Chapter 521

Small towns had their own charm; even a hint of festivity was enough to evoke a New Year's atmosphere. On a dusk in the first lunar month, even the stingiest households hung festive lanterns outside their doors. The bustling market was abuzz with activity: some kicked bottles and jars, others broke stones on their chests, some pretended to be ghosts breathing fire, and still others performed pole-climbing and rope-walking tricks. Each somersault earned countless cheers from the crowd below, and some young children stretched their necks, staring intently.

A young man wearing a brand new grey squirrel fur coat walked into the market. His steps were limping; one hand cupped his shoulder to shield against the wind and cold, while the other arm hung listlessly out of his sleeve. He looked up, squinting at the street performer on the rope above, then slowly lowered his head, seeing the faces of the children below. Several of them tightly clutched the bamboo and wooden swords their fathers had carved for them. The young man's lips curled slightly. Hadn't he, as a child, also believed that such was the incredible light-foot skill of "treading snow without a trace"? He remembered running aimlessly with a bowl in hand as a child, stumbling upon a hero who didn't even frown when a large hammer was smashed onto a bluestone slab on his stomach. This hero was then chased and beaten by local ruffians, his money stolen, and even spat upon in the end. At that time, he would feel indignant and puzzled: how could such a martial arts master not fight back? Then, five or six years ago, unable to endure his sister-in-law's cold glances and the neighbors' taunts, he took a wooden sword he had carved himself and went to what he thought was the martial arts world. He wandered around but brought nothing back. The only valuable item on him, this fur coat, was bought with borrowed silver. What made him even more helpless and resigned was that he probably wouldn't be able to pay back the money. Though he hadn't experienced the world firsthand, he had at least observed its harsh realities. The dejected young man had no interest in watching the street performances. He stumbled and squeezed through the crowd. Several young women, grouped together, were hesitant to approach the throng, also fearing being taken advantage of by rowdy, long-single men. They all noticed this shabby man with a broken leg and quickly frowned, moving to avoid him. He muttered something inaudibly; they couldn't hear clearly and guessed it was probably vulgar words meant to take advantage of them. One fiery woman, whose face was heavily powdered, put her hands on her hips and spat disdainfully at this good-for-nothing rogue, saying, "If you don't control your dog eyes, I'll break your other dog leg!"

The young man seemed not to dare talk back and simply walked away. After a few dozen steps, he stopped, unsure if he was too tired to rest or if he intended to muster courage and retort. But he never turned around. A kinder, more gentle young woman happened to see him bending over, his back to them. She felt a twinge of pity, thinking her companion had spoken too harshly. The fiery woman had just finished applauding the agile performer on the rope. She turned back and saw her peer looking at the lame man and added insult to injury with a scoff, "Even if that guy climbs the rope, he'll only be good for a 'golden rooster standing on one leg'!" Except for the gentle young woman, the others burst into laughter. For some reason, perhaps because the young man heard them mocking him, he straightened his back, turned around, and grinned. In the twilight, his teeth appeared exceptionally white. The fiery woman took his smile as a provocation, took a few steps forward, and feigned anger, saying, "Get lost, you dead cripple, or Granny will beat your teeth out!" The man quickly turned around and scurried away, his shoulders unevenly high and low, making them cover their mouths and giggle uncontrollably. Only the young woman who hadn't joined in the mockery from start to finish gently turned her head away.

The young man walked for over an hour through the night before reaching the village, both familiar and strange to him. At the village entrance stood several cypress trees, which the elderly villagers said preserved the village's good fortune. If a cat died in any household, its remains or a token would be hung here. Dense vines clung to the trees, yielding a bounty of dark, berry-like fruits every autumn. Children, after harvesting rice and catching fish from the streams and frogs from the fields, would come here to pick the fruits to satisfy their cravings; older, stronger village children always managed to pick more. The young man gazed at the small village of only forty or fifty households and crouched beneath a cypress tree, not daring to take another step forward. Faint, dim yellow lights flickered in the village. He crouched by the cypress tree. As a child, he was mischievous; his parents had died early, and his elder brother was busy with farm work, leaving him unsupervised. He often climbed the cypress tree, sitting on its branches to look into the distance. When he was little, the village elders would all scold him, saying he was a bad seed and would eventually go out and return with broken legs. His own brother at home would often joke that an old beggar had almost abducted him when he was a child, always smiling especially brightly when telling this tale. He, who had heard this joke so many times he was calloused to it, would usually get angry and retort impatiently. His brother would always apologetically try to rub his head, but he never let him succeed after he grew up. Since his sister-in-law entered their home, his brother, who was simple-natured and didn't smile much to begin with, smiled less and less. He knocked the back of his head against the cold bark of the cypress tree, stretched out his left hand, and rubbed his cheek. As he rubbed, whimpers escaped through his fingers. In his youth, he was ignorant, but no matter how lazy he was, he couldn't endure his sister-in-law's deliberate nagging when she handed him a bowl of rice. He could still lend a hand to his brother in the fields to some extent. But now, even if he wanted to help, how much could he do?

He stood up, shrugged his right shoulder, and wiped his face. No matter what, he had to tell his brother he was still alive and apologize to his sister-in-law for all those years. Then he would go to town to find work serving tea and water. Most of his limbs were crippled, but at least he still had a smiling face for everyone he met. He could be a restaurant helper who only needed leftovers to fill his stomach and didn't ask for a single copper coin. He'd shamelessly beg the proprietor; if one didn't agree, he'd try another. Most likely, he'd find someone to take him. If not, if there was a family with a simple-minded, ugly daughter who couldn't marry, he wouldn't mind marrying into their family. He walked into the village. The bluestone slabs beneath his feet were still the same bluestone slabs. The outhouses built beside the village's stone paths were still as they were, less foul-smelling in winter than in summer. He remembered, in his youth, he liked to hide in the dark, catching sight of thin-skinned girls his age sneaking into the outhouses, lifting their skirts. Then he would throw pebbles inside, listening to their screams and curses, and their elders rushing out with fire-starting bamboo tubes to beat him. They were all simple villagers, unable to utter anything refined; they just repeated the same few curses over and over. He was very playful then, with a thick skin like the hard, smelly bricks of the outhouse, so he didn't care at all.

He knocked on a door.

From inside, a rough voice called out, "Who is it?"

He quietly said, "Me."

Perhaps even he hadn't heard himself clearly, but soon a rough-looking man hurriedly opened the door. He wasn't wearing shoes and had casually thrown on an outer garment. Seeing the young man standing at the door, his lips immediately began to tremble. This man, who wouldn't even cry out in pain when his bare feet were cut to the bone while chopping wood in the mountains, now embraced the young man outside the door and began to cry hoarsely, unable to stop. As if afraid the young man in his arms would turn and leave, he twisted his head. No matter how much he couldn't stand tall among the villagers, this man, who cared most about his dignity in front of his own child, didn't care if his sleeping child in bed heard his choked sobs. He shouted loudly, "Yanmei, younger brother is back, my younger brother has come home!"

A woman also hastily dressed and ran out. Seeing this good-for-nothing younger brother-in-law, whom she had scolded countless times, she, after all, was family and couldn't hold back her tears. She repeatedly murmured, "It's good you're back, it's good you're back..."

The table was still the same Eight Immortals table, acquired when his elder brother married. It had once been brand new and gleaming, and his brother used to lovingly stroke its edge, smiling foolishly. Year after year, it grew older, and now its red lacquer was almost completely worn off. His sister-in-law went to the kitchen to light the fire and warmed up a table full of dishes. They were all leftovers from a previous meal, so the bowls and plates weren't full, only half-filled. After sitting down, the sister-in-law watched her brother-in-law eating with his head bowed, not looking up even when picking food. Her husband beside her seemed struck by lightning, not moving a muscle. Only then did she notice her brother-in-law was holding his chopsticks with his left hand, his right hand not even touching the bowl. She lowered her eyelids, following her gaze, and saw his right arm hanging limply. She covered her mouth, trying not to cry out. Unable to return triumphantly as he had vowed when he left home years ago, the young man looked up and softly said, "Sister-in-law, you've worked hard all these years. Don't worry, even with a broken arm and leg, I won't be a burden to my brother and you, even if I have to beg for food."

The man, with red eyes, angrily retorted, "What nonsense are you talking about! We're family; what's wrong with adding a bowl and an extra pair of chopsticks?!"

His sister-in-law also raised an arm to wipe away her tears, sobbing, "It's all sister-in-law's fault. Sister-in-law was heartless then, cruelly driving you away. Your brother has scolded me countless times over the years; sister-in-law knows she was wrong."

The lame man, who had once swung a wooden sword, ready to venture into the martial arts world, seemed to have lost even that wooden sword. Perhaps having suffered, he was no longer as willful as before. He shook his head and said, "Sister-in-law was also doing it for my own good; what's wrong with a few scoldings? If she wasn't thinking of the family's well-being, why would she scold me? I was a scoundrel; it won't happen again. Brother, sister-in-law, I know I can't be much help at home, so after staying tonight, I'll go to the town tomorrow morning. I'll find work as a handyman or short-term laborer, something to settle down and not starve. In the future, when I save money, I won't be able to spend it, so I'll bring it back for the family. Even adding a few small items would be good. For all these years, sister-in-law hasn't even known what cosmetics are; our family has wronged sister-in-law. Brother, don't try to persuade me. If you truly consider me your younger brother, let me find a job not far from home. As long as I have hands and feet, there's absolutely no reason to starve. I'll do anything; as long as I can support myself, it's not shameful."

"Sister-in-law, my brother is just clumsy with words, but he's a good man. If you two live well, it's better than anything."

"Sister-in-law's cooking is still the best. I'll eat a few more bowls of rice. Sister-in-law, you've cursed me fiercely, but hey, you won't have a chance to call me idle anymore."

"Brother, how's the harvest this year?"

"How's my nephew doing at the village school? I just saw the spring couplets outside the door, written so neatly; he must be doing well. I must save money quickly. When my nephew passes the imperial examination, as his uncle, I must give him a big red envelope."

The next day, after returning from visiting the graves, the young man absolutely refused to let his elder brother escort him to town. His elder brother said he knew some shopkeepers in town and could help him find work, but the young man just shook his head. In truth, the elder brother had no special connections in town and had no choice but to give up. However, he still followed from a distance, accompanying him for more than ten miles outside the village. Only when he saw his younger brother turn and wave from afar did he stop, squatting by the roadside. The man buried his head between his knees, resenting his own incompetence and feeling he had failed his deceased parents by not taking good care of his younger brother. He felt a pat on his shoulder, looked up, and saw his younger brother had returned at some point. His brother grinned and said that one day, he would open his own tavern and let his elder brother drink all the good wine he desired.

A few days later, a small tavern in the town gained a new waiter, a man with a limp but still nimble. He smiled at everyone he met. If a customer mocked his limp, he would smile even more. If someone found him an eyesore, he would bow his head deeply, profusely apologizing. And surprisingly, although the young man looked shabby, he was eloquent and very likable. Though he didn't bring in much new business for the tavern, he at least didn't cause a drop in sales, which relieved the proprietor. Looking at the waiter with a cloth towel draped over his shoulder, the proprietor found him somewhat more pleasing. This young man was truly stubborn; to get work at the tavern, he stood outside the door for an entire night. No amount of scolding could drive him away. If it weren't for fear of the scoundrel freezing to death outside and bringing bad luck in the first lunar month, the proprietor would have really wanted to sweep him away with a broom at first. Later, he reasoned that since the tavern wouldn't have to pay him a single copper coin and he could manage with leftovers, and business was good in the first lunar month anyway, and they were reluctant to hire more people, he reluctantly agreed to let the poor young man work as a general helper. After a few days of trial, the proprietor was quite satisfied, and over time, found him very easy to use, so he had no intention of telling him to pack up and leave. When unreasonable ruffians came, drinking without paying and acting rowdy, this young man proved useful. He would be pushed out to be beaten and kicked by those hoodlums, and often, everything would be resolved. There were a few times when he was badly beaten, and even the proprietor felt bad, trying to give him some loose copper coins, but the young man firmly refused. He said he was content that the proprietor had taken him in and that if he said no copper coins, he meant no copper coins. No matter how worldly or hard-hearted the proprietor was, he couldn't help but feel a little sympathy. He instructed the head chef to make him a few oily dishes and told him to sit at a table to eat when there weren't many customers. But this young man, who had certainly endured great hardship, never took advantage of the offer to sit at a table. Instead, he would honestly sit on the threshold inside the tavern, carefully placing his few dishes and rice bowls on his lap, eating very slowly, one chopstick at a time.

As rumors spread through the comings and goings of the town, the proprietor learned that this young man was from a village dozens of miles away. A few years ago, he had been a good-for-nothing rogue, who had gone out to wander for several years and returned in such a wretched state. Young men from the same village often came here for a drink, making the waiter, surnamed Wen, run errands. They would say harsh things like, "How come you didn't become the greatest swordsman in the world?" The young man would not retort, instead offering compliments, proactively befriending people, bowing deeply, apologizing profusely, and smilingly asking them to look after his elder brother's family. There was a swordsman in town, said to be a disciple of a powerful, top-tier sect elsewhere. He deliberately took off his sword and forced Wen, the waiter, to pick up the heavy iron sword with his crippled right hand, saying that if he could pick it up, the sword would belong to him. At first, Wen refused to take it and was kicked flying by that genuine martial arts master, overturning several tables, which made the proprietor's heart ache. After being taught a lesson twice, perhaps knowing that enough was enough, this waiter learned to be clever. He would stand on his tiptoes and shrug his shoulder, his hand trembling as he reached for the sword. He would still be kicked in the stomach by the arrogant swordsman in town, who would curse, "Do you even deserve to hold a sword?!" After that, the swordsman never bothered with this Wen fellow again. The proprietor, hiding nearby, could only sigh. However, the waiter, who usually managed to force a smile and see customers off even after being beaten, seemed to have no smile that time. He sat on the ground, dispirited, saying nothing, probably from the pain.

This waiter had low spirits, even as low as dirt, but he was quick-witted. Somehow, he managed to invite an old storyteller from out of town, who happened to be passing through, to tell strange and outlandish martial arts tales he had heard by hearsay at the tavern. The proprietor was initially reluctant to spend money, but later, unable to resist the persuasion of the young man, nicknamed 'Wen the Second,' and given that the storyteller also offered to perform for free for three sessions in the tavern, he agreed. To his surprise, the tavern's business boomed significantly. Unfortunately, a small temple cannot retain a great Buddha. Several larger taverns, seeing the miraculous effect of the storytelling, poached the storyteller with heavy sums of money. Later, the old storyteller occasionally sought out Wen a few times and even invited him for drinks. The proprietor, listening in, gradually realized that the storyteller's mystical tales had all been dug out from his own waiter's mouth. After this, the proprietor secretly regarded the young man with higher esteem. He thought, this guy probably really did spend a few years wandering in the lower echelons of the martial arts world, didn't achieve anything noteworthy in sword fighting, but at least he heard some strange people and unusual events. But the price was too great: a perfectly fine young man in his twenties, with a broken hand and leg, reduced to being a laughingstock at a tavern after meals.

His elder brother came to town several times, and the young man always greeted him with a radiant smile, saying only that he was eating well, drinking well, and living well.

It must have been the last snowfall of the year. The proprietor, feeling charitable, rewarded him with a small pot of distilled spirits. The snowy road was difficult to traverse, and there were no customers left. The proprietor saw Wen, the waiter, sitting alone by the tavern door. Wen picked up the wine and solemnly said, "To Xiao Nian. I, your brother, am doing quite well; you must also be well!"

The proprietor couldn't help but smile. "Oh, he has a brother?" he wondered. "What was his name again, 'Xiao Nian'?" He mused, "He must be a nobody, like you, Wen Hua Wen the Second, who'll never amount to anything."