer? We all crawled out of the same pile of corpses…”

On this point, Liang would never back down. Of all the principles Zhong Ming had tried to teach, he remembered only that one—‘When in fortune, help the world’—and held it tight in his heart.

Not wanting to argue further, the boy in linen waved him off. “Then remember the rest of the saying too: ‘When in need, tend to oneself.’ You’ve only had a few good days and already you think you’re a landlord. Your leftover grain isn’t enough to feed everyone every day.”

Though his tone was scolding, the boy in linen still pulled out two small pieces of silver from his pocket, weighed them, and tossed the larger one to the black-faced youth.

After tossing the silver, Zhong Ming pointed at him. “Don’t come begging for food again this month. Next time, you won’t get any.”

Liang tucked the silver into his waistband, patted the bulging cloth band, and grinned. “Then I’ll come again next month.”

“Always playing the saint. I wanted you to be a good man, not a fool.”

“A fool is still a good man, isn’t he? You always said—of being noble, ruthless, or good, being good is most important.”

“You’re hopeless. I call you a blockhead, but you’re as sly as they come—full of tricks.”

Not wanting to keep bickering with stubborn Liang, the boy in linen got up to check the porridge. Seeing it begin to boil, he called out, “Liang, the porridge is ready!”

There was no response from the courtyard. When he emerged carrying two bowls, Liang was already climbing over the low wall, a small dish in hand. Inside were a few wilted wild greens. With pride, the black-faced boy held up his dish. “Little Fish’s mother gave me these yesterday. I salted them the way you taught me—should be delicious!”

Dawn had just broken; the late spring sunlight was warm and gentle, gilding the small yard and giving the blue-tiled house a golden sheen. The warmth on their skin was especially pleasant.

The two boys squatted on the threshold, each with a bowl of porridge, eating quietly with their salted vegetables.

While Zhong Ming lowered his head to fetch some pickles, the black-faced youth quickly scattered a handful of rice grains from his sleeve to the ground. The red-combed rooster, named Iron General, immediately flapped over, pecking away. When Zhong Ming noticed, it was followed by a round of laughter and scolding.

Life seemed so peaceful, time flowing as it should. For two boys who had endured so much, this was enough. If only they could live like this forever, they would be content.

Contentment is a blessing; cherish the life before you.

…

After polishing off three big bowls of porridge, the black-faced boy finally wiped his mouth, still smacking his lips as he went to wash the dishes. He cleaned everything carefully, stacking bowls and chopsticks neatly—he knew Ming was particular, and would scold him otherwise. Only when he was done did he stride out, rubbing his stuffed belly.

Watching Liang’s retreating figure, Zhong Ming called, “Be careful. If you can’t win, just run!”

“Got it, Ming!”

The distant figure waved his arm high over his head, then gave his belt-sheathed dagger a tug, brimming with confidence as he strode off toward the heart of the village—no doubt thinking about how to rally his friends and teach those troublemakers a lesson.

When Liang had finally disappeared into the morning light, Zhong Ming tidied up, stretched in the courtyard, and then headed out himself.

His strange routine wasn’t much of an exercise—just some moves he remembered from his past life, practiced half an hour each day to keep fit.

May the body stay strong, for the world is long and uncertain.

There were still many days ahead. The youth knew well the importance of health, especially at seventeen, still growing—better to be active than not.

He’d heard the old folks mention that in these times, there were martial arts beyond imagining—heroes who could scale walls and shatter stone with a palm. But he himself had only ever seen one impressive man: Chief Kong, with his crimson-patterned robe and Tang sword at his waist.

Earlier in the year, Zhong Ming had seen Chief Kong break up a gang of thugs in the city barehanded, leaving them sprawled and groaning on the ground without ever drawing his blade. It was this that made Zhong Ming believe the old tales of heroes roaming the land.

Wherever there are people, there is a world of rivers and lakes, and always the legends of swordsmen righting wrongs.

The village once had a storyteller named Mr. Guo, who would, on idle, moonlit nights, sit on the big stone at the entrance and regale everyone with tales of the world.

Some loved the stories of a lone swordsman defeating a hundred foes; others, the amorous adventures of scholars in Luoyang’s Red Jade Tower. But what everyone loved most were the romances—the dashing hero and his beautiful beloved, tangled in their sweet nothings. At these moments, the men would scratch their heads, faces flushed, wishing they could see the scenes Mr. Guo described.

After the wars ended and life grew stable, Mr. Guo no longer stayed in Muddy Village. He moved to the city, and now, it was said, performed in the teahouses, earning handsomely.

The wealthy always paid well. Mr. Guo had never truly belonged to Muddy Village—he would not stay forever.

The bachelors left behind didn’t mind missing the stories, but it was a pity about the thatched hut, which Liang had helped him build.

Zhong Ming paused briefly in front of the now empty cottage, shaking his head, weighing whether to discuss redistributing the property with the village chief. Mr. Guo would not return—people move up, water runs down. Once you leave a muddy village for the city, you don’t look back.

It was just a moment of nostalgia, a thought of Mr. Guo, and then Zhong Ming moved on—he was headed to Old Man Sun’s house at the far end of the village.

Old Man Sun was the village chief, and the village register was still kept at his house. Zhong Ming needed the register to go to town and negotiate for land allocation.

Ideally, the chief and village clerk would be the same person, but Zhong Ming disliked managing daily affairs and left Old Man Sun with the title while he only handled negotiations with the county office. Anything that didn’t involve paperwork, he wouldn’t bother with.

Walking the muddy paths, the boy in linen wrinkled his nose. Even after three years among refugees, he couldn’t stand the stench.

Muddy Village had once been called Rotten Pond. If not for Zhong Ming’s dislike of the name, and his decision to change it when submitting the register, it would still be called that today.

When he renamed it, everyone applauded, praising Mr. Zhong’s learning. Even a name made up offhand by a scholar was cause for pride in a place where there was so little education.

The village’s original name came from the endless refugees and the ever-present mud. Even now, with everyone having a yard and low houses of thatch and mud, they couldn’t escape their refugee roots—dirty and chaotic.

The road was full of potholes. After a night’s rain, it became a quagmire. The air reeked of chicken, duck, and sweat. From the low huts came the curses of men and the cries of infants. As the village’s name suggested, both people and place were a mess.

Yet, no matter how filthy or tattered, whenever Zhong Ming passed, young or old, all greeted him—“Good morning, Teacher Zhong!”—without fail.

It was this, too, that made him reluctant to leave. Not just because this was his home, but because of these people.

The villagers might be rootless refugees, but they were content, grateful, never causing trouble as long as they were fed.

But the people inside the city walls were different. They were ghouls in human skins, smiling tigers who would eat you alive.

Zhong Ming looked up at the broken wall near the village entrance, his eyes narrowing. In half an hour, he would be dealing once more with those city-dwelling devils.