Chapter 129

Chapter 129

The moonlight led the way, the donkey's hooves went clip-clop.

Qing Xuan didn't enter the carriage but sat on the driver's seat with Old Man Zhao, learning how to drive the cart while chatting to build rapport.

Old Man Zhao watched him—a half-grown kid who acted and spoke like an adult. This was probably a child who grew up without his parents by his side—smooth-talking, sharp, and way too mature for his age.

He had a bunch of kids, and seeing him reminded him of his grandsons. At the same age, Xiao Wu and the others ran wild in the mountains, their mouths were worse than dog shit, a pain in the ass every day. How could they compare to him?

Old Man Zhao's heart sank and thought, What the hell do I have to talk about with a little punk like you? Go to sleep!

"What's there to learn about driving the cart? Our family has plenty of people; it won't be your turn anyway." Old Man Zhao waved dismissively, feigning disgust. "Go on, get in the carriage and hit the sack. Kids who don't sleep at night won't grow tall."

After saying that, he remembered something and quickly added, "Stay away from Xiaobao. Don't you go near her."

At three, no sharing mats; at seven, no sharing beds. Though country folk weren't as particular as the wealthy, in the same carriage, they still had to sleep separate.

Qing Xuan didn't go. Driving the cart late at night made you sleepy; having someone to talk to kept him alert.

"Uncle Zhao, you know, I think Xinping County's not bad," Qing Xuan started a conversation. "I've never been through a famine, but I've run away from home. Life away from home is hard. People spit on you when you walk past their door, locals get suspicious if you've got an accent, and even beggars get chased off by the locals."

Old Man Zhao glanced at him, signaling him to continue.

Qing Xuan went on: "It's not like the sky never rains, right? It's just a matter of time before it does. If we can tough it out, who knows when the rains'll come? Xinping County's a wasteland for miles around, and nobody in their right mind comes here. You've probably seen it along the way—fields left to rot, houses fallen down and never fixed. If it's just about the drought, staying put's better than moving. Don't bust your ass and nearly die leaving Qingzhou Prefecture, only to find it's just as dry somewhere else, with old wells still dry. All that walking for nothing, and you'd still die of thirst."

"Why not just find a corner in Xinping County to hunker down, pick some good fields to weed and get rid of the bugs, patch up a house? As long as nobody from outside finds us, we can go back to living like before." Qing Xuan thought, They'd just left home, the rice was freshly cut, and they weren't short on seeds. If they could wait for rain and stay hidden, it would be better than wandering as refugees.

He'd been stuck on Qingcheng Mountain with barren fields he couldn't work, couldn't get any seeds, with land but no way to use it.

Old Man Zhao smacked his thigh and thought, You little shit, I don't like hearing that. Maybe we shouldn't talk anymore.

We just got going, and you're already jinxing us!

He couldn't help asking, "What, you don't wanna find your folks?"

Anyone else would be pushing hard to find Jinyu, using that to track down their own past and find their parents. But here he was, telling them not to run, that Xinping County was good enough, and just hole up and wait for the rain.

The night on Qingcheng Mountain was cold and still. Qing Xuan hadn't talked with anyone at night in a long time. Having someone talk back felt way better than muttering to himself and that tiger cub. He said honestly, "Half of me wants to, half doesn't."

Old Man Zhao's thick eyebrows shot up but didn't ask why the half that didn't want to.

But since they were on the topic, he hesitated and then said, "Well, Qing Xuan, I'll call you that from now on. Can't keep calling you Little Taoist no more; we gotta cut ties with the 'Way.'"

He didn't care if his wording was right or where he'd heard it; that was the gist. "Old Uncle ain't trying to pick at old wounds, but I wanna get a handle on your situation. Xiaobao is still young and can't explain much. She just said my god-grandson's folks are tied to your background... So Old Uncle wants to ask, how are they tied together?"

He figured Xiaobao was too young to get the deeper meaning, but the older one was different. He knew Jin Yu's identity. If this kid was related to Jin Yu, he was no ordinary person.

Dragons beget dragons, phoenixes beget phoenixes. His own children were all little field mice, but Prefect He's relatives, at worst, were weasels, right?

Of course, he wasn't after anything. He just wanted to know the full story to be prepared.

Though the refugees had become soldiers and the Rebel King had cleared Prefect He of years of false accusations, given the grave-robbing and corpse-whipping, he still had to be cautious.

And not just the refugees; he had to guard against the Prefectural Soldiers too.

In other words, Qing Xuan carried risks—one layer as a Taoist, another as a suspected relative of Prefect He. Without clarity, he couldn't feel at ease.

Qing Xuan then repeated word for word what his master had told him. Since they were fleeing together, he couldn't bring someone unknown along, and he was very self-aware.

Old Man Zhao listened, stopped smacking his thigh, and stared at him: "That's it?"

Qing Xuan nodded honestly: "That's it."

Guarding two jars of ashes, doing nothing but burning incense and waiting?

Was this worshipping gods or ghosts?

How unreliable were the Taoists of Qingxuan Temple!

But then he thought, wasn't it doing nothing that brought their family here? And it brought them twice.

He turned to look at the kid beside him. No wonder Xiaobao kept thinking of her Brother Dao Tong, urging him to hurry so the monks wouldn't catch him... Whether his parents would show up or not, guarding those two jars of ashes gave some hope. Giving them away meant losing it forever.

The half that didn't want to—maybe it was just that no one had come after so long, and hope had faded?

What orphan doesn't miss home? What child doesn't long for their mother?

"You kid." Old Man Zhao patted his shoulder. "You're stubborn."

Qing Xuan keenly felt Old Uncle Zhao's gaze soften, and though he didn't know why, he breathed a sigh of relief.

After a moment, he recounted how he'd run away from his foster family at three, been a beggar for half a year, then met a kind lady who took him in as a page for her young master. He helped the lazy young master copy big characters, but when the lady found out, she was about to have him beaten. Not wanting to be hit again, he ran off once more.

Then, by chance, his master brought him to the temple, where he had a few peaceful years.

He even talked about how he'd learned farming and fruit-growing from his senior brothers, subtly hinting that the pancakes he owed Zhao Xiaobao would be repaid someday. He could farm; he wasn't an ignorant young Taoist. He was hardworking.

That year of the earthquake, he'd gone down the mountain to help rescue people buried under rubble. He alone could lift beams and move stones, saving over a dozen people. But it was a pity—those rescued didn't survive. The cold and lack of medicine meant the tough ones lasted seven or eight days, but most had breath when pulled out, only to go cold moments later.

Later, when distributing seeds, he'd been disadvantaged by his age. The overseer, seeing he was young, refused to give him any.

After that, he helped an old farmer at the foot of Qingcheng Mountain with his fields in exchange for daily food.

The cart wheels creaked on. The night was deep, the forest dark. The low murmur of his tale didn't wake the sleeping girl in the carriage.

An orphan's life—rough and full of twists—was summed up in a few words, telling of years of loneliness.

Just a few words, because he was still too young to have experienced more.

As he spoke of the past, Qing Xuan's face remained expressionless, as if he were talking about someone else. Old Man Zhao felt a pang of pity, not expecting the boy to have endured so much at such a young age.

And he was clever, mentioning his diligence and kindness, telling his story while subtly praising himself. Interesting.

Thinking back to how he'd stood in front of Xiaobao, Old Man Zhao shook his head with a smile. He hadn't even done anything yet, and the kid was already protecting her.

He, Old Man Zhao, cared about one thing: anyone who protected his daughter, he would protect too!

At that moment, he was genuinely willing to take this child along.

The old man and the young lad chatted energetically. With someone to talk to, the night road didn't feel so scary. Before they knew it, Qing Xuan had learned to drive the cart.

"You pick up everything easily, do anything well, kid. You'll never go hungry." Old Man Zhao praised with a laugh, much smarter than his own foolish grandsons.

Qing Xuan chuckled. After chatting all the way, they'd warmed up to each other, and there was no awkwardness left.

He also figured out how many people were in the Zhao family. Why were Zhao Xiaobao and her two brothers so far apart in age? She was a late-life daughter, no wonder she was plump and fair—not just the youngest girl, but the only flower in the family.

Who wouldn't spoil her rotten?

No wonder when Zhao Xiaobao said she’d give him some dry rations and flatbread, Old Uncle Zhao didn’t even object, acting like whatever his daughter said, went. She was a little princess—if you didn’t go along with her, she’d throw a tantrum and shed a tear, and the whole family’s hearts would ache.

He had accidentally latched onto the biggest “official” around.

“What you said earlier, about hiding out in Xinping County and waiting for rain—I’ve thought about that too,” Old Man Zhao said, pulling a piece of flatbread from his cloth bag and tossing it to him, then grabbing one for himself and biting into it, his wrinkled face looking a bit deeper in the moonlight.

From the moment he stepped into Xinping County and saw those huge stretches of ownerless farmland, how could he not have mulled it over? Running far was still running, and running close was still running—if he could survive nearby, why would he be foolish enough to trek far away?

After all, Xinping County was an oddity in Qingzhou Prefecture, a ghost town, a place superstitious folks would steer clear of, afraid of attracting bad luck.

Hiding out there really wasn’t a bad idea.

Qing Xuan bit into the flatbread, and whether it was his imagination or not, it tasted better than the old man’s—even chewing it dry had a unique flavor.

Listening to the unknown calls from deep in the woods, Old Man Zhao said, “But when I think it over carefully, it still won’t work. Heaven can hold out and refuse to rain, but can people keep their backs straight and say, ‘Rain if you want, I don’t care—I won’t die from going ten days or half a month without water’? If a person doesn’t drink water for one day, their lips get dry and peel; for two days, they crack; for three days, they’re clawing at their chest, feeling like they’re dying.”

“Without water, hiding anywhere is pointless.”

“No one can predict when Heaven will send rain—maybe tomorrow, maybe not until winter, or even crueler, next year. If you stay put, by the time you want to run, you won’t even have the strength left.” Old Man Zhao shook his head and sighed. “We can’t bet our lives on Heaven’s mood. If we win, the whole family claps and cheers. If we lose, we’re risking everyone’s lives.”

“And also…”

His old eyes narrowed, and he said in a low voice, “There are plenty of smart people in this world. Go outside and look—how many refugees are on the main road out of Xinping County now? Everyone’s taking this route to flee. What about later? The Rebel King is about to go to war. The people of Qingzhou Prefecture flee, but they can’t get away; they live, but they can’t survive. When people are pushed to the brink, their minds get real sharp. In the face of life and death, what are ghosts? By then, everyone will be crowding into Xinping County. The barren fields will be covered in footprints. Will the soldiers rounding up able-bodied men still complain that the roads are hard to travel, the carts hard to move, and the men hard to catch?”

Qing Xuan opened his mouth but couldn’t say a word. He had thought way too simply.

“So, if you want to live, there’s only one way: run.” Old Man Zhao chewed the flatbread. “Whether ahead lies drought or flood, cold or heat, we have no other choice but to run.”

What drove them from their homes was man-made disaster, but even more, natural disaster.

During the earthquake, if Xiaobao hadn’t wailed and cried, waking the whole family, his household might have been hanging white banners (for mourning).

It showed that without external help, people couldn’t escape natural disasters.

When refugees flooded the village, they could still fight; when conscription orders came, they could still hide; when village brawls broke out, they could still struggle…

But once the great drought hit, chewing on cracked lips, their village had no choice but to pack up and run.

Even with Xiaobao around, it wouldn’t work. Their family dared not reveal the divine land, and they weren’t the cold-hearted type to disown everyone. His sons had wives, his grandsons had maternal grandparents—once there were ties, they couldn’t survive alone, cut off from others.

And those villagers—they argued and fought, but people, well, one moment they hated, the next they remembered. It wasn’t fickleness; it was just that the heart could grow weary from a few harsh words, but also soften from a few kind ones. He had watched them be born, grow up crawling and tumbling, struggle to marry and have children—these younger relatives, these village lads, calling him uncle or grandpa. Living, breathing people—if they were to die before his eyes, could his heart still be at ease?

He couldn’t feel at ease.