Not For Sale

Winter had arrived, the north wind howled, and the heavy snow was thick.

The world was a vast expanse of white, with no sign of birds or beasts.

Meng Yuan leaned on a wooden stick. He couldn't remember how many days he had been fleeing, only that many of his companions had silently collapsed by the roadside.

Crunching on the snow, he didn't know how much longer he walked before he saw a low-walled courtyard by the side of the road ahead. It was an abandoned post station.

He walked to the entrance of the post station, just about to go in and search, when he saw a man with a scar on his face dart out, his eyes gleaming with greedy green light, staring straight behind Meng Yuan.

This person was clearly starving and had already tasted the flavor of his own kind.

Behind Meng Yuan was a pair of grandfather and grandchild. These two had joined Meng Yuan a few days ago, but they had never spoken to each other and didn't even know each other's names.

Under extreme hunger, people were unwilling to speak, and didn't even have the strength to think.

"Brother, it's none of your business, we just want that child," the scar-faced man licked his lips and said to Meng Yuan.

Children's meat was tender, easy to cook, and didn't require much firewood.

"Brother is hungry! Truly starving, there's no other way!" Another person emerged from behind a large tree more than ten paces away, holding a long stick in his hand, forming a pincer attack.

These two were clearly premeditated, but looking at them, they were indeed quite hungry.

"Give me a share," Meng Yuan said weakly.

"Easy to say!" The scar-faced man immediately agreed and was about to step forward to grab the person, holding a broken wooden stick.

"Heaven!" The old man shielded his grandson behind him, then let out a mournful cry and rushed towards the scar-faced man, disregarding the blows from the wooden stick, just holding the scar-faced man's waist tightly, "Child, run quickly!"

Those who are not afraid of death are invincible. For a moment, the scar-faced man couldn't do anything to the old man.

"Grandpa!" When the thin child spoke, it was a girl's voice. She didn't run, but instead screamed hysterically, wanting to go forward to help.

"Get out!" Meng Yuan took two steps forward, holding the stick, blocking the girl's path. He looked back and saw that the scar-faced man was, after all, a strong young man. After struggling for a bit, he straddled the old man and tightly squeezed the old man's neck with both hands.

"Haha, I've got him! Hurry and hit his head!" The scar-faced man yelled frantically at Meng Yuan.

"Okay!" Meng Yuan seized the opportunity and brought the stick down, hitting the scar-faced man squarely on the back of the head.

This blow used almost all of Meng Yuan's strength. For a moment, he felt dizzy and unsteady on his feet.

The scar-faced man swayed, then fell to the side.

His accomplice had already rushed forward, but seeing Meng Yuan suddenly turn against them, he held the stick in his hand but didn't know what to do with it, his face a blank slate.

"Get lost." Meng Yuan gasped for air and cursed at the man, then stepped forward and continued walking.

The world was difficult, and this was the last bit of kindness Meng Yuan could offer. Killing the scar-faced man was a trick; he truly didn't have the strength to kill the other person.

The grandfather and grandchild quickly followed. The remaining man indeed didn't dare to chase. He stumbled and crawled to his companion's corpse, cried for a bit, then couldn't help but lick his tongue, "Brother, you smell so good..."

Another half day passed, and Meng Yuan was almost at the end of his rope, only holding on by a thread of determination.

"Eat." The old man saw Meng Yuan walking slower and slower and took out half a flatbread from his embrace.

Meng Yuan looked at the old man and saw that his beard was sparse and his cheeks were sunken, clearly on the verge of death.

"If I can't hold on, please take care of this child, little brother." The old man's lips were cracked, and he squeezed out an ugly smile, pleading, "Even if you can't, don't let anyone eat her."

Meng Yuan took the flatbread, disregarding the child's hopeful gaze, and swallowed it bite by bite, sucking all the crumbs into his mouth. He then grabbed a handful of snow to wash it down and felt a bit of strength return. He then lifted his feet and continued forward.

The grandfather and grandchild followed without a word.

In the evening, they found a dilapidated temple, made a fire, and huddled together to rest.

They endured until dawn, walked a bit further, and saw a city wall at the end of the main road ahead, clearly a way to survive.

There were many low, flat houses below the city wall, a mix of mud and brick, likely where the poor people who made a living nearby lived.

There was also a porridge shed, where six or seven yamen runners were serving porridge. If any disaster victims scrambled for it, they would receive a harsh whip.

Seeing a way to live, Meng Yuan and the old man exchanged glances, both feeling as if they had escaped death.

If they had endured for another day or two, they would have either died by the roadside or ended up in a hot pot.

They lined up and waited for a long time, each receiving a bowl of porridge.

The rice porridge was like clear water, with only a few grains of millet floating in it, so clear you could see your reflection. But at least it was hot, which was enough to sustain life.

"That's how it is for the displaced people, they just need to flee. We have a lot more to consider, like disaster relief in the snow and preventing civil unrest," a constable nearby whispered in idle chat.

Each person was only allowed one bowl of porridge and was then driven to the side.

There was no work relief, only people with withered grass stuck in their hair, waiting to be chosen like livestock.

Not far from the porridge shed was a simple thatched hut, where several human traffickers were soliciting displaced people.

There were also several carriages, belonging to wealthy families who had come to select people themselves.

The poor were most afraid of disasters, while wealthy families welcomed natural disasters, simply because they could acquire land at a low price and buy slaves at a low price.

"Young man, what are you planning?" The old man had regained some strength after drinking the hot porridge.

Meng Yuan shook his head.

The world was difficult, and without any skills, what other way out was there besides selling oneself into slavery? Or perhaps joining the bandits? But there was no way to do that either!

Although he could read and do calculations, no one would hire a displaced person of unknown origin as an accountant.

"There's always a way. Being a servant is better than freezing or starving to death." The old man sighed and added, "My surname is Jiang. We'll look out for each other from now on."

"Old Man Jiang," Meng Yuan replied, "My name is Meng Yuan."

As the two were talking and preparing to ask the matchmaker if there was any way to survive, they saw a carriage drive out from the city.

A handsome and effeminate young man jumped out of the carriage. His demeanor was quite frivolous, and his face seemed to be powdered. A gust of cold wind carried a cloying fragrance.

A constable stepped forward to fawn over him, calling him Steward Yang.

This person was likely a steward from a noble family.

Steward Yang held a hand warmer and exchanged a few pleasantries with the constable. The constable then struck a gong and shouted loudly, "The Yang family is recruiting a few bookboys! Anyone who is literate, come over!"

As soon as he said this, many disaster victims with withered grass stuck in their hair surged forward.

"Me, me, me! Sir, I'm literate!" A middle-aged man with a full beard squeezed forward.

"Get lost!" Steward Yang kicked him and, with a raised pinky finger, cursed, "Can't you understand human language? Sir wants bookboys! Look how old you are!"

Indeed, no one dared to respond for a while.

Reading and writing were by no means easy. It was already good for ordinary people to recognize a few characters. If they had attended school since childhood, their family background must have been well-off.

Seeing that no one was speaking, Steward Yang said again, "It's okay if you're not literate, but you have to be young! Stand up straight and let Sir take a look! If you're chosen, you'll eat well and live comfortably!"

Meng Yuan watched with cold eyes, always feeling that something was not right, so he didn't step forward.

Steward Yang, wearing a cloak, walked into the crowd of refugees, examining them one by one. If he saw someone pleasing to the eye, he would pinch their arm, pat their backside, and check their teeth.

It didn't look like he was choosing bookboys; it looked more like he was choosing livestock.

Soon, the steward came before a young man, reached out and lifted the young man's chin to look at him, and said, "Your frame is a bit big. What's your name? How old are you?"

"My name is Liu Dabao, and I'm sixteen this year. Sir, I've been carrying manure since I was a child. I'm full of strength and the most capable worker!" The young man said fawningly.

"You're a bit old, but you'll do." Steward Yang covered his nose, as if he disliked the young man's smell, then nodded, "You look quite clever. You're one of them!"

Liu Dabao wiped away his tears, knowing he could survive. Just as he was about to kneel down in gratitude, he felt his clothes being pulled.

The person pulling his clothes was a dying old man sitting on the ground.

"What's wrong, old man? I don't know you." Liu Dabao was bewildered.

"Young man," the old man tucked his hands into his sleeves, closed his eyes, and exhaled white mist, saying, "This isn't selling yourself; it's selling your backside. You need to think about it carefully. There are many opportunities to survive in Songhe Prefecture right now. Young people should endure more hardship and not go down the wrong path."

"What nonsense is this old geezer spouting!" Before Liu Dabao could respond, Steward Yang became agitated first. He stepped forward and kicked the old man over, angrily saying, "What's wrong with selling your backside? Do you look down on those who sell their backside?"

"We're all struggling to survive, and we didn't say we look down on it. We just need to make things clear to the young man. This is the rule." The old man lay on the ground, extremely weak, but he didn't beg for mercy.

"You just look down on those who sell their backside! Guards! Beat him!" Steward Yang put one hand on his hip and raised his pinky finger with the other, cursing, "Why did the founding emperor of the previous dynasty keep the experience of being a beggar? Let me tell you, the founding emperor of the previous dynasty also sold his backside before he gained power! How dare you look down on those who sell their backside? You can't even find a place to sell yours!"

The steward spoke with certainty, clearly implying that he himself sold his backside, and therefore thought everyone should sell their backside like him!

The accompanying attendants all stepped forward and kicked the old man, truly beating him to death.

The surrounding refugees were all numb, just staring blankly.

Soon, the old man fell silent. The constable beside him acted as if he hadn't seen anything and even started chatting with Steward Yang, the atmosphere harmonious.

Hot blood flowed from the old man's head and face, melting into the scattered snow, like a patch of withered plum blossoms on the ground.

The world was difficult, demons were everywhere, yet there were still people who held onto the last shred of conscience.