The closer they got to Jindian, the more inspection checkpoints appeared — one roughly every dozen or so li of waterway.

With so many checkpoints, boats from all over crowded together at a stretch of water called Yangjiao Bay, and often a whole day would pass without moving more than a few zhang forward.

Early one morning, She Wanlin, asleep on the boat, was jolted awake by a wailing cry. Before he could even register that something had happened outside, Old Chou, who’d been sleeping on the deck, yanked him roughly to the floor.

In that instant, he found himself on the floor while Uncle Chou lay on the bed.

People here had no sense of propriety. Zheng Erpi came into the room wrapped in nothing but a loincloth blacker and filthier than a rag, exposing everything, and said to the still-groggy Old Chou on the kang: “Oh my, someone’s about to die, and Steward Ping’s still sleeping?”

Old Chou sat up, glanced at She Wanlin’s bewildered face, and after a flicker of amusement in his eyes, asked: “Who died?”

Zheng Erpi blinked: “What do you mean, who died?”

Old Chou threw on his clothes: “Didn’t you just say someone’s about to die?”

Only then did Zheng Erpi remember what he’d actually come to say. He swallowed and pointed outside: “Oh, right — it’s our troupe leader…”

“What?” Old Chou sprang up, slipping into his shoes as he went. “How’d that happen? He was fine yesterday! I bought a few jugs of wine — did he eat and drink too much? Did he choke to death? That can’t be right…”

“I can’t go on living!… Heavens above, Patriarch of our craft, I can’t live anymore…”

She Wanlin slowly got up, rubbed his slightly sore backside, sniffed, sighed, and shook his head.

How had his life come to this?

While someone up ahead was declaring he no longer wanted to live, that didn’t stop She Wanlin from picking up the cabin’s water bucket, lowering it out into the river on its rope, swinging it side to side to fill it, then carrying it back in to fill the iron kettle, and lighting the stove with a fire striker…

“I can’t live anymore, is there even a way out, wuwuwu…”

Outside, the wailing rose and fell like an opera performance, plaintive and mournful. She Wanlin, crouched by the stove, remained undisturbed, calm as a mountain, waiting for the coals to heat half the water before attending to his own washing and grooming…

That was about all the dignity he had left.

Once he’d finally finished getting himself in order, She Wanlin made his way slowly along the narrow left side deck to the front of the boat.

He didn’t know how to comb his hair properly, so he simply left it loose and disheveled.

On deck, Zhang Shuangxi, head of the Wufu Troupe, had untied his waistband and was in the middle of attempting to hang himself. He did this every single day, and every single day, it never quite worked out.

There he stood, arms raised skyward, holding his waistband, feet dancing quick little steps in circles around the deck. Having apparently exhausted himself, he came panting over to Old Chou, wept sincerely first, then, eyes red, gripped Old Chou’s hand and said: “Ping — brother.”

Being an opera performer through and through, even those two words “brother” came out with all the winding, twisting cadence of the Three Rivers’ eighteen bends, never quite straightening out.

She Wanlin shivered. He looked around — sure enough, everyone else went about their business as usual: some scrubbing the deck, some mending sails, a row of them doing handstands one after another, while off to the side, a group of future young female-role performers balanced bowls of water on their heads while doing splits, tears in their eyes, still managing to smile at him.

When the troupe leader’s mood soured, everyone suffered along with him.

Old Chou, well used to this by now, still put on an expression of shock as if hearing it for the first time: “Hey hey hey, brother’s here, little brother, speak.”

She Wanlin bared his teeth, looking at the river beside them and sighing — throwing himself into hysterics day after day, with a river this wide, why not just jump in?

Troupe Leader Zhang’s tears came on command, instantly flowing like a river. He gripped Old Chou’s hand, clutched it to his chest and said: “Brother, this whole household — seventy-two mouths, top to bottom — they’re all eating my blood and gnawing my bones…”

Even Old Chou, battle-hardened as he was, an old hand in the world, couldn’t quite take it. He shivered, snatched his hand back, still smiling, though his voice trembled slightly: “Now now, brother, that’s too much! I know it’s hard for you — we’ve been stuck in this cursed bend for three days now, with all these mouths to feed day after day, that really is a hardship.”

Troupe Leader Zhang, moved, burst into full-blown wailing, sobbing between hiccups: “If anyone in this world understands me, it’s you, brother — you’re my true confidant!”

Old Chou swallowed down the breath that might have killed the man on the spot, and hastily waved a hand to stop him: “No, no, let’s not be confidants. Just tell me what you need to say.”

“Well then…” Troupe Leader Zhang shook his head with feeling: “Then today, I — I must trouble you, brother. Brother, three-and-a-half strings — even three-and-a-half strings just isn’t enough anymore, I really can’t manage. Tell me, brother, what am I to do? Patriarch of our craft — ! My disciples and their disciples are all going to starve, I can’t go on, wuwuwu…”

When they’d first boarded, the agreed price had been two strings for the steward, eight hundred coins for the errand boy.

But that had been the old price — who could have known entering Jindian this year would be this difficult, this hard?

Old Chou wasn’t troubled over the money so much as exasperated by the troupe leader’s daily theatrics. He laughed bitterly: “Alright, so that’s what this is about. If you want to torment yourself to death, at least don’t tire yourself out doing it — just give me a number, let’s hear it.”

Troupe Leader Zhang, looking somewhat sheepish, lowered his head, and with great sorrow raised an orchid-finger gesture, pressing it against Old Chou’s chest and pushing him back a step, before finally holding up five fingers.

Old Chou took a breath: “Fine. Five strings it is.”

The moment he said this, Troupe Leader Zhang blossomed like a flower in the rain: “Ah, brother, so generous! Let’s drink again tonight — I’ll sing my specialty piece for you, ‘Selling Flowers.'”

Old Chou muttered vague agreement, scratched his head, glanced at She Wanlin’s teasing expression, and turned to walk silently back to the cabin, hands clasped behind his back. Even an old hand like him couldn’t withstand the troupe leader’s daily theatrics.

With the opera boat stuck here, eating and drinking every single day, the original two strings eight hundred really wasn’t enough to cover expenses. And yet, oddly enough, Old Chou owed the troupe a debt of gratitude.

The Wufu Troupe wasn’t wealthy — a modest household barely scraping by supporting a boatful of people. Unable to afford to make up the difference, and too embarrassed to simply raise prices outright, Troupe Leader Zhang instead staged his daily hanging routine, raising the price bit by bit with each day they were stuck.

Watching Steward Ping walk away with his hands clasped behind him, Troupe Leader Zhang, still somewhat embarrassed, walked over to the errand boy, who was grinning and staring off at the sky and ground. He pulled three coins from his sleeve, hesitated, put one back, and finally handed over two coins to She Wanlin with an apologetic smile: “Yi-ge’er, your uncle here is a good-for-nothing — sorry you had to see that. Take this, buy yourself some fruit, don’t — don’t laugh at me…”

She Wanlin took the coins, thanked him, and watched the man wipe his tears while retying his waistband, finding it all rather amusing. Turning the two lousy coins over in his hand, he thought — this must be what Grandma meant by “the dignity of the poor” — giving them a way to save face was itself an act of kindness.

His grandfather had once said the world held ten thousand kinds of people, and depending on the circumstances they faced, they developed ten thousand kinds of wisdom. Look closely enough, think it through, and you’d find the human heart endlessly fascinating.

Like this troupe leader — his morning theatrics weren’t really performed for the benefactor in his heart, Steward Ping. He simply wanted to feel at ease with his own conscience, feeling that the price could only rise this way if both sides could still feel good about it afterward.

His Uncle Chou clearly understood this too, which was why every day he came, feigning great reluctance, offering him that way down the ladder.

But leaving aside who had a conscience and who didn’t — the man truly did want to repay a debt of gratitude. The trouble was, if he repaid it, how would the rest of the household aboard this boat manage to survive?

Unlike everyone else on the boat who ate only one meal a day, the two of them ate two meals, plus a meat dish at night to fill their stomachs, and used the finest polished rice and flour on the boat, sleeping in the best cabin.

Truly unable to dock anywhere, the crew made do with a big pot of rice and vegetables, and even the thin film of oil floating on top was skimmed off first to serve the guests. Three days now, and the whole boat had been living off Troupe Leader Zhang’s savings, with no one knowing when this opera boat would ever escape this cursed, twisting bay.

Since yesterday, even the crucial hard flatbread for breakfast had vanished — just a bowl of faintly flavored river fish soup remained. Old Chou at least went back to the cabin to eat some pastries, but the boys behind him, unable to fill up on thin soup, still had to train twice as hard — otherwise, the troupe leader simply couldn’t afford to keep them. They had to endure hardship, endure great hardship, to be worthy of that bowl of soup.

Lost in thought, She Wanlin heard the sound of pained gasping breaths around him.

He didn’t dare look back, just turned and headed toward the cabin.

In just a few days, he’d truly grown up.

In the past, faced with such pitiful people, he would surely have said — no problem! It’s just a few people, come stay at my house, my princedom keeps an opera troupe anyway.

But he no longer thought that way now. How much hardship had he already seen along this journey? And how many people could he actually help?

The closer they got to Jindian, the more pitiable people there seemed to be. The boat that had passed them the day before yesterday — at a glance, it was clearly full of bonded laborers being sold out toward Jindian.

At the time, he’d been leaning on the railing with the apprentice actors, watching. And in that moment, he realized — the very people he usually pitied, when they looked at that boat, their eyes held no sympathy at all, only a faint sense of being above someone else.

Those who lived well were the minority; those who suffered misfortune like this were everywhere.

Back in the cabin, door shut, She Wanlin made his way toward the wriggling, maggot-like shape wrapped in blankets on the bed.

He pulled back the blanket, saw the ring of pastry crumbs around Old Chou’s mouth, and asked: “Uncle Chou.”

Old Chou swallowed his pastry, got up out of bed clutching his chest, lifted the teapot to gulp a few mouthfuls straight from the spout, then, feigning a startled complaint at She Wanlin: “Ah, what are you trying to do, scare me? Nearly choked me to death.”

She Wanlin sat down, looking at Old Chou with some confusion: “Back home, they used to tell me these are prosperous times, didn’t they?”

Old Chou paused, then slowly sat down properly, his expression turning serious. He looked at She Wanlin and smiled: “You’re a lucky child. You’ve never lacked for anything since birth, so whatever they told you, you took it at face value based on your own circumstances. But if I tell you something today, you’ll surely think I’m lying to you.”

She Wanlin: “Go on.”

Old Chou turned, pushed open the window, and looked out at the river, busy with people hawking local goods: “In the previous dynasty, on this same land, three days of rain in a row was already a disaster for some places. Six days of rain, and people had to eat each other to survive. So tell me — compared to that, is a bowl of mixed fish soup every day really a prosperous age?”

He smiled, turning to look at She Wanlin.

She Wanlin was somewhat shocked. It wasn’t as if he’d never heard the old women talk about the past, but he’d never wanted to listen, never quite believed things could have been that hard.

So every time his elders started reminiscing, he always found some excuse to run off.

People eating people — that was something no child born after the founding of the Great Liang dynasty had ever experienced.

No one had ever told She Wanlin this. Not at home, not in the palace school, had he ever learned such things.

His education, though it couldn’t compare to that of the imperial princes, still included broad filial piety, benevolence, choosing one’s methods wisely, understanding governance, drawing close to the worthy, valuing simplicity… The extra courses the imperial princes took beyond his were things like military pacification, understanding one’s proper role, admonishing gently, accepting admonishment, extending grace to others.

None of that mentioned people eating people either.

These were different courses from the ones taught in outside academies. His grandfather and his tutors had told him that they would all someday govern their own fiefdoms, becoming men who controlled and directed the fates of others — that was exactly why they needed to master these skills, and even more importantly, to treat their subjects well in the future…

In his younger, more spirited days, none of them had ever wanted to admit defeat to each other, always fantasizing — if I go to my fiefdom, I’ll do this, I’ll do that… But after this journey out from Qingfeng Mansion, She Wanlin had actually made a few real friends — Yongchun and the others.

Now he couldn’t even be certain that if his own fiefdom had someone like Little Bao in it, he could guarantee them even a single hard flatbread every day.

He felt lost.

Knowing they’d inevitably part ways eventually, knowing things couldn’t stay good forever, She Wanlin simply wanted them to have one full meal — at the very least, while he was still there, they could have one full meal.

Yet no matter how he racked his brains, since he couldn’t just hand them money directly, he found himself utterly at a loss. He really wasn’t much, after all — this was the source of She Wanlin’s confusion these past few days.

Old Chou knew exactly what he was thinking, and asked with a smile: “Prosperous times or not — that’s honestly beside the point. I told you before, prosperity depends first on population. Ever since we left Qingfeng Mansion, there’s been a steady stream of people the whole way — that in itself is a good sign. Look, this one boat alone has so many kids around your age. In the old days, you’d never have seen so many boys like this — back then, the moment they grew old enough, they’d be conscripted and sent off somewhere to die…”

She Wanlin lowered his head, thinking hard. After a long while, he said solemnly to Old Chou: “Uncle Chou, back when we used to call Lord Wen behind his back a miser, a stingy old monkey — when I get back, I — I want to apologize to him.”

She Wanlin, with that one sentence, had just named the Minister of Revenue of the Great Liang dynasty, Wen Fengshu — quite a leap, and it nearly threw poor Old Chou’s back out.

He opened his mouth, and it took him a while before he managed, in a dry, strained voice: “Ah, apologize, that’s good, go ahead and do that… wait, why were you all calling the old lord names in the first place?”

Didn’t this foolish child realize that the entire Ministry of Revenue was staffed by men his grandfather had personally placed there? Why would he trash-talk his own family’s people?

Of course She Wanlin knew this too, but he’d been young — he’d been annoyed regardless of whether the man was “one of theirs” or not.

A young man’s sense of loyalty and righteousness sometimes didn’t pass through the brain first.

Now that he’d been out in the world, he finally understood.

Somewhat embarrassed, he laughed and said: “These past years, my father’s camp has had some overspending, and Lord Wen scolds my father whenever he sees him — nags at him even at court, and has submitted several memorials against him, against my uncles too. That old man just won’t part with a single coin — thank goodness His Majesty has such a good temper. Hmph! If it were someone else…”

“Someone else who?” Old Chou suddenly interrupted, his tone sharp. He glared at She Wanlin and asked again: “Who does the little prince think should replace him?”

She Wanlin was not a child who spoke carelessly. He understood exactly why Old Chou was upset, so he casually rested his hands on the table, chuckled, and said: “Uncle Chou — so you really are one of His Majesty’s men.”

If not that, then at least one of the court’s secret agents.

Old Chou’s heart lurched. He thought to himself: “Damn it, I got careless — he’s been waiting to spring this on me.”

She Wanlin, thoroughly pleased with himself, picked up the teapot and poured himself a cup of water, taking a satisfied sip and saying: “I was feeling down just a moment ago, but now I’m actually quite happy.”

Old Chou eyed him sideways: “Happy?”

She Wanlin set down his cup and licked his lips: “Mm, happy — happy that Uncle Chou treats me like his own family, that deep down, you’re not really on guard against me.”

For a moment, all sorts of feelings washed over Old Chou at once, sour and sweet and bitter all mixed together, until finally he laughed: “You little brat. I’ve watched you grow up since you were small — why would I need to guard against you? Guard against you… I wouldn’t even be out here doing this.”

Seeing She Wanlin about to press further, he raised a hand to stop him: “Don’t ask.”

She Wanlin thought about it, then poured him another cup of water: “Mm, won’t ask.”

Old Chou, seeing him behave, sat down satisfied, took a sip of water and said: “I thought you wouldn’t be able to handle the hardship, kid. But you’ve adapted pretty well these past few days.”

She Wanlin smiled: “Rare chance to be out here — of course I ought to try every flavor life has to offer while I can. Maybe this’ll be the only time in my whole life. Years from now, looking back on it, it’ll be quite something to remember.”

Old Chou laughed: “Mm, good for you. Your whole family’s full of strange ones — no surprise you turned out this way too. So, what, you want to help these little opera kids?”

She Wanlin, knowing he was changing the subject but not calling him out on it, nodded: “Mm. Little Bao said he’s never had a chicken drumstick.”

Old Chou snorted with laughter: “A chicken drumstick’s a tall order — that’s beyond even me. You’ll have to figure that one out yourself…” He tapped his own head, smiling: “But getting their old rations back — that might be easier.”

Hearing this, She Wanlin’s eyes lit up, and he asked eagerly: “How do I do it?”

Old Chou spread his hands, utterly shameless: “How would I know? Whatever you want to do, you’ll have to figure it out yourself — it’s not my problem.”

Still, unable to bear seeing the boy disappointed, Old Chou pressed a hand down toward the ground and said: “From now on, whenever you want to solve someone’s problem, whatever kind of person they are — put yourself in their shoes and think from there…”

Unfortunately, just as he got that one line of guidance out, a call rang out from the river: “Sheep-horn cakes! Honey sheep-horn cakes!”

She Wanlin sprang to his feet and pointed at Old Chou: “Uncle!”

Old Chou jumped, startled: “What?!”

The brat simply held out his hand: “Give me money to buy cakes.”

She Wanlin wasn’t in the habit of carrying money himself — all their funds were kept by Old Chou.

Old Chou, grumbling and baring his teeth, pulled out thirty coins.

Worried the cake seller might leave, She Wanlin grabbed the string of coins and dashed off.

As he ran out the door, he heard his uncle call after him, tone dripping with mischief: “Kid, you were shouting ‘ugly, ugly’ all night last night, heh heh heh!”

She Wanlin stumbled forward mid-stride, spun around to glare at Old Chou, then kept running.

Watching him go, Old Chou chuckled to himself: “Kid’s got a sharp head on his shoulders.”

On the front deck of the opera boat, Troupe Leader Zhang stood solemnly, a wooden sword with peeling silver paint in one hand, a bald, moth-eaten prop spear in the other.

Before him, more than twenty child actors were turning somersaults one after another.

The children were small, and their somersaults weren’t pretty. For the ones he found acceptable, he’d use the bald prop spear to push and guide them under the small of their backs, helping them find the right feel. For the ones he found unacceptable, he’d strike them hard across the back with the flat of his wooden sword.

And this wasn’t over clothing either — they were poor, with only one set of clothes each, worn only when walking about. On the boat, with nothing else to do, naturally everyone wore just a loincloth.

Such small children, what dignity did they need anyway.

She Wanlin, being about the same age and mixed in among the little friends, now found wearing clothes somewhat awkward, though he didn’t particularly want to show off bare skin either.

He’d originally intended to lean against the bow to buy honey cakes when he heard Troupe Leader Zhang scolding: “Not even fully grown yet, and you want to perform the full ‘Record of the Old Blade’? Who do you think you are, daring to perform Vice Minister Chen’s story?”

Huh? Vice Minister Chen? The one from the Ministry of War named Chen Dasheng? Really?

She Wanlin, one foot hovering mid-step, quietly retreated, crouching low on the deck to secretly observe and listen in.

Troupe Leader Zhang was scolding Zhang Yongchun, the future lead martial performer of the troupe.

Troupe Leader Zhang, both furious and pained: “…Do you even know who Vice Minister Chen is? He went through mountains of blades and seas of fire to help our lord pacify the realm! This piece about the Nine Provinces suppression of the rebels — who doesn’t love it these days? Any noble household hosting a banquet, the young masters and lords always want this one above all others!

So tell me, how many moves do you actually know? Pah! All that eating and yet all that talk! One set of ‘Meeting the Old Recluse’ — front stance, back turn, sweep and kick, draw the blade…” As he spoke, he swung the wooden sword through the motions toward Zhang Yongchun: “Grab and throw! Block! Advance — go, da-da-da, come here, da-da-da, half-turn combo, one seal-nose, two seal-nose, three seal — got you! Look, look at that!”

Crack!!

Zhang Yongchun failed to complete his snake-shed roll properly and was struck down to the deck with the flat of the sword. It was a hard blow, reopening the scab on the poor boy’s already-injured skin.

Watching Zhang Yongchun sprawled on the deck, sweating and gasping for breath, Troupe Leader Zhang, anxious and resentful, said: “See that? That’s your level of skill! These days, who among the noble families doesn’t have a couple of Old Blade Lord pieces in their repertoire? You won’t accept your brother Fan’s skill, but even he can’t perform Marquis of the City Gate — the best he can manage is Young General Chang’s ‘Ox Head Mountain’! At least his rice bowl’s secure…”

Little Flower Uncle? The same one who mooched off their household every day and stole his own rewards to please Little Auntie back home?

Was his own family really that impressive? So why hadn’t he ever heard these pieces performed in Yandu, or in Qingfeng Mansion?

What was this “Ox Head Mountain,” this “Meeting the Old Recluse” — why didn’t he know any of it?

She Wanlin tilted his head, gritting his teeth, thinking — I’ll tell them about this when I get back. No, no, I’ll find some people who know these pieces to come perform at home — my family would surely be pleased?

But She Wanlin had no idea that these outside troupes, in their pursuit of profit, cobbled together these flattering plays from secondhand rumors and hearsay — how could they possibly dare perform such crude imitations in front of the actual family in question?

Whether in Yandu or Qingfeng Mansion, to put it plainly, none of this could ever be performed anywhere near Xiaonan Mountain.

His own family, in fact, had a piece called “Record of the Green Pine,” telling the story of the She family — how, in the chaos of the previous dynasty, with the common people suffering and treacherous officials running rampant, his great-great-grandfather had died for justice, his great-great-uncle had died for justice, his great-great-uncle had died for justice, and afterward the entire She family had been executed down to the last member. His grandfather had infiltrated the enemy camp, endured every hardship and humiliation, and eventually helped the emperor found this age of prosperity… That opera had been staged by palace masters, and the emperor himself had ordered it spread throughout the realm.

His grandfather had watched it exactly once, come home with a deeply complicated expression, and never watched it again.

Thinking about it now…

She Wanlin, looking at the scene before him, gave a shiver, his lips trembling oddly as he muttered: “Uh… uh… tuluh tuluh tuluh…”

Too awkward to even put into words — maybe he’d just skip watching his own father’s opera from now on.

On deck, Zhang Yongchun, mortified, lowered his head in shame, his stomach so empty from hunger that he retched sour bile onto the deck.

Sitting at the bow, a sharp-featured young man performing the lead martial role, named Fan Xiaosong, spat into the river and said to Troupe Leader Zhang in a testy tone: “Look, troupe leader, it’s watery gruel every single day, and you’re still making the kids perform Old Blade pieces? Give it a rest already — everyone’s walking around light-headed these days…”

He hopped down and threw an arm around Troupe Leader Zhang’s shoulder, coaxing him: “Alright, alright, let’s go find our rich friend to chat instead. Old Brother Ping’s such a hoot, there’s nothing under heaven he doesn’t seem to know…”

As they talked, this Fan fellow led Troupe Leader Zhang away, passing by She Wanlin and giving him a playful wink, then turned to signal the young apprentices behind his back that the coast was clear.

No one dared move until the two men were well out of sight, at which point a low, excited murmur broke out, like children thrilled for new clothes on a holiday.

She Wanlin stepped out, somewhat embarrassed — watching his new friends get beaten had been rather uncomfortable to witness.

But Zhang Yongchun and the others were used to it. Once the troupe leader was gone, they bounced back up, sprawling loosely against the railing, all exhaling together in relief.

“Sheep-horn cakes… honey cakes here…”

Still here?

She Wanlin brightened, hurried over, leaned on the railing, and called out to the woman poling her small skiff selling cakes in the distance: “Hey, you, come here.”

He rarely shouted like this, and his voice didn’t quite carry.

Just as the cake seller seemed about to move on, worried, he heard someone behind him say: “Little Steward, buying cakes?”

Everyone on the boat teased She Wanlin, calling him “Little Steward.”

She Wanlin turned, startled, to find a row of boys looking at him with excited faces. Why would his buying cakes make them all this happy?

Zhang Yongbao stepped forward and asked again: “Little Steward, buying cakes?”

She Wanlin nodded: “Mm.”

Everyone was thrilled. Zhang Yongbao, with a somewhat ingratiating tone, said: “Then — then I’ll call her over for you.”

She Wanlin smiled: “Sure.”

He had no idea that these children, having made their living on the Wufu Troupe’s boat along the Three Rivers, watched all sorts of little trade boats pass by every day selling all kinds of goods — yet none of them had ever owned a single coin, or ever bought anything themselves.

Seeing She Wanlin agree, everyone grew even more excited, all eager to be the one to call out, yet not daring to rush forward together — the troupe leader would beat them for it.

Finally, after some careful discussion, they settled on sending Yongchun — today’s unluckiest one — to do the calling.

One of the boys said: “Brother, she’s about to leave, hurry up!”

Zhang Yongchun, trying to maintain his dignity, walked up to the railing, still grumbling: “Stop pushing me! What are you shoving for! She’s not going anywhere!”

He cleared his throat and shouted toward the distant skiff: “Hey, hey, hey… hey… we want to buy cakes!”

Laughter erupted behind him.

No surprise, with all his vocal training — that shout carried with all the commanding force of an opera stage. The cake-selling woman heard it and called back: “Alright~ coming, little brother, wait a moment.”

With that, she pushed off with her long pole and came over.

Zhang Yongchun’s hands trembled slightly, but he couldn’t show weakness. Watching the woman approach across the water, he patted She Wanlin’s shoulder with some pride: “See, told you she wouldn’t go far.”

She Wanlin glanced at the distance, then at the boys around him, wanting to ask why they were all so excited — but the cake seller had already arrived below.

The boys crowded forward at once. Since the little steward was clearly buying, they eagerly picked through the goods, chattering all at once — how much per packet? Is there really honey in it? If it’s not sweet when we eat it, we’ll complain, you know…

She Wanlin had never witnessed such an elaborate interrogation over a simple purchase. He listened with a smile, and by the time the boys had thought of everything on his behalf, they’d even haggled the ten-coin pastry down to eight coins per packet.

Only then, amid the boys’ collective gasps, did he produce the princely sum of thirty-two coins and buy four packets.

The boatwoman, standing in her little skiff, used her long pole to hand the pastries up. Once the boat had received the goods, she rowed off quickly, sweating from the effort.

Unfortunately, by then, no one was paying her any attention anymore.

Three rings deep, the twenty-some boys stood reverently watching as She Wanlin set the four packets of pastries down in the middle of the deck.

Even the crudest pastry, so long as it was edible, they could smell it right through the oil paper.

In truth, everyone really just wanted to look, to smell — but without warning, a hand reached out from the inner ring, trying to open one of the packets.

Amid a collective gasp, Zhang Yongchun said: “You, what are you doing? Stop that! Your steward will beat you for it!”

She Wanlin, quite calm about it, opened the most carefully purchased packet of his life, and looking at the dark gray, dry, thin triangular cake inside, said: “This is honey cake?”

Yet the fragrance wafting from the packet was undeniable, and all around, people swallowed audibly, unable to stop.

Nothing else could be seen. Nothing else could be heard. Nothing else registered at all.

She Wanlin looked around at everyone, and had originally intended to wave grandly and say: “Help yourselves!”

But the surrounding gazes were so intense that he lost his nerve, instead sitting down cross-legged himself, gazing reverently at the cakes along with everyone else.

“Honey, it’s really sweet!”

“Huh? Mm.”

“Honey cake, it really looks nice!”

“Huh? Mm!”

“So, this is what’s inside.”

“Mm, so… so, do you all… want some?”