In truth, he would often drift into daze while busy, which troubled him—he felt like he was slacking off.
Then he thought, if that’s the case, he might as well write a letter. Putting his thoughts down would prevent his mind from wandering into chaos.
It was his first time writing a letter, and he was nervous. He laid out their literacy books and flashcards on the table. After writing only a couple of lines, the notebook was already flipped into disorder.
When he started writing, his mind was blank, much like his daytime dazes. There were no stray thoughts—just emptiness.
Lu Liu ground the ink, sat for a while, and began to mumble about the dos and don’ts of writing letters.
Writing a letter made him feel even more embarrassed than saying he missed someone outright, as if he were exposing his heart on paper. Recorded and preserved, his thoughts could be analyzed from all angles.
He told Li Feng that it felt similar to bathing together. They had seen each other naked in the same tub, yet it still made him bashful. So the affections he could speak easily in person were harder to write down—naturally, since he could see himself.
Halfway through, Lu Liu touched his ears, burning hot. He took a small mirror, the bronze dulled with age, the oil lamp casting a yellow light, yet the flush on his face was visible.
He sighed and finished the letter:
“Da Feng, you’re right, we can’t think about eating chicken every day.”
Even the letter wasn’t serious—oh well.
As with anything, the first step is hardest. After writing the first letter, the second naturally followed.
That day, Da Qiang had some free time and laid many stones to pave a path in the yard. He was really idle, even extending the little path to their front door so that Master Yao could come visit Lu Liu.
Lu Liu wrote about this in the letter to Li Feng—Da Qiang was a fool.
[He came to our front door showing off, saying his path was longer than yours. I said he did it deliberately when you were away, afraid you’d outdo him.
He said he wasn’t afraid at all. I asked why he only paved between our two houses—doesn’t Master An go elsewhere?
He didn’t answer, just kept paving more. Now I can stroll to the vegetable garden. See? I’m clever, right?]
[But Master An still dislikes Jiu-ge, so the path goes uphill, not downward. Jiu-ge must walk a muddy stretch daily, which displeases him. He said Wang Meng has no heart.
The path took several days. One night when I got up, I saw him carrying stones past our house. I called, but he ignored me.]
[I didn’t blame him. I suddenly realized people like him live very tiring lives.]
Lu Liu paused for a long while. He seemed to have digressed, but somehow he hadn’t.
Dipping his brush in the inkstone again, he continued: Li Feng would surely think of Wang Meng, just as Lu Liu thought of him.
Thinking of paths reminded Lu Liu of many things. Before marriage, the farthest he’d walked was from the village to the county. His father had taken him across barren land, weaving through alleyways in the town. He had feared getting lost, never returning home.
Because of this, he hated the villagers—they bullied them, taking farm eggs at low prices under the pretense of helping their business. He’d seen them resell for a small profit and felt angry.
Even after marriage, the farthest path he’d walked remained from village to county. Li Village was farther, but he could ride in a cart. He hadn’t relied on his legs for such distance in years.
He didn’t know what the road to the prefecture would be like, but it was surely uneven, dusty, mostly barren land, with few villages along the way. In his view, land always outnumbered people. Other places were the same.
He wondered if they’d encounter bandits en route. Li Feng said he wasn’t afraid.
These days, most outlaws were desperate commoners; true villains were rare. Some local bandits, seasoned, had skills—but even then, he wasn’t afraid.
In archery, their group could already serve as instructors. He could hear arrows whizzing. As long as ambushes failed, he wasn’t scared of facing foes directly.
He wasn’t afraid—Lu Liu was.
At parting, Lu Liu showed no fear, smiling warmly as he saw everyone off. He didn’t want worry or tears to distract Li Feng on the road.
Now, with letters not sent, he could write freely.
He even scolded Li Feng softly in the letter—gentle jabs, a few silly words—trying to seem formidable to reassure him. Impossible; he was very worried.
After three or four pages, Lu Liu grew tired. He added a few more playful scolds to fill blank spaces, then packed up to sleep.
By summer, many melons and fruits ripened. He ate well daily, no longer suffering from vomiting.
He loved the crisp, sweet flavors, enjoying all kinds. Peach season brought him many from Shun-ge, especially the pointed tips.
If Li Feng were present, he’d offer the tips to him. Without Li Feng, he ate the tips himself and begrudgingly the ends. If Li Feng were there, he’d give him the ends.
In this letter, he described all the summer treats he’d eaten, aiming to make Li Feng envious. When he returned, he would prepare plenty for him.
Perhaps due to the season or improved diet, his belly visibly grew, day by day.
Master Yao commented it was growing fast; even his mother agreed.
Lu Liu restricted his eating, fearing he fed the baby too much. His older brother said overly large babies were harder to deliver, which scared him.
Yet hunger gnawed at him. Each meal filled only seven or eight-tenths; soon after, he was starving again. He constantly ate, the pangs relentless.
Merchants buying or selling mountain goods remarked on his luck—usually, such appetites would drain a family’s wealth. Lu Liu felt guilty but smiled, acknowledging the truth. His mother, angry, told others to let him eat freely.
He wrote to Li Feng: his mother suspected more than one child in his belly; he would go for a pulse check the next day.
After discovering twins, Lu Liu barely slept for days. Chen Guizhi and Shun-ge took turns keeping him company, chatting and recounting Li Feng’s childhood. Lu Liu loved listening.
Li Feng, born at over eight jin, had been a true chubby boy, difficult to deliver, crying loudly so all nearby could hear. People predicted he’d grow into a mighty man.
Lu Liu recalled his father saying Li Feng, as a newborn, weighed just over four jin, a tiny bundle, weak and slow to cry.
Li Feng was mischievous early on—before walking, he tugged hair and beards painfully. By the time he could run and jump, he was a terror across the village, picking fights today, challenging others tomorrow. When older children intervened, he ran home, calling his father to back him up.
