Not for Sale

Winter had arrived. The north wind howled, and the snow fell thick and fast.

Heaven and earth stretched out in a vast whiteness; not a bird or beast was in sight.

Meng Yuan leaned on a wooden stick. He had long forgotten which day of fleeing the famine this was; he only knew that many of those traveling with him had silently collapsed by the roadside.

Crunching through the snow, he walked for who knew how long before spotting a low-walled courtyard beside the road ahead—an abandoned relay station.

As he reached the station's entrance and was about to search it, a scar-faced man suddenly sprang out. Greedy green light gleamed in his eyes as he stared straight past Meng Yuan.

This man was clearly starving out of his mind, and he had already tasted the flesh of his own kind.

Behind Meng Yuan stood a grandfather and granddaughter. They had joined him several days ago, but they had never spoken, and he did not even know their names.

When hunger became unbearable, people had no desire to speak. They did not even have the strength to think.

"Brother, this has nothing to do with you. We only want the child." The scar-faced man licked his lips as he spoke to Meng Yuan.

Children's flesh was tender, cooked quickly, and did not take much firewood to boil.

"Brother, we're hungry! So hungry there's no other way!" Another man emerged from behind a large tree over ten paces away, holding a long cudgel and forming a pincer attack.

The two had clearly planned this beforehand, though judging by their appearance, they truly were starving badly.

"Give me a share of the feast." Meng Yuan's voice was weak and listless.

"Easy enough!" The scar-faced man agreed at once and lifted his broken wooden club, about to step forward and seize them.

"Heavens!" The old man shielded his granddaughter behind him. Then, with a desolate howl, he charged at Scarface. Ignoring the blows of the club, he locked his arms tightly around Scarface's waist. "Child, run!"

Those who did not fear death were invincible. For a moment, Scarface could do nothing to the old man.

"Grandpa!" The frail child cried out, and her voice revealed her to be a girl. Not only did she refuse to run, she screamed herself hoarse as she tried to go help.

"Stay back!" Meng Yuan stepped forward two paces, gripping his stick as he blocked the girl. Looking back, he saw that Scarface, being a strong young man after all, had quickly wrestled the old man down and mounted him, both hands clamped around the old man's throat.

"Haha, I've got him pinned! Hurry and smash his head in!" Scarface shrieked madly at Meng Yuan.

"Fine!" Seizing the moment, Meng Yuan brought his stick down in a single blow, striking Scarface squarely on the back of the head.

That strike drained nearly all of Meng Yuan's strength. At once, his vision swam and the world spun, and he could barely remain standing.

Scarface swayed, then toppled sideways.

His companion had already rushed close, but when he saw Meng Yuan suddenly turn on Scarface, he stood there with his club in hand, utterly at a loss over what to do.

"Get lost." Meng Yuan panted heavily and barked the order before forcing himself onward.

The times were hard. This was the last scrap of kindness Meng Yuan could offer. Killing Scarface had been a trick; he truly had no strength left to kill the other man.

The grandfather and granddaughter hurried after him. The remaining man indeed did not dare pursue. He staggered to his companion's corpse, wept twice, then could not help licking his lips. "Brother, you smell so good..."

Another half day passed, and Meng Yuan was nearly a lamp run dry of oil. Only a single breath of resolve kept him going.

"Eat." Seeing Meng Yuan slow with every step, the old man took half a flatbread from his robes.

Meng Yuan looked at him. His beard was sparse, his cheeks deeply sunken. He was plainly already at death's door.

"If I can't hold on, please, little brother, look after this child." The old man's lips were cracked as he forced out an ugly smile and pleaded, "Even if you cannot... do not let anyone eat her."

Meng Yuan accepted the flatbread. Ignoring the hopeful look in the child's eyes, he swallowed it mouthful by mouthful, even sucking every crumb into his mouth. Then he grabbed a handful of snow to wash it down, felt a little strength return, and continued forward.

The grandfather and granddaughter followed without a word.

By nightfall, they found a ruined temple, made a fire, and the three squeezed together to rest.

They endured until dawn, then traveled on for a while longer before seeing city walls at the end of the road ahead. There was clearly a way to live.

Beneath the walls stood many low, shabby houses, built from a mix of earth and brick. They were likely homes of poor people scraping out a living nearby.

There was also a porridge shed, where six or seven constables supervised the distribution of porridge. Whenever refugees fought to grab some, they received a vicious lash of the whip.

Seeing a chance at life, Meng Yuan and the old man exchanged a look. Both felt as though they had escaped alive from the gates of hell.

Had they endured another day or two, they would either have died beside the road or ended up in a boiling pot.

They joined the line and waited a long time before each receiving a bowl of porridge.

The rice porridge was like clear water, with only a few millet grains floating in it. One could use its surface as a mirror. Still, it was hot, and that was enough to keep them alive.

"That's what refugees are like. All they need to worry about is fleeing famine. We have many more things to consider—we need disaster relief in the snow and must guard against unrest." Nearby, some constables chatted in low voices.

After a person drank one bowl of porridge, they were forbidden from having another and driven aside.

There was no work-for-relief. There was only sticking dry grass in one's hair and waiting to be chosen like livestock.

Not far from the porridge shed stood a crude Thatched Cottage, where several slave traders were soliciting refugees.

There were also several carriages, whose wealthy owners had come personally to select people.

The poor feared disasters most, but rich households welcomed natural calamities, because they could annex land cheaply and buy servants at low prices.

"Young man, what do you plan to do?" The old man had regained some strength after drinking hot porridge.

Meng Yuan shook his head.

The times were hard, and he had no skill to rely on. Other than selling himself into slavery, what other road was there? Or perhaps joining the outlaws in the greenwood? But he had no connections for that either.

Though he could read and keep accounts, no one would hire a refugee of unknown origins as an accountant.

"There is always a way. Better to be a servant or maid than freeze or starve to death." The old man sighed, then added, "This old man's surname is Jiang. From now on, let us look out for one another."

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

As the two spoke and prepared to ask the slave broker whether there was any way to live, they saw a carriage emerge from the city.

A handsome yet effeminate young man jumped down from it. His manner was frivolous, and his face seemed powdered; when the cold wind blew, it carried over a cloying fragrance.

A constable stepped forward to flatter him, addressing him as Steward Yang.

This man was likely some noble household's steward.

Steward Yang held a hand warmer and exchanged a few pleasantries with the constable. The constable then struck a bronze gong and shouted, "Yang Mansion is hiring several young pages! Anyone who can read, come over!"

At those words, many disaster victims with dry grass stuck in their hair surged forward in a flood.

"Me, me! Sir, I can read!" A bearded middle-aged man squeezed to the front.

"Fuck off!" Steward Yang kicked him away, raised an orchid finger, and scolded, "Can't you understand human speech? I want young pages! Take a look at how old you are!"

Sure enough, no one dared answer for a moment.

Learning to read was no easy matter. Ordinary folk who recognized a few large characters were already considered decent; anyone sent to school from childhood must have come from a well-off family.

Seeing no one make a sound, Steward Yang said again, "It's fine if you cannot read, but I need younger ones! Stand up straight and let me have a look! If you get chosen, you'll eat rich food and drink fine wine!"

Meng Yuan watched coldly, feeling that something was off, so he did not step forward.

Wrapped in a cloak, Steward Yang entered the crowd of refugees and inspected them one by one. If he saw one who pleased his eye, he would pinch his arm, pat his backside, and inspect his teeth.

He did not seem to be choosing young pages at all. He looked more like he was selecting livestock.

Soon, the steward came before a youth, lifted the youth's chin to inspect him, and said, "Your frame is a little too large. What is your name? How old are you?"

"My name is Liu Dabao. I'm sixteen this year. Sir, I've carried dung since I was little. I'm strong and can work harder than anyone!" The youth fawned.

"A little old, but barely acceptable." Steward Yang covered his nose as if disgusted by the smell on the youth, then nodded. "You look fairly clever. You count as one."

Liu Dabao wiped his tears, knowing he would live. Just as he was about to kneel and give thanks, someone tugged at the corner of his clothing.

The one tugging his hem was a dying old man seated on the ground.

"What is it, old man? I don't know you." Liu Dabao looked bewildered.

"Young man," the old man said, tucking his hands into his sleeves and closing his eyes as white breath spilled from his mouth, "this is not selling yourself into service. You are going to sell your ass. Think it over carefully. There are many chances to survive in Songhe Prefecture now. A young man can suffer more hardship, but he must not take the crooked road."

"What bullshit is this old bastard spouting?" Before Liu Dabao could reply, Steward Yang flew into a rage. He stepped forward and kicked the old man over, snarling, "What's wrong with selling ass? You look down on people who sell ass?"

"We can barely stay alive, and no one said we look down on it. But the young man deserves to have things explained clearly. That is the rule." The old man lay overturned on the ground, weak to the extreme, yet he did not beg for mercy.

"You do look down on people who sell ass! Men, beat him!" One hand on his hip and the other curled into an orchid finger, Steward Yang raged, "Why did the founding emperor of the previous dynasty preserve the tale of his days as a beggar? Let me tell you—it was because before that founding emperor gained power, he sold ass too! And you dare look down on people who sell ass? Even if you wanted to sell yours, you would have nowhere to sell it!"

The steward spoke with such conviction. Clearly, he himself was the one who sold ass, so he believed everyone ought to do the same!

The attendants who had come with him all rushed forward and kicked the old man, truly beating him to death.

The watching refugees were all numb, merely staring blankly.

Very soon, the old man made no more sound. The constable beside them acted as if he had seen nothing and even began chatting with Steward Yang, all smiles and warmth.

Hot blood flowed from the old man's head and face, melting into the broken snow like scattered withered plum blossoms.

The times were hard, demons and monsters filled the earth, yet there were still people who held fast to the last thread of conscience.