Autumn wind swept dead leaves from the street corner, striking his patched trouser leg.
He instinctively tucked the threadbare bundle under his arm, lowered his head, and slipped into the bustling crowd like an unremarkable drop of water.
Only after walking two streets did the prickling feeling of being watched finally fade.
Chen Ping slowed his pace. Through his coarse clothes, his fingers gently rubbed the thin sheet of paper against his chest.
This was more than freedom. It was the ticket he had bought with everything he owned.
The western part of Jinguang City belonged to the poor, and Rat Alley was the worst festering sore in the whole district.
Filthy water ran everywhere, and the air reeked of a nauseating blend of fermenting slop and dry latrines.
The alleys were narrow and winding. One careless turn was enough to lose yourself among the haphazard shacks piled one atop another.
"This one. Take it or leave it."
The Rental Agency clerk was a middle-aged man with a sharp mouth and a ratlike face. He covered his nose with his sleeve in disgust and pointed to a rickety little house.
Half the courtyard wall had collapsed, and a few rotten boards barely blocked the gap. The roof tiles were scattered thinly, like patches on a balding head.
"This part of town's a mess, but at least it's cheap. If you went to the main street, this wouldn't even rent you a latrine."
The clerk gave Chen Ping's shabby clothes a once-over, his tone impatient. "Three hundred copper coins a month. One month's deposit, three months paid upfront. No credit."
Chen Ping nodded meekly, fished a string of copper coins from his sleeve, counted them three times, and only then handed them over.
"All right, all right. What a sorry sight."
The clerk snatched the coins, tossed him a rust-spotted key, and turned to leave, as if he were afraid poverty might rub off on him if he stayed another moment.
Chen Ping watched the rental agent walk away before pushing open the broken wooden door, which creaked loudly on its hinges.
The inside of the house was dim. Dust lay a finger thick, and ragged cobwebs hung in the corners.
But Chen Ping let out a long breath, and his rigid shoulders finally sagged.
It was a bit of a wreck, but this was Chen Ping's own place.
He set down his bundle, rolled up his sleeves, and began sweeping. The water he drew from the well was bone-chilling, jolting him wide awake.
After scraping away the years of grime beneath the bed, Chen Ping took a dagger from his clothes and carefully pried up a blue-gray brick at the foot of the bed.
He dug another half a foot down, wrapped his last few taels of silver and the Shattered Stone Palm manual in layers of oilcloth, and buried them. Then he smoothed the loose earth, replaced the brick, and scattered a layer of dust over it.
Even then, he didn't stop.
He plucked out one of his hairs, dabbed it with saliva, and stuck it in the least noticeable corner of the doorframe.
Then he sprinkled a fine layer of incense ash into the window's sliding track.
If anyone pushed open the door or window while he was out, those traces would be disturbed.
It was a survival instinct he had honed over years at Lin Manor. Here in the chaotic Rat Alley, it was a way to stay alive.
By the time he finished, dusk was drawing near. His stomach chose that moment to growl.
Chen Ping grabbed a broken basket and headed to the nearby market.
But the trip left him frowning.
The price board at the rice shop had changed again. Coarse rice had risen to eight copper coins per jin, a full two coins more than last month.
White flour had become a luxury, fit for the masters.
"In times like these, silver buys less and less."
Standing outside the rice shop, Chen Ping's mind clicked away at the numbers.
The little money he had left had to last until the Imperial Military Examination was over, and he also had to set aside enough to grease the wheels at the government offices. Every copper coin had to be split in two.
In the end, he bought only five jin of coarse rice, then went to a pickle stall and bought two of the cheapest pickled radishes.
Just as he returned to the little courtyard, a powerful stench of meat hit him.
The neighboring courtyard's door stood open. A burly man with a face full of beefy folds and a butcher's knife at his waist squatted by the entrance, slurping soup from a huge bowl.
When he saw Chen Ping return, the man wiped his greasy mouth and rolled his triangular eyes, giving him a sharp, appraising look.
"New around here?"
The burly man stood up, his massive frame blocking the entrance completely. He still held half a bowl of leftover soup.
"I'm Butcher Zhang. We'll be crossing paths all the time, so take this bowl of offal soup as a welcome gift."
A few blackish chunks of pig lung floated in the soup, giving off the rank smell of offal that hadn't been washed properly.
Chen Ping drew in on himself, his back hunching without his realizing it. He forced a fawning smile and accepted the bowl with trembling hands.
"Th-thank you, Brother Zhang. My surname is Chen. I'm a scholar who failed the exams. I hope you'll look out for me."
He coughed twice, pretending the wind had caught in his throat, and put on the look of a sickly, frail man.
Most of the wariness vanished from Butcher Zhang's eyes, leaving only contempt.
"A scholar, huh? Scholars are useless. Around Rat Alley, knowing how to read won't put meat on your table."
He snorted, waved a hand, and went back inside. "Keep your wits about you when you sleep. Don't let someone steal the pants off your backside."
Chen Ping thanked him profusely and carried the soup indoors. The moment he shut the door, the timid, obsequious look vanished from his face, and his gaze turned cold as a blade.
He poured the bowl of offal soup into the slop bucket. It never hurt to be wary of others; he didn't dare drink it.
Night fell, but Rat Alley was far from quiet.
The shouting and cursing from the butcher's home next door, a drunk yelling somewhere in the distance, and an infant crying from who knew where all melded into the noisy bustle of the streets.
Chen Ping sat cross-legged on the hard bed, his palms facing the sky.
The racket outside reached his ears, but not his heart.
As he breathed in and out, a warm current rose from his Dantian and flowed slowly along his Meridians.
The mellow, unbroken inner energy of Longevity of Pine and Crane gently soothed the weariness in his Meridians.
The surroundings were far less peaceful than the servants' quarters at Lin Manor, and foul smells drifted in through the window from time to time. Yet Chen Ping had never felt so clearhearted.
Before, he had practiced to stay alive, to keep from being beaten to death.
Now, he practiced for himself.
He sat like that for a full hour.
When he opened his eyes again, a glint flashed in them, then quickly disappeared.
He summoned the panel and saw the proficiency in Longevity of Pine and Crane tick up another point. A satisfied smile tugged at Chen Ping's lips.
As long as it kept growing, there was hope for the future.
He set an earthenware pot on the stove, tossed in a handful of coarse rice, and cooked a pot of thin porridge.
There was no oil, only finely chopped pickles.
Holding a chipped coarse porcelain bowl, Chen Ping squatted on the threshold and sipped the porridge one mouthful at a time.
The coarse rice scraped his throat, and the pickles were painfully salty, but they tasted especially good to him.
Once he had eaten his fill, Chen Ping washed his face with cold water.
He didn't take off his clothes. He simply lay down on the bed fully dressed, his right hand reaching under the pillow to grip the cold, hard dagger hilt.
Though his body was exhausted, his mind remained taut.
His sleep came in fits and starts. The slightest stir in the alley could jolt him awake from his light doze.
That was the law of survival in the slums, and a habit he had picked up over the past three years.
In his half-asleep haze, the red notice he had seen at the alley entrance that day floated into his mind.
It was the Imperial Court's announcement of registration for the Imperial Military Examination.
The deadline was early next month, and the last line read:
"Registration fee: fifty taels of silver."
Fifty taels.
That was nearly twice everything he owned.
He got out of bed, straightened his clothes, and felt for the Manumission Document and Letter of Recommendation against his chest.
He opened the door and headed toward the government offices.
Before you continue