Chen Dasheng absolutely never expected this. His wife had only just left the house, and deep in the night, once he’d finally worked up the emotional courage to sit with his old father and talk about how hard she’d had it, all her many virtues—

—she had gone and stirred up a disaster.

He whipped his horse into a gallop, and by the hazy light of dawn, Chen Dasheng arrived outside Guangshun county seat. He’d expected she’d be hard to find. Instead, she was waiting right by the official road, leaning at her leisure against an old tree, gazing lazily up at the canopy, whistling for birds.

Distant sparrows answered her call. The wind off the forest’s edge was cold. To an old married couple, the scene had a flavor all its own.

He dismounted and closed the distance in a few strides, looking her over first—not a trace of dishevelment on her. Relief, and beneath it, a flicker of disappointment.

Her eyes met his, calm and certain, bright, the corners of her mouth curling with the ghost of a smile.

He always wished she’d lean on him a little more. But she managed everything so well on her own—though he also knew, better than anyone, that of all the women under heaven, his wife was the one who’d fly furthest and fastest the moment she left his side.

All those thousand things he wanted to say collapsed into one: “Have you eaten?”

Qiqian’er laughed and nodded. “I have. You?”

Chen Dasheng shook his head. “Not yet.”

She smiled. “Then look after yourself today. I can’t be bothered with you.”

They looked at each other and both laughed.

So many years now, and in this life they had never truly been apart. This brief separation—too short to even call one—was enough for Huo Qiqian to realize, seeing him now, that she had started missing him.

She must have missed him.

Children, the family estate—none of it seemed to matter this morning. They had simply kept each other company all these years, and it was rare, this deep into it, that neither had grown tired of the other. Both were stubborn to the bone, and yet in over a decade they’d rarely quarreled to the point of raised voices—which was, in its own way, remarkable.

Looking at Chen Dasheng in his thin robe, Qiqian’er had a stomach full of things to say, but what came out was pure nitpicking: “Who dressed you in this? Who was waiting on you last night? Where’s Jixiang?”

At home she never allowed sloppiness—not from her husband, her children, or the elders. Everyone had to be kept neat and proper. And the moment she was gone one day, here he was, stubble on his chin, no socks, ankles bare to the night wind on horseback, wearing an early-autumn pullover that was clearly wrong for the season.

Chen Dasheng glanced down at himself. Looked fine to him.

He couldn’t figure out what she meant by the clothes. He tugged at his robe. “Jixiang’s gotten old, and I left in a hurry—grabbed whatever was closest. Ah, cough—so, you slept out here last night?”

He glanced toward the trees, where Bai Ying was sorting through their luggage, and Pei Daohai sat tied to a large tree, head lolling by the campfire, sleeping soundly. After a night of soul-deep torment, the man had apparently made his peace with things and now couldn’t be bothered with anything else.

Huo Qiqian nodded, walking to his side. “So many Elm Mother temples all along Baiquan Mountain—why have I never once heard you mention them?”

The question caught Chen Dasheng off guard. But he was sharp; he already understood what was going on—otherwise he wouldn’t have ridden through the night to get here. Shame crept into his voice. “I… I thought it was yours. Truly. I was careless, that’s all.”

He remembered how, when reports first came in that Huguo Temple’s incense trade was thriving, he’d actually felt proud.

Tch. All this fuss, and it turned out to be a swindler’s racket.

He’d done plenty of shameful things in his life, but this one he couldn’t bear to have seen. Just thinking of it made his hands go numb, a churning mix of shame and awkwardness he couldn’t put into words.

At his answer, Qiqian’er’s expression turned into something between a smile and not-quite-a-smile.

Ever since the first Elm Mother temple appeared along Baiquan Mountain, Chen Dasheng had known about it. Privately, he’d even been pleased—he’d assumed it was his wife’s own temple, and of course he ought to look after it.

Seeing the incense trade doing well, he’d thought to himself: heh, this woman’s been squirreling away a private fortune.

Besides, every Elm Mother temple only charged for performing rites, same fee as a Buddhist or Daoist temple. So what was the harm in his wife earning a little pocket money on the side?

So he’d just… let it be.

Besides, there were bigger matters at court. The daily intelligence reports had long since stopped being a single crate a day—these days, reports poured in from across the country, never fewer than three full cartloads daily.

And that was just from one department.

The Ministry of War, the Ministry of Justice, various local prefectures, even reports tracking retired officials—scouts had to prepare a yearly whereabouts report for every one of them.

It wasn’t until a few years ago that Chen Dasheng finally grasped the old saying: all land under heaven belongs to the king, all men within it are his subjects. So this was what it meant.

Every day he was busy—organizing people, sorting by category, ranking everything by importance, sending it all up to the throne. That had been his life for years now.

As far as he was concerned, it was his wife’s temple. He’d simply look the other way and let it be looked after.

The scouts didn’t report it, local officials didn’t manage it, the martial world sheltered it—and so, in that gap, the miracle of Baiquan Mountain bloomed into something else entirely: an evil flower, and a whole thicket of them at that.

Ugh. Where was he supposed to go complain about that now? Karma had come around, and there was no explaining it away to his wife.

He’d even fantasized, once, about having someone carve an “Elm Grandfather” statue to sit beside hers after he died, so he too could enjoy a share of his wife’s incense offerings. Wouldn’t that have been nice.

Now? Forget it.

Watching his wife’s oddly amused smile, Chen Dasheng steeled his spine and said, “I’ll have it torn down tomorrow, that’s all. Don’t work yourself up over it. Whatever criminals need catching, catch them; whatever needs investigating, investigate. It won’t come back to touch you. Once Old Man Xin sorts things out over there, that’ll be that.”

Huo Qiqian thought it over. “It’s not that I’m worried about any of that. I’m just disgusted.”

Chen Dasheng agreed wholeheartedly. “It really is disgusting. But still, no need to work yourself up over it—it’s not worth it…”

Standing there by the roadside, Qiqian’er told him everything, start to finish, that she’d learned from Pei Daohai the night before.

Chen Dasheng, who’d been holding himself together admirably, finally found a tree to lean against once she finished, slowly sliding down to sit. He gave himself one slap across the face, then buried it in his hands and started laughing—a helpless, disbelieving heh-heh-heh.

Who could have guessed. Who could have possibly guessed. A thousand times careful his whole life, and it was over a few of his wife’s temples that he’d finally slipped. What was this supposed to be called?

Was heaven up there laughing at him for forgetting his roots over some petty self-interest?

All these years, how much dirty money had those “Mother” temples, hiding behind his wife’s name, funneled into the old Tan family’s coffers?

The thought earned him another slap.

Qiqian’er just watched him, understanding he was in a bad place, and didn’t interrupt.

He’d come around eventually. He always did.

Only once the sky had fully brightened did Chen Dasheng finally lift his head, giving her a bitter smile. “Sorry, wife. I was just… careless.”

Huo Qiqian smiled. “It’s fine. You have me.”

Whoever had taken from her would pay it back double.

Chen Dasheng nodded. “Lucky to have you… ah…” He stood, walked to her, took her hand, patted the back of it. “You know about the grudge between me and the old Tan family, right?”

Of course she knew.

Qiqian’er nodded. “These past few years I’ve noticed you don’t bring it up much anymore.”

He let go of her hand, patted his own chest with a bitter laugh. “How could I bring it up, living as well as I do? I’ve no face to speak of it! So many people, so many lives! All these years, soft quilts and fine furs every night, good food, good clothes—you’re well, Father’s well, the children are well. A’Nai may be muddled but she’s living out her years in comfort. But me… I can’t sleep deeply anymore.”

His lips trembled, somewhere between a smile and a wince. “I can’t sleep deep, and I don’t dare think too hard either. I’m afraid of the quiet. When it goes still, it’s those pairs of eyes I can’t close the books on. I owe them something I haven’t paid, and there’s not a day I dare set that down.”

Watching him suffer, Huo Qiqian’s heart ached, but she couldn’t take the pain from him—only sit with him in it.

Travelers began to appear on the distant road—some walking, some in carriages, some pushing single-wheeled carts.

A boy herding a cow followed behind the animal, and when it dropped dung as it walked, the boy scooped it with a wooden shovel into the large basket on his arm. Passing the couple, he found them strange enough to stare, eyes wide.

Qiqian’er smiled and waved at the boy; embarrassed, he clutched his basket and scurried off after the cow.

Watching his retreating back, Qiqian’er said with a smile, “Look at the children around Yandu—even the poor ones still have a bit of meat on their little faces. Don’t you think?”

Chen Dasheng took a while to press down his grief before answering. “Ah… so, in here”—he touched his chest—”there’s always some unease. A hesitation of sorts.”

Qiqian’er turned to look at him. “Hesitation?”

He nodded firmly. “Yes, hesitation. More than once. Especially whenever I go home and see you and the children living so well—I can hardly believe how good it is. My wife, my children, wanting for nothing. I’m happy, truly. But then I think—this is my own doing, my own achievement! But… but if one day I truly burn every bridge, break the vessels behind me… this life we have, it might all be gone, wife!”

Qiqian’er said nothing, but something surfaced in her memory.

She used to hear the nuns at Qingque Nunnery console people with talk of karma. They’d say—with total conviction—that in this life you might not see the wicked punished, might not see the good rewarded as they deserved, but surely it would come in the next life. In the next life, the Buddha had prepared the Three Realms and Six Paths for all beings; the wicked always found their place, and the good, their reward.

But now—this was the next life. This was her own reincarnation, playing out the karma of the one before.

Qiqian’er studied the man in front of her. His life was going well now—his career thriving, his rank and title secure, comfort and standing his in every way. Together they’d raised six children. Every grievance from her past life, she had already settled, her karma already closed.

But his?

For all his good fortune, his heart had never once known peace.

The Old Blade Camp had ended pitifully too. In her past life, only Meng Wanquan had been left of it. In this life, seven more—still not even enough to count on two hands.

She asked, “There were over two thousand of them, back then.”

Chen Dasheng nodded. “Mm. Two thousand. Chaos everywhere in those days—everyone was conscripting men wherever they could. There was no helping it… the tide of the times. Even the royal family threw lives into it. Who could escape that?

But once the fighting ended, others at least got some accounting—settlement money paid where owed. The Old Blade men got not one coin. Old Blade… gave his life to buy the Tan family their future, and in the end they tried to trick the rest of them into dying too. That cannot be forgiven!”

Huo Qiqian straightened his collar for him. “I know. It won’t be forgiven. Don’t worry—since the Tan family’s already shown intent to rebel, I’ll go quietly. Once I find that wretched boy, we’ll gather evidence together and send it up to the throne. From then on…”

She smoothed his robe flat over his shoulders. “From then on, maybe that sleepless habit of yours will finally mend.”

Chen Dasheng shook his head slightly. “It’s not that simple. My rank keeps rising, and the matter only grows more complicated the longer it sits. This isn’t just about the Tan family’s treason.”

He tapped his own head. “It’s not the kind of thing where one clean stroke settles everything anymore, not like it once was. The Tan family’s had years to dig in at Jindian…”

He closed his eyes briefly, then finally told her. “Beyond the local people who’d be caught in the fallout—there are also several of His Majesty’s grown sons, I’m afraid, each tangled up in it somehow. I’ve never feared the Tan family. But… after the night raid ten years ago, several of the princes were hurt, and it shook His Majesty to his core. He carries the guilt of it. I’m afraid… the one who stands in our way might be His Majesty himself.”

He was a man of few words, but his instincts were sharp as ever.

Qiqian’er stopped walking, looked at him seriously. “What does Father say?”

Chen Dasheng let out a breath. His wife always cut deeper into a problem than most.

Yes—if he was to pursue revenge, the old Prince’s opinion mattered a great deal.

The court had, after long and painful reorganization, finally brought some order to armies that had once been in total disarray. Now, even if outside threats returned, there was strength to meet them. If he stirred up trouble with the Tan family now, for the sake of stability in the south, would His Majesty allow it?

And his adoptive father, who held the whole realm’s welfare in his heart above all else—he would want it even less. In matters of the larger picture, it was never as simple as “you struck me, so I must strike back.” Everything had to be weighed against the greater balance, the movement of the whole.

The individual, within that larger picture, had never mattered much. Next to the stability of the realm, two thousand lives were, to those who held power, barely even a number.

What frightened him more was that his own thinking, more and more, mirrored his adoptive father’s, the old Prince’s.

He still wanted revenge—but now he had to first consider whether Jindian could withstand a move of that magnitude.

If, because of his private grudge, he threw an entire region into chaos and displacement—how would that make him any different from the treacherous officials around the Dark Emperor?

His thoughts tangled into knots; Chen Dasheng didn’t dare dwell on it further. His father had spent half a lifetime, alongside his colleagues, smoothing this realm into some kind of order. If he himself tore the sky open now and threw Jindian into chaos… how much of that effort would be wasted?

Watching Chen Coutou’s mind churn, and noticing the hour growing late, Huo Qiqian patted him. “There now—Father of my children, don’t think so much. You men always overthink compared to us women. Truly… whatever happens, your wife has to make a trip to Jindian anyway. Let’s get that wretched boy back first, shall we?”

Chen Dasheng’s furrowed brow eased slightly; he managed a strained smile. “That’s true. Go on, then—bring the little wretch back, and I’ll deal with him properly!”

The words earned him a slap from his wife. Qiqian’er glared sideways. “You don’t get to hit him!”

Chen Dasheng rubbed his face, scratched his nose, and walked into the trees, hauling up Pei Daohai, who’d been having sweet dreams.

Pei Daohai’s eyes shot open, and he struggled, shouting, “Hey—hey, who’s there, who—”

He was knocked out again with one blow.

Slinging Pei Daohai upside-down over the horse’s rump, Chen Dasheng walked back to Qiqian’er. “That outfit of yours—I don’t think it’ll pass in Jindian.”

She looked down at her martial garb. “Like this?”

He nodded. “Yes. Good thing you didn’t get far—I’d already arranged for post-relay horses to Xiaonan Mountain.”

He leaned in close to her ear. “Tan Shouyi has issued a martial-world lockdown order—probably worried our business with the boy will spill over into Jindian, and afraid of Nine Provinces Domain stirring trouble on his turf. Word is the checkpoints are searching thoroughly now—not even a scrap of iron gets through.”

Qiqian’er laughed, unconcerned. “Wasted effort. They only catch the ones who follow rules. Anyone who really wants through will fly right over.”

Chen Dasheng loved that confidence in her. He glanced around—no one nearby—and thought about pulling her into an embrace, hating how reluctant he felt to let her go.

Instead, she was the one who threw her arms around him first, whispering in his ear: “Let me tell you something—inside the walls of that bastard’s temples, there might be a few hundred thousand strings of cash!”

Chen Dasheng sucked in a sharp breath, baring his teeth at her, murmuring, “You… you want it?”

Truly, he had no choice but to offer up his own private savings—ill-gotten money like that could never be kept, no matter how much there was.

Huo Qiqian smacked his shoulder in exasperation. “What are you thinking? Does our family lack for that? I mean—is His Majesty running dry on funds?”

This old lady’s got a treasury from the previous dynasty sitting in her pocket. What do I care about a few hundred thousand strings of copper coin?

She rolled her eyes at him. Chen Dasheng thought it over for a long moment, then finally cupped his chin, something dawning on him.

Qiqian’er, seeing understanding land, tapped his forehead. “Fool! Even when we women manage the household, we need a war chest to back us up, or who’s going to listen to us? I don’t believe for a second that a man planning rebellion doesn’t have some serious money stashed away. Even our little pup at home understands you move the grain before you move the troops. Just you wait—even if it’s dregs of bean curd, this old lady will wring the oil right out of it…”

Chen Dasheng found himself regretting letting this troublesome woman out of the house. He gave a dry laugh, half-wanting to bring up his own battle with the Nine Provinces Domain—but feared she’d only laugh at him for it.

All these years, his wife had managed the household, borne and raised the children, cared for the elders—she’d never shirked a single duty. And yet, every time, he was the one who ended up on the losing end of a fight with her.

The path of martial cultivation his wife walked seemed to be one nobody else in this world had ever managed. Since that was so, she’d already been let loose—there was no point saying more.

He slapped the horse’s rump and let it walk on a stretch before saying, “You should reach Xiaonan Mountain by tomorrow on fast horses. Once there, find the Honeypeng Escort Agency—that’s the scouts’ contact point in Xiaonan Mountain. The head escort’s surname is Sun. There’s a bridal escort job headed into Jindian soon; go along with the dowry caravan. Safer that way, and you’ll have company.”

Huo Qiqian nodded. “Understood. Old Xin’s probably going to strike the Grievance Drum today—keep an eye on that case.”

Chen Dasheng nodded. “It’ll be fine. Tang Jiuyuan’s over there.”

Tang Jiuyuan now held real power in the Ministry of Justice.

Truthfully, anyone living near Quanhou Street, close to the Imperial Guard lanes, was considered by the court to be of the same faction—loyal dogs of the throne, through and through. Fortunately, that faction’s people were all decent enough, never flaunting their standing.

This time it was Huo Qiqian seeing Chen Dasheng off. They lingered, reluctant to part, for a good while before he finally left. He walked a fair distance, then suddenly stopped, turned back, and shouted: “That little wretch—if you have to hit him, wait till you’re home to do it, all right…”

With that, he was gone.

Was that… him worrying she might hit too hard?

Huo Qiqian stood stunned for a long moment before bursting into laughter.

—

At the mouth of the Three Rivers into Jindian, She Wanlin, sitting cross-legged and telling stories to a group of young performers, sneezed. Then sneezed again. Then a third time.

Clear mucus ran down freely; he wiped it with his sleeve—a habit he’d never had back home, though now he didn’t even notice himself doing it.

Old Chou noticed, though, and worried he’d catch cold, went back to the cabin to fetch a padded jacket to drape over him.

The young performers watched with envy, telling She Wanlin, “Young Master, your uncle is so good to you!”

Back home, this kind of care had always surrounded him, and he’d never once registered it.

But since leaving home—especially after meeting this troupe of young performers—he’d come to understand that no kindness came easily. Look at these children before him: all of them had been taken in by the troupe leader, Zhang Shuangxi, without a single coin changing hands.

A theater troupe didn’t take just any child. First, the child had to be sturdy, features regular, and able to endure real hardship.

For families this poor, when a child’s life itself was already hanging by a thread, being taken in by a troupe was an enormous mercy.

The “lowest of trades,” as some called it, meant nothing to people starving. As long as they survived, and the troupe leader took them in, he was practically a living Buddha to them.

These children had grown up in the troupe from a young age—no father, no mother, no relatives, no elders. Their only reliance was the troupe leader; their very lives depended on him.

They’d never known even a scrap of kindness before.

Watching Manager Ping dote on his nephew with pocket money, watching him always save the biggest cuts of meat for the boy whenever they had meat to eat—they envied it. Even when the young master merely sneezed a few times and his uncle rushed to add a layer of clothing for him, they were consumed with envy.

Some kindnesses only become visible when someone else points them out.

Everyone kept telling She Wanlin how good his uncle was to him.

She Wanlin was starting to appreciate just how rare Old Chou truly was.

Feeling settled inside, She Wanlin smiled at the young performers. “It’s fine, look at Uncle Deyi—if he sneezes even once, your troupe leader would practically hang himself from worry. Keep practicing hard; once you all become star performers someday, you’ll be a Li Deyi too. Then who’s afraid of a hard life?”

These days, with boats of every kind stranded at the mouth of Jindian—no one else knew it, but stuck here, business for the Five Blessings Troupe had boomed.

Every morning, once the noon meal passed, wealthy families’ boats would come by, and once they’d sent over the playbill, performances could run from afternoon straight through the evening.

If truly grand patrons appeared and were willing to spend on lamp oil, they could even manage two full shows in a single day—entire epic plays, at that.

So the troupe had come alive. Every day now brought in no less than ten strings of cash.

The troupe had eaten well enough now that they nearly wished the boats would stay jammed here forever.

And since this business had been the young master’s own clever doing, troupe leader Zhang Shuangxi, thrilled, had been feeding this uncle-and-nephew pair well, and hadn’t even brought up the matter of raising their fare.

Truth be told, one could tell from small things like this that Manager Zhang was a decent man.

The river air was damp and cold, and worried the little young master would catch a chill in his bones, Old Chou went to the galley to ask Old Pi for two pieces of dried ginger, then to the cabin for brown sugar, and boiled him a sweat-inducing ginger tea.

When he carried the bowl up to the deck, he found his little precious one already deep in another story for the young performers.

He’d gotten clever about it too—now he always opened with a preamble, something like: Back when I went with my clan uncle to deliver goods to a wealthy household in the city, I saw such-and-such…

Every time Old Chou overheard his young master bragging with kids his own age, he nearly died laughing inside—and also felt this was probably the happiest time of the boy’s whole life.

You wouldn’t guess it from the plain food, but the boy now ate three full bowls a day.

This was a child who, back home, used to bury whatever he didn’t like at the bottom of his bowl and eat it all himself in secret.

Now he laughed all day, ran around the boat with the young performers, helped the troupe leader with the accounts, wrote out the playbills, and sometimes dressed himself up neatly to go collect tips from patrons across the way.

His disguised appearance was cheerful and well-liked, especially among the older ladies and matrons who came to watch.

Whenever they wanted to tip him, he’d bring out the same trick he used to coax his great-grandmother back home—refusing money, only asking for rare pastries instead.

No one in this world could resist a child working that particular charm to beg for sweets. Whatever treats he brought back, he’d split among the young performers, standing off to the side with a small smile, watching them eat.

Sometimes a person’s growth isn’t dramatic or sudden. That this child could treat these lowly young performers as equals, befriend them, and even scheme up little benefits for them—that, in itself, was growth.

Rare and precious indeed.

She Wanlin, snot flying as he spoke, went on: “…back then I went with my clan uncle to deliver goods to a wealthy household in another county. That day, the master of the house had just acquired a scroll called Wonderful Virtue Lay Buddhist Brewing Tea, and in his delight, he hired a grand opera troupe—performed right on his stone pleasure-boat pavilion, and it was a proper big troupe from the area too…”

Most of what the young master said went over the children’s heads—they hadn’t seen much of the world, and could only follow things related to opera, so She Wanlin stuck to opera-adjacent stories.

Even so, there were still things they didn’t understand.

Zhang Yongbao cut in. “Young Master, what’s a ‘four-chamber’?”

She Wanlin, endlessly patient, answered earnestly: “A stone-boat pavilion! Not ‘four-chamber’—it’s a thing shaped like a boat, but made of stone.”

Zhang Yongchun scoffed. “Nonsense—stone made into a boat shape, and it can float? We’ve grown up on boats our whole lives, and if there’s one thing we know, it’s boats, and we’ve never once seen a stone boat. Young Master’s lying.”

He was the group’s ringleader, and the others chimed in, one after another accusing She Wanlin of bragging.

A few days earlier, She Wanlin would have gotten flustered, would have dragged Old Chou over to vouch for him.

Not anymore. He just laughed. “You’ve never seen the world, that’s all. That’s just something rich families do for fun in their courtyards—who said a stone boat has to float on water? That one wasn’t meant to be used as an actual boat—it was a grand opera stage!”

The boys chorused in disbelief: “Huh? A grand opera stage? Pah, liar!”

Old Chou walked over smiling, holding out the bowl to She Wanlin. “Enough bragging. Drink this while it’s hot.”

She Wanlin took the bowl with a smile, tipped his head back, and took a sip, smacking his lips—sweet. But he didn’t dare say so, because for the children across from him, even something sweet was a rare luxury.

He said nothing, but the taste lingered.

Once he’d finished and set the bowl down, he saw everyone still watching him with open envy.

Little Bao piped up: “Young Master, that drink—it’s sweet, right?”

Saliva slipped out before he could catch it, and he sucked it back in.

She Wanlin forced a laugh. “Ah—how’d you know it was sweet?”

Little Bao gave him a look like he was an idiot. “Duh, I could smell it. Such a strong sweet smell.”

Then, pleadingly, to She Wanlin: “Young Master, can I lick the bottom of your bowl?”

She Wanlin flushed red, flustered and embarrassed. “This—what’s there to lick at the bottom of a bowl?”

But by the time he finished the sentence, the bowl was no longer in his hands.

Zhang Yongbao, cradling the sweet-water bowl, said solemnly to his older brother Zhang Yongchun: “Senior brother, you go first!”

Their troupe had its own code of conduct.

Zhang Yongchun accepted it with solemn ceremony, bashfully deferring at first, while the others all insisted the eldest should go first.

Watching this, Old Chou—seeing his little precious one’s eyes go wide with unconcealed, awkward discomfort—laughed and came over. “Aiyo, aiyo, what’s there to lick in a broken bowl? He’s got a bit of a chill, don’t want to pass the sickness on to you all!”

Zhang Yongchun quickly licked the bottom of the bowl and passed it to the next boy, saying, “It’s fine, Uncle!”

She Wanlin reached out and smacked his own forehead. What kind of situation was this?

By the time Old Chou managed to grab the bowl back, it had already been licked clean.

Nothing to be done. He held the empty bowl with a sigh. “Fine, fine! This is exactly the busy season for earning money—if the sickness spreads and ruins your voices, that’ll be real trouble. Forget it, it’s my own doing—I’ve got more brown sugar, I’ll boil it up for all of you to sweat the cold out! Aiyo, what a mess I’ve made… you’ll all be coughing tomorrow, and then your troupe leader really will hang himself.”

Grumbling and full of complaint, he stalked off.

Knowing they’d get sugar water now, the young performers giggled quietly among themselves.

Just as they were laughing away, an old sand-boat passing alongside called out: “Is that the Five Blessings Troupe over there! Is that the Five Blessings Troupe?”

The boys leapt up, thinking it was a patron come to order a show—only to find the sand boat crewed by several boatmen wrapped in loincloths.

Didn’t look like people with money to spend on a show.

Zhang Yongchun called back, “Good day, elder! We’re the Five Blessings Troupe, no mistake—something you need?”

On the sand boat, a white-haired, bony old boatman called out: “Ah, finally found you! I asked around—little brothers, is there a boy on your boat named Zhang Yongbao?”

Zhang Yongbao, who’d been laughing in the middle of the group, froze.

He pointed at himself. “Me?”

His companions all pointed at him too. “Yes, yes, no mistake—Zhang Yongbao, that’s him!”