Peasant Son

Farmer's Son

Summer, and the sun beat down fiercely.

Cicadas shrieked noisily, one call following hard upon another.

The soil in the fields was baked bone-white, webbed with splitting cracks.

Zhou Yan bent over, his hands gripping the plow handles with a death-grip as he shuffled forward, stepping unevenly.

The plowshare turned up dry, hard clods of earth, every single step demanding the expenditure of his entire body's strength.

Hiss!

Sweat poured from his forehead, running straight into his eyes and stinging them until he blinked rapidly.

He tilted his head back to gaze at the sky, letting out a silent sigh.

This was the second year since his transmigration.

In his past life, he had merely been an ordinary college student.

After pulling an all-nighter playing video games one day, a sudden pain pierced his chest, his lips turned purple, and he collapsed in front of the computer.

At this moment, treading on a sun-bleached patch of earth, grasping a plow in his hands, straw sandals on his feet, and coarse hempen clothing on his back.

The environment was worlds apart from his past life.

The dynasty that occupied this land was called Great Xia, standing for over three hundred years and built upon martial prowess.

Across this continent, fierce beasts ran rampant through the mountains and wilderness, and ordinary folk faced nine chances of death and one of survival if they ran into them.

Only by practicing martial arts and becoming a martial practitioner could one survive in this era and rise above the common herd to attain official rank.

Martial practitioners held a transcendent status in this world.

Even ordinary mortals in the Body-Tempering Realm, who had not yet entered the Martial Practitioner Realm, could secure a post in the yamen, draw a regular salary, command respect, and guarantee their families food and clothing without worry, or even have a surplus.

As for those mighty figures who could truly become martial practitioners, they were people who could walk sideways, ones whom even the county magistrate had to treat with polite deference.

Yet none of these things had anything to do with Zhou Yan.

Presently, he was merely a poor farmer's son in Willow Village, outside Qingyun County in the Great Xia Dynasty—sixteen years old, the third-born, unloved by his father and unwanted by his mother. Every day before dawn he had to go down to the fields to rush through chores, cut firewood, fetch water, and feed the livestock. Every heavy and grueling task in the household fell to him.

He drew in a deep breath, the dry air filling his lungs with a hint of bitterness.

He steadied his mind, seized the plow handles anew, and pushed forward once more.

If he didn't finish plowing, he would return only to suffer a thorough scolding for nothing.

Willow Village was a poor village.

Scores of households crouched, scattered and desolate, along both sides of a riverbed that had dried up for the most part.

Mud-brick walls, thatched roofs, and chickens in the courtyards even more gaunt than the people.

The villagers relied entirely on farming for their livelihood, facing the yellow earth and backing the sky from one end of the year to the next, with the quality of the harvest resting entirely on the whims of the heavens.

Occasionally, unknown martial practitioners flashed past the main road at the village entrance.

They were town figures riding tall, spirited horses and wearing martial garments with leather boots, riding past with eyes fixed straight ahead and kicking up a trail of dust all the way.

The villagers could only gaze from afar, their eyes filled with yearning and awe.

Those were people from another world.

A threshold was naturally set between martial practitioners and mortals.

Yet it was said that a martial practitioner had once appeared in the village; after making his fortune, he had taken his entire family to live in the county town and never returned.

A few years back, a wild beast had run out of the mountains, crept into the east end of the village in the middle of the night, and mauled Old Man Liu to death.

When discovered the next morning, half of Old Man Liu's body was gone, and blood was everywhere in the courtyard.

The village head went to the county town to report the incident to the authorities, and two men came from the yamen, inspected the scene, and posted a notice. The gist of it was telling the villagers to take extra care of themselves and bolt their doors and windows tightly at night, after which they patted their bottoms and withdrew.

In this era, the government could not look after everything.

The Zhou Family could not rank among the notables in Willow Village here.

Grandpa Zhou had two sons: the eldest, Zhou Dazhuang, who was Zhou Yan's father, and the second, Zhou Dashan, Zhou Yan's second uncle.

Back when the family property was divided up years ago, Grandpa had left the greater part of the estate to the second uncle.

Old Man Zhou lived with his second son for a very simple reason: the second uncle possessed a sweet mouth and knew how to handle people, carrying wine and meat to present to him on every holiday and festival while tossing out a few flattering words that easily coaxed the old master into broad smiles.

Those few mu of the most fertile fields, that old green-brick courtyard with a wall, and the silver coin savings accumulated over the better part of a lifetime all went to the second household.

The daughter of the second household was also a capable one, having married the owner of a restaurant in the county town early on, so the family's circumstances had consistently remained good.

As for Zhou Dazhuang, he was honest and dim-witted all his life, unable to speak a complete sentence even when meeting people, let alone contend for anything when the property was divided.

What fell to Zhou Dazhuang's share were a few mu of lean fields at the west end of the village and an old, dilapidated mud-brick courtyard.

Half the mud bricks of that courtyard wall had already fallen away, and whenever it rained, the courtyard turned entirely to mud.

The thatch on the roof also had to be patched every single year, leaking rain if left unpatched.

Even with all this, Zhou Dazhuang said nothing.

Yet Madam Liu refused to accept it. Zhou Yan's mother, Madam Liu, held a deep resentment bottled up over this matter, stubbornly nursing it for more than ten years.

Whenever life became impossible to endure, whenever she looked at the second uncle's spacious green-brick tile house, or when the dinner table held only thin gruel and salted vegetable lumps, that suppressed anger in Madam Liu would surge up, getting stuck in her throat before turning into piercing, sharp abuse.

"Good-for-nothing!"

This was the term Madam Liu used most often to scold Zhou Dazhuang.

"Take a look at what kind of house your brother lives in! Look at what we live in! Your father gave him all the good things and didn't leave you a damn thing, and you just take it lying down like this? Go on and fight for it! You're the oldest, you're the eldest son! You didn't make a peep when the family split up, and now look at you, leading the whole family to drink the northwest wind!"

Scolded until he was frantic, Zhou Dazhuang still did not talk back; he had long since grown accustomed to it.

When his mind was troubled, he would squat down by the threshold, fish out his dry-tobacco pouch, slowly pack a bowl of tobacco leaves, and take slow puffs, one after another.

Smoke drifted away from his face, obscuring his worried expression.

Not a single word in response.

When Madam Liu grew tired of scolding, she would collapse onto the floor by the stove and wipe away her tears.

Zhou Yan had witnessed this scene from childhood to adulthood and was long used to it.

The Zhou Family had many children.

Eldest sister Zhou Xing had married out the year before last, wedding into a neighboring village.

When eldest sister was around, she would occasionally protect Zhou Yan; once she left, there was no one left in this household who would speak up for him.

Second brother Zhou Ping was two years older than Zhou Yan, quick-witted and glib. Just like his second uncle, when he followed behind his father doing farm work he knew precisely when to hand over water and when to softly murmur a word of hardship.

Both parents favored him, and whatever good food there was went to him first.

When the mother was in a good mood, she would pick out an extra chopstickful of food and place it in Zhou Ping's bowl, muttering under her breath, "Ping'er has worked hard and tired himself out, eat more."

Younger brother Zhou Xiaoshi was only eight, the youngest in the family.

His mother doted on him, making him do no chores at all as he ran wild through the village all day long.

Zhou Yan was the third-born, wedged right in the middle, neither up nor down.

The original owner's temperament was gloomy, unable to utter pleasant words, neither as ingratiating as the second brother nor requiring care like the younger brother.

Ever since his transmigration, he had proceeded with utmost caution at every step, terrified of slipping up and being discovered.

As for fleeing far away to other lands, Zhou Yan had not failed to consider it.

Yet in this world, fierce beasts ran wild, and rumors held that even mountain spirits and ghosts hid among mortals.

Since he was no martial practitioner, if he rashly departed, he likely would not survive a few days.

Staying in this household meant merely doing a bit more labor, not so easily throwing away his life.

Every day he had to rise before dawn to cut firewood, fetch water, and feed the livestock, then head down to the fields to rush through work.

Returning home after the sun set, he still had to chop wood, sweep the floor, and move things about.

When meat occasionally appeared on the dinner table, his chopsticks never got a turn.

When a chicken was slaughtered for the New Year, of the two chicken legs, one belonged to the second brother and the other to the younger brother.

Zhou Yan picked up a mouthful of greens with his chopsticks and lowered his head to shovel down rice.

When his mother was in a bad mood, the one who suffered misfortune was invariably him.

"Number Three! Have you finished weeding the plot?"

"Number Three! Have you cut the firewood?"

"Number Three, do you have eyes in your head? Didn't you see the water vat has hit rock bottom?"

Zhou Yan never talked back.

He knew very well that talking back was useless and would only earn him a heavier lashing of abuse.

He simply worked in silence, shoveled down his rice in silence, and lived silently in the corners of this household.

The sun leaned toward the west.

Zhou Yan straightened his back and glanced back at the field behind him.

He had plowed about half of it; the rest would have to wait until tomorrow.

He pulled the plow out of the earth, hoisted it onto his shoulder, and walked slowly back.

His shoulder had been chafed by the plow beam the entire day, burning with pain—the skin had likely torn open again.

When he reached the village entrance, he paused to catch his breath.

Beneath the old locust tree at the entrance, several old men squatted down playing chess.

The chessboard was a smoothed-out slab of stone.

Beside it lay a lean dog, its belly pressed against its ribs, eyes closed and motionless.

Farther in the distance stood the rolling mountains.

The mountain shadows pressed heavily and darkly against the edge of the sky, resembling a dark-cyan city wall.

The villagers all said there were fierce beasts in those mountains.

Old Man Liu had been mauled to death by something that ran out of the mountains yonder.

Yet Zhou Yan stared at that mass of mountain shadows, and what he thought of in his heart was not fierce beasts.

What he pondered to himself was a single matter.

Could this life really just go on like this?

In this lifetime, he was sixteen years old, spending every day farming, chopping firewood, and carrying water—was he to live a mediocre life and accomplish nothing?

He could not go on like this any longer.

Zhou Yan tightened his grip on the plow over his shoulder.

He could not figure out what he was capable of doing.

In this world, if a peasant's son wanted to get ahead, it seemed there was only one path: practicing martial arts.

However, sensible people all knew that literature requires poverty while martial arts require wealth, and furthermore, practicing martial arts required money, required talent, required a master, and required cultivation techniques.

He possessed not a single one of these things.

After more a dozen years of living frugally, he had nothing in his hands besides a few copper coins.

Let alone going to the county Martial Arts Hall to take a master, he could not even afford to buy the crudest oral formula for a Stake Stance.

His father, Zhou Dazhuang, could not possibly give him this money, and Madam Liu even less so.

Yet he still refused to resign himself to fate.

Having lived for two lifetimes, surely he could not live like a coward in both.

Zhou Yan glanced once more at that mass of mountain shadows.

The place for chopping firewood was right at the foot of the mountain; provided he did not venture deep inside, normally nothing should happen.

In a few days, he would have to go deep into the mountains to chop firewood.

The firewood pile at home was nearly at the bottom, and his mother had already nagged about it several times these past two days.

He withdrew his gaze, shouldered the plow, and walked home treading in the afterglow of the setting sun.

The low walls of the adobe courtyard cast long shadows in the setting sun.

The voice of his mother, Madam Liu, drifted from the courtyard, though it was unclear whom she was scolding again.

Zhou Yan pushed open the door and stepped into the courtyard, leaning the plow against the corner of the wall.

"Back?" Madam Liu's voice came out from the kitchen, carrying her habitual impatience. "The water vat is empty. Go carry back two loads of water. By the way, sweep the courtyard. Just look at how filthy this courtyard has become."

Zhou Yan made no sound, habitually picking up the shoulder pole and buckets, and turned to step out through the courtyard gate once more.

The well was in the middle of the village, and making a round trip took about the time it took to brew half a cup of tea.

He shoulded the empty buckets and walked slowly forward, the setting sun stretching his shadow very, very long.

The water buckets swayed back and forth at both ends of the shoulder pole, emitting a creaking sound.