After the spring rain, melting snow gathered into streams that flowed into the river, cascading down from Baiquan Mountain to nourish the grass and trees. As the eleventh year of the Changshun era began, all things were renewed.

This country once had an era name called Yong’an, but after the great turmoil of the seventh year, Emperor Wu changed the era name to Changshun, hoping the nation would prosper and be peaceful — as the common people throughout the realm also wished.

Who could have known that once the era name was changed, this name would stick.

Heaven must have had eyes open, perhaps taking pity on a people who had suffered too much — for ever since it was called Changshun, the country truly did enjoy favorable weather and things went as wished. A full ten years of national peace and prosperity, and this land of Daliang had finally begun to flourish.

The monk who struck the night watch had just left when a sharp-witted little maid in the courtyard at the head of Qinwei Alley quietly opened the window lattice. Beneath that window sat an exquisite palace-made water vat, in which delicate bowl lotuses were kept, and beneath the lotuses rested some carelessly-acquired fish.

The fish were nothing precious, but they were ones the young master of this house had caught with his own hands in the river the year before last, so no one dared kill them for food — they even had to find a fine, valuable vat to hold them. But the young master himself had long since forgotten about it.

The eaves caught the rain and funneled it into the vat; the dripping water startled several fish, which leapt a few times, making small splashing sounds as they hit the water. That was when the young master in the room stirred and woke.

A maidservant inside gently reminded him, with a touch of playful reproach: “Young master, you’re awake.”

Here on Quanhou Street, from the very instant this young master opened his eyes, everything came vividly to life.

White-haired Jixiang looked at the little maid, who stuck out her tongue and dashed off on quick feet, vanishing in an instant; he shook his head helplessly.

This little maid was called Xiaoyan. Her mother was called Siyue, who was also a favored steward-woman by the Heir’s Consort’s side, so Xiaoyan was raised more pampered than even some official young ladies of Quanhou Street. At her age, she was at her most mischievous, and her family, uneasy about it, didn’t dare place her properly to serve at the elders’ side, so they kept her in Qinwei Alley to stay with him.

Normally, whenever the young master came home she would come help — though mostly getting underfoot — and still drew a salary of one and a half strings of cash a month, counted as a second-tier maid.

For that one and a half strings, her father Chunfen felt ashamed whenever it came up, yet he truly couldn’t bear to send his daughter off to the Prince’s Mansion in Yandu to scheme and claw her way up.

What kind of people filled the Prince’s Mansion? Compared to Siyue’s generation, who might once have been called clever, the maids there nowadays seemed to have been steeped in cunning since they were still in the womb — what grew on their bodies wasn’t flesh but scheming instincts.

His own Xiaoyan was a simple, foolish girl — better off staying here, where things were steady.

Fortunately the young master also had capable little Ruier by his side; hearing the young master had risen, she hurried to serve him together with Xiaomo and Xiaohe.

The young man with clear, handsome brows hadn’t been awake long before he slowly sat up and continued to space out. He was good-looking, his skin fine as jade, his brows and eyes gentle as water — only, having just woken, he looked a bit dazed. His features favored the Heir’s Consort more than his father, so he lacked his father’s cool restraint; instead, having been steeped in wealth and comfort for over a decade, he’d developed an air of not caring about anything, like raw dough steamed in a pot all day — toss him anywhere and, splat, he’d stick there and not move.

This was An’er, all grown up now. Before he’d even come of age, once his mischief had run its course, he’d been sent to the palace school in Daliang to study — only he hadn’t lasted two months there before he secretly ran back home.

Now the household heads of Qinwei Alley had all been promoted in rank and had estates in Yandu, yet they hadn’t given up this place either; as long as there was nothing urgent, aside from the Heir’s Consort, they all still lived here.

She Wanlin’s grandfather, the old Prince, had also said the boy should go to Yandu to make some friends, to have playmates of his own — but he simply didn’t care to.

A young man’s pride — everyone has moments of looking down on the adults. He was a good child; even his willfulness stayed within the bounds of home, and the family was very tolerant of him, not holding him to standards as strict as those for Gaoxing, the second son who would inherit the military title.

Actually, it was rather pitiable, if you thought about it.

What use was there in caring? No matter how clever he was at his studies, as the future Prince he could never sit for the imperial examinations anyway.

What use was there in caring? He’d only secretly learned a set of skills from his mother in private — but as She Qingling’s sole grandson and heir, who would ever dare let him go to the battlefield?

If he so much as scraped a bit of skin at the palace school, the eunuchs attending him would be frightened half to death.

Never mind that imperial princes were precious — the She family had only this one grandson, while there were now more than twenty imperial princes, and even more princesses.

How good things had been back in Qinwei Alley — that was a free world, where he could run wild in the back hills with his older and younger brothers, draw a bow and shoot arrows, wrestle bears and fight tigers, and scale the heights alongside eagles.

Now? Those good days were long gone.

In the past, his mother had revolved around him alone; pitying him for having to go “suffer” at the Prince’s Mansion, she’d always tried to let him relax and simply let him grow up on Quanhou Street.

These past few years had been fine — after Gaoxing, then the third son Lingguan and the fourth son Xiaogou were born, and the year before last came the universally adored Chen Yixiao (Chen “A Laugh”), and the whole family was overjoyed.

His mother, weary of having so many sons, was delighted to finally have a daughter and named her Yixiao (“A Laugh”); if she had another daughter, she’d be Erxiao (“Two Laughs”), and a third would be Sanxiao (“Three Laughs”).

This left She Wanlin pitifully stripped of his freedom — the wild mountain temperament he’d worked so hard to cultivate now had to be hidden away. The moment he entered the capital he was pampered like a young lady of the inner quarters: step out the door and eight maids trailed behind him, twelve houseboys carried his birdcage, even relieving himself required a folding screen for modesty and a chamber pot held to catch it — and afterward the household physician had to inspect the color. It was all terribly awkward.

He simply didn’t fit in in Yandu; even after half a year there, he hadn’t made a single friend.

It wasn’t that people didn’t want to be friends with him — he himself simply felt that crowd of young lords in Yandu wasn’t his kind of people.

Children of Yandu were children of Yandu; no matter how pampered the children of Qingfeng City were raised, they were nothing like the offspring bred at the foot of the imperial city.

Yet across that mere forty-li distance lay two entirely different lives, two entirely different characters.

The people of Yandu were terribly particular — sitting, lying down, walking, dressing, eating, everything had to follow some rule. A child like An’er, who’d happily squat at his own front door gnawing on a flatbread, was seen by others as hopelessly rustic.

So there were always tactless people who liked to casually needle him without thinking.

Fortunately his temper had always been good; as the eldest brother at home, he was quite tolerant. After studying at the palace for a time, he’d earned himself a reputation among others as gentle-tempered and easygoing.

In truth, it was mostly that the noble folk couldn’t be bothered to speak up — and when he went home and grumbled about it to his own grandfather, his grandfather was even more particular about such things, making this child even more so.

A teenager, after all, does have a temper. Among the cliques that formed in the palace school, no one dared bully him, but they’d bully the weak. There’d been times he’d wanted to step in and manage things — yet every time he approached, a whole crowd would swarm around him, and there was also the renowned Xin Wudao of the jianghu, Uncle Xin, guarding him — so who would dare provoke him?

Life became so boring there was nothing left to do but eat, drink, and amuse himself.

An’er, face blank, stood still and let himself be waited on as they washed his face and rinsed his mouth. After his hair was combed, he put on his tender green round-collar robe woven with golden qilin patterns, then had a layer of gauze draped over it before his jade belt could be fastened, and finally his seven-beam small gold coronet set in place.

Three houseboys held up a long bronze mirror and turned it around him while An’er yawned faintly, too lazy to really look.

Not until Xiaorui said with a smile, “There, all done, our young master looks so sharp in his new clothes!”

Uncle Jixiang chimed in from the doorway, “Well, of course — look at what fine looks and bearing our young master has.”

She Wanlin let out a light breath of relief, and someone placed into his outstretched hand a bowl mended many times over, covered all over in silver rivets and studs — only then did he go out to “beg for food.”

Now that he’d grown up, he no longer needed to beg for food daily, but once back in Qinwei Alley, he had to keep up the habit all the same.

This bowl had been with him a full ten years now, soon to be eleven — as a clumsy small child he’d dropped it more than a few times, so it had become a bowl whose original pattern could no longer be made out at all.

The young master walked without lifting his feet, shuffling along in loose slippers, and asked lazily as he went, “Where’s my brother?”

Jinsheng, walking beside him, answered: “Young master, our lord left for school before dawn — he has to recite from memory twice before he can come back for breakfast. Today you’ll have to eat alone.”

The “lord” here referred to She Wanlin’s older brother, Gennu’er, whose formal name was Xie Ximu. When he was eight, no one knew quite what His Majesty was thinking, but he bypassed the boy’s uncle Xie Liuhao, Xie Zhiling, and granted him the title Earl of Xicheng instead.

This title came with real land, though all of it near Zuoliang Pass — yet all year round, officials from that fief hauled cartload after cartload of goods to Quanhou Street.

Among She Wanlin’s group of friends, Xie Ximu was by far the wealthiest, and also the most willful — even more willful than An’er.

He had an earl’s mansion in Yandu — that mansion had once belonged to the old estate of the Loyal and Valiant Duke’s Liu family, but after the Liu family fell from grace and had three of their clans exterminated, the property was given to Xie Ximu.

Unlike She Wanlin, Xie Ximu could make his own decisions — and so he simply refused to budge from the old family home on Quanhou Street.

He loved living close to his grandmother, close to his aunts and uncles, and had never once stayed a single day at the Earl of Xicheng’s mansion.

Yet no one said a word against him for it.

Most interesting of all, His Majesty doted on him greatly — remembering him on every holiday and festival, always setting aside a share of whatever fine trinkets were handed out from the palace, even a basket of pomegranates brought from the south, giving him and An’er exactly the same amount.

Compared to She Wanlin’s dislike of Yandu, Gennu’er’s was even stronger. No one knew quite how the children of this family had been raised — each and every one would rather play the monkey down in the hills than go be a young lord in Yandu. It was rather strange, honestly.

Gennu’er shuffled over to the neighboring Cheng household and began knocking on the door with the bottom of his bowl.

Master Cheng now oversaw the Imperial Physicians’ Bureau in the palace, so only mother and son remained in Qinwei Alley.

It being still early, his knocking today carried quite a lot of force; the bowl in his hand wasn’t very sturdy to begin with, and this bout of knocking frightened the servants half to death.

At last the Cheng family’s gate swung open with a bang, and out from the courtyard came a great beauty — stunningly gorgeous, yet disheveled and unkempt, hair a mess, still with sleep-crust in the corners of her eyes.

Ugly Girl glared, waiting for An’er to scold him: “You beast, sick this early in the morning?”

An’er laughed lightly, tilting his face and closing his eyes to sniff the air: “Isn’t this exactly the time to come take medicine? Eight Treasure Soup? Hurry and get me a bowl.”

The Cheng family’s medicine was truly excellent — ever since he’d started training, his whole body would ache with soreness first thing in the morning, but one bowl of the Cheng family’s remedy and his whole body felt light and easy; a quick rub anywhere and all the aches vanished.

With no more adjustment period needed, the children of Qinwei Alley all scrambled to drink and rub on the medicine, and their training progressed twice as fast for it.

Ugly Girl shot An’er a glare and turned to fetch the medicine from an iron pot at the edge of the courtyard that never went out, its fire burning through all four seasons. An’er trailed behind her, chattering: “Day after tomorrow, General Tao returns to the capital to present his captives. My Ruyi brother got us the best spot — are you coming or not?”

Ugly Girl ladled the medicine full for An’er, watching him drink it as she said, “I’m not going. My mother’s taking me up the mountain to gather herbs. Besides, the General’s family lives right in the back alley — I’ll see him sooner or later anyway.”

An’er choked in surprise: “What did you say? The General lives right here?”

Ugly Girl rolled her eyes at him: “You didn’t know?”

An’er shook his head — he truly hadn’t known.

At a certain age, every boy carries a great hero in his heart.

General Tao Jizong, guarding Zuoliang Pass, had held the border for more than a decade, repeatedly leading troops against the Tan people. Late last year he had even pursued the Tan forces east past the Tan River, seizing a great deal of valuable spoils and capturing Aotasi, chieftain of a Tan tribe that frequently raided the border — hence this month’s ceremony presenting captives in the capital.

What boy doesn’t love a hero? Hearing that his hero lived on the very same street only made him more excited.

He fired off this whole string of questions, but Ugly Girl was naturally cold and spoke little; when he finished, all she said was, “Go ask your mother.”

What could An’er do but hold out his bowl and say, “One more bowl.”

Medicine drunk, he left, found the Meng household’s gate locked, and turned instead toward the Tong household.

Round-faced, round-headed Big Copper Hammer was already waiting. Seeing An’er approach, he complained: “Hurry it up, I still have to get to the back-hill training grounds — you think everyone’s as free as you?”

At the Tong family’s door sat a small table set with a dozen or so dishes.

She Wanlin sat on the doorstep, worn smooth and shiny from over a decade of them sitting there, holding out his battered bowl; wherever his eyes landed on a dish, Big Copper Hammer would scoop him a portion.

There were none of Yandu’s rules here about not talking while eating — An’er ate and asked at the same time: “Second Hammer, where’s Third Hammer? Where’s your sister…”

Before he could finish, the two boys’ noses twitched, and identical sly grins spread across their faces as they turned in unison to look toward the end of the alley.

At the end of Qinwei Alley, Hu Yougui came strolling with a jeweled sword at his waist, dressed in a tender blue-green gauze-layered long robe, a jade coronet on his head, fine powder dusted on his face — this man was one of Yandu’s foremost handsome men. He’d never grown a beard, and though past thirty, at a glance he looked no different from a refined young gentleman in his early twenties.

Seeing him approach, the two young lords stood to greet him respectfully; once done, An’er asked, “Fifth Uncle, why aren’t you at the ministry today? Isn’t the captive-presentation happening in the capital? Aren’t you going to receive them?”

Hu Yougui still held a post under the Ministry of War, now promoted to the fourth rank as a Director, overseeing the men of the six outer guard units of the Imperial Guard, while also holding great authority over military appointments.

Yet this very official, first thing in the morning, stood stroking his chin and said to his two nephews without a trace of shame: “What does Tao Jizong presenting captives have to do with me? Tsk! Children — tell me, do you think your fifth aunt would like how I’ve dressed today?”

It was said that the lady general of the Yuwen family found Fifth Uncle’s face most pleasing of all. The children had never met her and didn’t know if she truly cared for it, but they couldn’t bear to discourage their poor fifth uncle either.

It had already been ten years, and that woman still wouldn’t marry Hu Yougui even with one arm twisted behind her back.

The two boys nodded together; satisfied, Hu Yougui raised his sleeve and sniffed it left and right, then muttered contentedly, “I changed to a new incense today — I imagine Xiaoqiao will like it.”

With that, he wandered off humming a tune.

An’er watched his fifth uncle’s retreating back and shook his head: “Big Copper Hammer, you know, all these uncles of ours, loafing about all day with swords at their hips — I keep thinking their blades must all have rusted through. Listen to Fifth Uncle just now — he doesn’t even think much of General Tao?”

Big Copper Hammer snorted coldly: “Hmph. They only bully us during training — every one of them, coddled in Yandu, their skills bound to rust away sooner or later. Just you wait and see…”

Big Copper Hammer harbored a grand dream of fighting the enemy at the border, of astonishing his father.

An’er nodded, lowered his head to finish his food, had another bowl added, then took his leave of Big Copper Hammer, holding up his bowl as he left Qinwei Alley — telling no one to follow — and wandered around Quanhou Street alone, looking for Old Stinky.

There are always things in life one can’t let go of — Quanhou Street, Qinwei Alley, and the beggar Old Stinky, just the same. All things An’er couldn’t bear to give up.

Whenever he was home, he’d set aside a bowl of food for Old Stinky; when he wasn’t, he’d instruct others to look after him.

As for how he’d come to know Old Stinky, or why the Wenshen Temple was supposed to look after him — An’er had honestly forgotten long ago.

It seemed his father had once said he owed Old Stinky a bowl of rice, and he’d been paying it off ever since.

The people of Quanhou Street were tolerant of this young Prince’s odd habit — he was, after all, a child of their own street, and seeing him felt familiar rather than intimidating, despite his wealth and status.

Walking along, a neighbor smiled and called to An’er: “Young master, Old Stinky’s over by the willow tree outside the school, watching a slave auction.”

Outside the Sanli School, beneath a great willow tree, two rings of onlookers had gathered. In the center, several young people knelt with straw markers stuck in their hair. The slave broker walked up to a gaunt young man, roughly grabbed his chin, and said to the crowd with a grin: “My lords, don’t be fooled by how thin this boy looks — he can read and write, comes from an official family, no less.”

The young man’s face was pitifully thin and gaunt, lifted up, eyes lifeless, looking half dead already.

Someone in the crowd, unable to stomach the broker’s boasting, laughed mockingly: “Don’t talk nonsense — this one, from an official family?”

The broker laughed: “Hey now, I’m not bluffing. I’ve done business around here for over a decade — I know exactly how every family here fared. This boy’s ancestors were genuine fifth-rank officials, lived right in Libu Alley, surname Yang — you gentlemen must know of them?”

At this, someone in the crowd did indeed recall: “Oh — right, right, there was such a family. Didn’t they get demoted for falsely claiming imperial bloodline, then got implicated in a treason case and had their household confiscated?”

The broker clapped his hands: “Exactly, exactly! That’s the family. Their crime wasn’t too severe — the ringleader was sentenced to beheading, the rest were all sold into servitude…”

An’er, carrying his bowl of food, spotted Old Stinky from a distance, wearing a pair of worn-out shoes, standing on tiptoe on a millstone with his hands behind his back like some great lord, watching the show.

He crept over and called out softly with a smile: “Old Stinky!”

An’er, gentle and mindful not to disturb others, kept his movements soft and quiet.

Old Stinky froze, turned to look at An’er, then flashed his big yellow teeth and cried out in delighted surprise: “Mama’s here!!”

An’er bared his teeth and made a hushing gesture, watching Old Stinky hop down off the millstone before immediately pulling him away. They walked together to a sheltered corner, and only then did he ask: “Where’s your gourd ladle?”

Old Stinky, head lowered, stared drooling at the good food in An’er’s broken bowl. Grinning foolishly, he pulled a battered gourd ladle from behind his waist; An’er filled it for him and watched him grab handfuls of food to eat straight from it.

As Old Stinky ate, An’er could hear the broker in the crowd still talking: “This little wretch is the legitimate son of the third branch of the Yang family. His mother’s surname is Wen, also from a noble clan background…”