The scent of food had faded, and the oil lamp cast a wavering halo along the rim of the bowl. Chen Wuya set down his chopsticks, grains of rice still clinging to his fingertips, when he suddenly heard footsteps from the mountain path—not the soft crackle of one foot crushing dead leaves, but the dull tremor raised by a crowd stamping the ground.
He did not rise. He merely pushed his bowl a little farther away.
Bai Zhi also stopped what she was doing. Seated beneath the eaves, her needle froze halfway through the cloth, the loose end of thread trembling faintly in midair.
The sounds outside gradually became clearer.
"Hero Chen... please open the door." A man knelt outside the threshold, his forehead pressed to the ground, his voice hoarse. "Disaster has struck the three villages of Northern Ridge. Foreign raiders burned the granaries, stole the cattle and sheep, and even poisoned the wells. The elderly and weak cannot walk, and the children do not even have the strength to cry at night... We can't hold on anymore."
Chen Wuya rose to his feet and walked into the courtyard.
He wore a rough cloth outfit, and the faded blue sash at his waist swayed gently in the wind. There was neither anger nor pity on his face, only an almost tranquil indifference.
There was more than one person outside. Dozens of commoners gathered beyond the fence, most dressed in rags, strips of tattered cloth wrapped around their feet. One woman held a sleeping child in her arms, her lips cracked and her eyes hollow. They neither shouted nor made a fuss. They simply stood there, knelt there, like tree stumps battered down by wind and rain.
The man in front raised his face. His skin was dark, his cheeks