By noon, the crowd thinned. Du Heng had a few chilies and two radishes left. Seeing the diminishing foot traffic, he prepared to close. Counting the day’s earnings, he had eighteen copper coins—effectively twenty after small change. He spent two coins on a packet of radish seeds.
“Selling vegetables, selling sundries,” a nearby vendor called, balancing a yoke. He approached, asking, “Young man, want to buy sundries?”
Before Du Heng could answer, the vendor continued, “Everything you need—toothbrushes, loofah nets, salted fish, tofu sheets.” He lifted the cover to show his wares.
Du Heng didn’t plan to buy—he’d earned so little today, who could afford extras? Out of politeness, he glanced. His eyes caught something.
“Dried shrimp?” he asked.
“Yes!” The vendor hurriedly brought out a full box. “Caught and sun-dried from the Qu Tang River. Smell it—it’s fragrant.”
Du Heng sniffed. The small dried shrimp did smell fresh.
“How much?” he asked.
“Not much left. Ten coins for the box—how about it?”
Du Heng thought: he’d earned just eighteen coins today. Half his day’s earnings for this tiny box of shrimp? Shaking his head, he replied, “I don’t have the money.”
The vendor quickly said, “Eight coins then. I really can’t go lower.”
Du Heng felt a little tempted, but since he was still relying on others, he couldn’t spend freely. He said, “I still have a few leftover radishes, a handful of green onions, and two jin of chilies. If you’re interested, we could trade.”
The vendor glanced at the goods, hesitated a moment, and then nodded. “Alright, alright. I’ll take the two radishes, one jin of chilies, and since the green onions aren’t even two, consider them a gift. The box of dried shrimp is yours.”
Du Heng agreed, and the two made the exchange.
“If I lived in the city, buying groceries myself, I wouldn’t bother trading such little things,” the vendor said.
Du Heng looked at the dried shrimp. “City folks have to buy their vegetables. If you had your own land and grew some, it’d be different.”
The vendor waved him off. “Alright, I’m off. I’ll make another round before heading home.”
“Good.”
“How much did you make today?” Qin Xiong asked as he wiped his hands, having sold most of his meat.
“Just over ten copper coins.”
The profit was small. That little money could barely buy a jin of second-grade meat. Du Heng realized even more how hard it was to earn money these days.
“That’s not bad,” Qin Xiong said. “I’ll be done soon too.”
Du Heng looked at the few remaining pieces of meat. “You’re not selling those?”
“No business this afternoon. I’ll come earlier tomorrow. In the afternoon, I have to go to another village to slaughter pigs. Many households are doing the same—feed is scarce, so they slaughter half to sell, half to eat. That way, they get cash for the New Year and meat for themselves.”
Du Heng nodded. “Then I’ll wander around the city for a bit.”
“Sure, just get back early.”
Luoxia County wasn’t small; it had a sizable population, and its streets were lively. By noon, households were preparing lunch, and restaurants and taverns were busy.
Du Heng wandered around for over half an hour before returning.
Back in the village by early afternoon, Qin Xiong invited Du Heng home for lunch, but he declined, saying there was already food at home.
After a simple meal, he went to the fields and harvested the remaining chilies, loosening the soil and sowing the radish seeds he had bought in the city for two copper coins.
He had observed in the county that city people preferred tender vegetables. Once the radish seedlings grew to two inches, he could harvest and sell them in town—no need to wait for full-grown radishes.
He also planned to make chili sauce from the freshly picked chilies for sale.
After finishing in the field, Qin Xiaoman returned from the mountain, carrying two large bundles of firewood.
Each bundle was made of solid logs, much heavier than leafy branches. It took him seven or eight trips to get down to the foot of the mountain. By the time he reached his yard, his vest was soaked in sweat.
“I’m back…”
Qin Xiaoman was too exhausted to shout as he entered the yard.
Du Heng hurried out to help with the firewood. The bundles were probably over a hundred jin, and dropping them onto the stone yard made a dull thud.
“Why carry so much at once? What if you strain your back?” Du Heng said, steadying the wood.
“It’s troublesome going up and down. If I carry more each trip, I make fewer trips,” Qin Xiaoman replied. His shoulders ached from the weight, but he didn’t complain. Instead, he pulled a few pieces of locust tree twigs from the pile and handed them to Du Heng:
“You said you wanted to rinse your mouth this morning. I cut these for you to brush your teeth.”
Du Heng accepted them. He had commented earlier about not being used to rinsing without proper tools, but knowing there were no better options, he had been content with just warm water. Qin Xiaoman’s idea of soft twigs, chewed or used for brushing, was thoughtful.
“Thanks,” he said, carefully putting them away.
“Are there still plenty of firewood up on the mountain?” Du Heng asked.
“Yes. A lot of trees and bamboo died in the summer heat. There’s more firewood than usual. I spent a long time sorting it today. Even so, carrying it down one load at a time would take at least ten trips.”
Du Heng looked at Qin Xiaoman, still bright-eyed despite the sweat and toil. He frowned inwardly—at this age, doing such heavy labor every day could easily take a toll. Even if it didn’t show immediately, young men who overworked their bodies often suffered more health problems as they aged.
Though Du Heng could only do light work at home due to his own limitations, he felt uneasy seeing Qin Xiaoman working so hard.
“Xiaoman, didn’t you say there were families in the village short on firewood?”
“Mm? What about it?”
Du Heng suggested gently, “Carrying wood up and down is exhausting. Why not leave some for them? It would lighten your workload.”
Qin Xiaoman widened his eyes and spoke loudly: “Leave it? Don’t think you can just take from our piles! We’ve stacked plenty behind the pigpen, but if I don’t keep gathering new wood, it won’t last long.”
“I didn’t mean take it all,” Du Heng said calmly. “I meant we could ask families without firewood to help us gather it from the mountain. Give each helper one or two bundles for their effort. With more hands, it would take just a day or two to bring everything down—and you wouldn’t be so exhausted.”
Qin Xiaoman paused, realizing it was true. Doing it alone was slow and tiring, and there was always a risk of wood being stolen. Getting help and delivering it safely was much better.
He smiled. “Good idea! I’ll ask people tomorrow.”
Du Heng nodded.
Over the past few days, he had also learned more about the Qin family. When he went to the county, Qin Xiong had told him a lot about their household. Xiaoman’s father had been a scholar who passed the local examination, and the family had been well-off enough to support a young man in study.
Ever since Qin Xiaoman’s little father died in childbirth, Qin’s own spirits had plummeted. His repeated failures in the imperial exams only added to the grief, and later, he met with further misfortune.
Back then, compared with most families in the village, the Qin household—land and house included—ranked among the better ones.
But with Qin’s father gone and no sons except Xiaoman, no matter how capable he was, one person could never manage what several could. Gradually, the household naturally declined.
Du Heng thought the Qin family still had resources; with proper use, living well wouldn’t be a problem.
In reality, it only required simple management of manpower to thrive. But rural families often lacked education, and their vision was short-sighted. They couldn’t imagine the long-term benefits of sacrificing a little now for greater returns later.
People clung tightly to their own plots, counting every inch of land and every coin, unwilling to let others take any advantage.
Like Xiaoman, afraid of firewood being stolen, he worked himself to exhaustion, believing that only such toil could bring peace of mind, unaware that smart planning could save effort.
Qin Xiaoman tilted his head toward Du Heng. “You think this carefully… is it because you care about me?”
Du Heng’s brows softened slightly, and he smiled without answering directly. Instead, he said, “Come here, I’ve got something for you.”
Xiaoman’s brow twitched. “What is it?”
He followed Du Heng inside and watched him reach under the pillow. A handful of copper coins clinked into his palm.
“Where did you get this money?!”
Xiaoman’s eyes went wide as he held the ten or so coins.
“Sold some vegetables in town today,” Du Heng said, recounting the trip with Qin Xiong.
Xiaoman’s grin stretched wide, revealing perfect white teeth. “You’re fearless! You actually hitched a ride on Second Uncle’s cart and went into town to sell vegetables!”
“It’s nothing. Second Uncle may seem strict, but he’s kind-hearted and easy to deal with,” Du Heng replied.
Xiaoman found it incredible. “He was so harsh with you before, and in just a few days, you’ve gotten along so well.”
Then, Xiaoman handed the coins back. Though fond of money, he didn’t dislike Du Heng’s small earnings. A few copper coins mattered, but this money was Du Heng’s, even if earned by selling their own vegetables.
“Every man should have some money. Keep it for yourself. I’m not always home, and if you need it, you don’t have to wait for me to provide it.”
Du Heng hesitated. “Alright, I’ll keep it for now.”
He wanted to say that once he earned more, he’d give Xiaoman more, but he was never one to talk without action. He preferred showing results over empty promises.
Though only a few days had passed living under the same roof, Du Heng had a clear sense of the man.
Despite Xiaoman being from a rural background, often judged poorly by outsiders for his domineering talk and joking ridicule, Du Heng found his character just right. He was strong-willed with others but reasonable at heart—most matters could be discussed logically, and Xiaoman would listen.
“Do you want to take a bath? I’ve heated some water.”
“Yes, I’m sweaty from the mountain.”
Xiaoman briskly went to the kitchen, feeling cheerful every day with Du Heng around. Life seemed unexpectedly pleasant.
In the kitchen, he saw a basin of chopped chilies—mostly green, with a few red mixed in.
“I picked them all. If I leave them two more days, they’ll die on the plant. I’ll make some chili paste; it’ll keep for seasoning or as a side.”
Du Heng joined him at the stove, still with some chilies left to chop.
“Don’t hurt your hands chopping so many,” Xiaoman cautioned.
Du Heng held the knife. “No problem, the tail-end ones aren’t spicy.”
“Take care of the vegetables in the field. I’ll be digging bamboo shoots on the mountain and can’t watch everything. If you like selling vegetables, hitch a ride on Second Uncle’s cart. Even two copper coins can get you to town, but be careful not to get ripped off. Next time, you can sell winter bamboo shoots.”
Du Heng readily agreed.
Xiaoman was delighted. That night, even plain boiled greens tasted delicious. Full, he watched his dutiful husband clean the dishes and wipe the table spotless.
For a moment, Xiaoman found himself without tasks, so he prepared tomorrow’s pig feed in advance and returned the chickens to their coop.
The hens had laid two more eggs. He picked them up happily and told Du Heng while soaking his feet: “We’ll have fried eggs for breakfast. Heavy work on the mountain, and a good breakfast will give us strength for the day.”
“Two, one each. I’ve already placed them on the stove,” Xiaoman said.
“Good. There’s a small jar of lard in the cupboard. I’ll use it to fry the eggs.”
Xiaoman was delighted.
When it was nearly time to sleep, the two soaked their feet and then went to their respective rooms.
Xiaoman entered his room, stripped, and collapsed onto the bed. “Ahh…”
He groaned once, clutching his shoulder as he tried to sit up.
He unbuttoned his shirt to examine his shoulder but couldn’t see the injury. With no copper mirror in the room, he sighed and looked toward the door.
“Ah!”
Du Heng, just undressing and ready for bed, saw him dash in and instinctively turned, fastening his clothes.
“Help me apply the medicated wine!”
Du Heng frowned. “You’re hurt?”
“My shoulder’s bruised a bit.” Xiaoman, feeling the warmth of Du Heng’s room, pulled open his collar and approached him: “I can’t see it myself. Help me apply it.”
Du Heng caught sight of the pale shoulder long hidden under clothing. His heart skipped a beat, and he quickly averted his gaze. “Can’t you do it yourself?”
“Of course not, that’s why I’m asking you.”
He handed over the jar. “Hurry!”
Du Heng held the medicated wine, a bit flustered.
Seeing the young man turn away, Du Heng had no choice but to comply with the repeated urgings. He carefully dabbed some medicated wine onto cotton, keeping his gaze politely averted.
“Is it bad?”
“…It’s okay…”
Qin Xiaoman frowned, glancing at him with his neck twisted awkwardly and his eyes nearly closed. “You didn’t even look!”
“I’m not here to ogle you!”
Du Heng coughed nervously. Qin Xiaoman glared at him, and his face flushed crimson. Luckily, the room was dim, so his embarrassment went unnoticed.
Gradually, Du Heng looked at Xiaoman’s shoulder. The area rubbed by the burdened yoke was scraped, with patches of purple bruising in varying depths.
He furrowed his brow. “No climbing the mountain tomorrow.”
“Just ask the neighbors without firewood to help; it’s fine. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to see the doctor for your foot, and the day after, you can go back up the mountain.”
“Mm.”
The two fell into silence.
Du Heng held his breath, finished applying the medicine, gently fanned the shoulder, and carefully pulled Xiaoman’s clothing back up. “No heavy work tomorrow. Rest, and don’t touch water.”
His words were gentle, full of concern for Xiaoman’s hard labor.
Xiaoman felt light, and all his previous discomfort vanished; the pain no longer seemed to matter. Hearing Du Heng’s soothing voice and recalling the days of care he’d received, he didn’t want to leave the room.
He slowly put the jar back, lingering a moment while looking at Du Heng, saying nothing further, and eventually trudged out with the jar.
“Sleep early,” Du Heng called.
Xiaoman didn’t reply; he was too tired and his shoulder still ached. Outside, the wind blew quietly. Though it wasn’t raining, the village was unusually still. Du Heng removed his shoes and slipped into bed, tucking the hot water bottle under the covers. The warmth helped him drift toward sleep quickly.
Just as drowsiness crept in, something soft thumped onto the bed.
Du Heng’s eyes snapped open. In the dim glow, Xiaoman’s fluffy head pressed against him.
“Xiao…Xiaoman, what are you doing!?”