Chapter 3 The Song Family’s Da Lang

Chapter 3: Song Family's Eldest Son [Da Lang]

Meng Wan went through three buckets of bathwater before finally scrubbing all the grime off his body. While washing, he noticed a weird-looking thing like a bean pod placed beside the bucket. He picked it up, sniffed it—nothing—and rubbed it on his hand, got a little foam out of it.

Soap pods, huh? Meng Wan washed with it and was stoked to find it actually cleaned him well. He thought he'd have to scrub with nothing, but unexpectedly there was a helpful tool. Not too shabby.

The little room had a wood-framed window on the south side and no bed—just a kang against two walls and one window, smaller than the main bedroom's, like a modern tatami mat, but taller.

On the north side sat a desk, a tall cabinet, and a chair. A robe and some gray long johns were draped over the chair. After bathing, Meng Wan picked up the clothes to put them on but a small cloth thing with four straps fell out. He held it up to himself in disbelief and realized it was a bellyband!

Embarrassed, he wiped his face and finally got what his deal was now. He figured out how to put it on—it felt like cotton and was pretty comfy. The outer robe was way too loose, sleeves way too long; he rolled them up twice and realized that without that thing, he'd be flashing everyone.

He opened the back door and dumped the dirty water in a corner of the yard, put everything back where it belonged, and then opened the kitchen door to go out.

“Aunt Song, are these clothes for me?” Meng Wan asked, all timid, his long hair still dripping.

In the yard stood two jujube trees with a hemp rope tied between them. Chang Jinhua was hanging clothes on it. She turned at the sound of his voice and froze.

Meng Wan's face, once round, had been worn down by the rough trip, now with a sharp chin and a slim waist. His skin, mostly hidden in the carriage, hadn't gotten much darker, just a shade paler than when he served in the mansion. In this backwoods northern mountain village, his skin was already crazy fair.

But what really stood out was Meng Wan's delicate, handsome face: thick, long eyebrows, no trimming needed; eyes not round but shaped like peach petals; a high, straight nose with a tiny tip; lips not too big or small, lightly colored with full, plump curves. The pregnancy mole that male wives have was a bright red, bigger than a sesame seed but smaller than a grain of rice, right under his eye—just a few millimeters from being a tear mole.

Younger than in his past life and trying to look all obedient, he kept his head down, his dark eyes trembling nervously. With his androgynous looks, it was enough to make you dizzy.

Even Chang Jinhua, who usually kept a straight face, couldn't help but gape. Holy cow, what did she buy from that slave dealer?

“You… you… who are you?”

“My name is Meng Wan.”

Not some “Ugly Slave” at all!!!!!

Chang Jinhua got a grip, cleared her throat twice, and said, “Ahem… those are my eldest son's clothes from a couple years back. We don't have any extra rough fabric right now, so wear his for now.”

“Oh.” Meng Wan stood there, not knowing what to do.

“Song... Aunt Song.”

“Hmm.” Chang Jinhua answered quick.

“What do you want me to do now?” Meng Wan asked nervously.

Chang Jinhua was totally happy with him now. “There's not much to do in the fields, and you couldn't handle it anyway. It's getting late—help me start the fire, and I'll cook.”

From the cabinet in the main room, she took out grain. Usually, she'd scoop coarse rice, but seeing Meng Wan's slim waist, she opened another smaller cloth bag and scooped out half a gourd of white rice. Without rinsing it, she dumped it straight into the pot with water to boil.

Meng Wan obediently stuffed firewood into the stove. Chang Jinhua couldn't take it and said, “Once the water's boiling, stop adding wood. You think I pick up firewood for free?”

To her, Meng Wan seemed like a spoiled rich kid who didn't know how hard life was. Only after she said that did he realize firewood wasn't unlimited.

“Then maybe I'll go pick up firewood on the mountain tomorrow?” he tested.

“No need. Besides, it's all wet wood now and needs to dry out. After the autumn harvest, there'll be plenty of time, and you'll have to go whether you want to or not.”

For now, Chang Jinhua didn't want him going out. That face alone would be trouble before marriage.

Thinking this, she felt less satisfied, doubting Meng Wan was suited for a steady life. She'd need to observe further.

Soon, the aroma of white rice filled the kitchen. Meng Wan crouched by the stove, swallowing saliva. He'd eaten nothing but dry flatbread and water for months, long forgetting what rice tasted like. Today, he'd only had a sip of water—that damned slave dealer had even skimped on half his flatbread.

Near the yard's gate, a patch of land had been turned into a vegetable garden, enclosed with stones and mud up to calf height, with half-meter thorny branches stuck on top. Chang Jinhua opened the garden gate, pulled a handful of wild celery, and picked two cucumbers from a trellis against the wall.

Back inside, she ladled the porridge into a basin, washed the pot, and had Meng Wan light the fire again. Using a wooden spatula, she dipped a corner into a jar of oil, put it in the pot, cut the wild celery into long sections, rinsed it twice, and tossed it in. A strange, fresh vegetable aroma burst forth. She added half a spoon of salt, stirred a few times with the spatula, and plated it.

The cucumber was even simpler: smashed, chopped, mixed with a little salt, and stirred with chopsticks.

“Done. Time to eat.”

Meng Wan had been waiting for those words. By the water vat was a wooden basin for washing hands and face; he scooped water, washed his hands, and then helped Chang Jinhua bring out the dishes.

Even Chang Jinhua, considered clean by village standards, muttered, “Quite particular.”

Meng Wan had lost both parents young and grew up with his uncle and aunt. They supported his schooling and provided for him, but his aunt occasionally scolded and made veiled insults.

He'd seen his cousin act spoiled with his aunt, the three of them a happy family, and he envied it, but knew it wasn't for him. Living under someone else's roof was hard. When he turned eighteen and got into university, his uncle said his duty was done and kicked him out, never mentioning the 600,000 yuan inheritance left by Meng Wan's parents.

Meng Wan didn't argue. He took a few clothes and left the “home” he'd lived in for over a decade. It wasn't weakness—that uncle was his only remaining relative, and he didn't want to sever the last thread. Now, if given another chance, not suing his uncle to get back 500,000 would be sheer idiocy!

Anyway, long used to reading people's moods, Meng Wan tended to overthink. Even ravenous, he didn't touch his chopsticks until Chang Jinhua sat down.

Chang Jinhua brought over the porridge, scooping a thick, solid ladle from the bottom of the basin. “Eat, why are you staring?”

“I'll wait for you, Aunt Song.”

Chang Jinhua filled her own bowl with the watery part, a slight smile on her lips. “Alright, eat.”

Once she sat and took the first bite, Meng Wan quickly lifted his bowl and drank a mouthful of rice porridge.

Ah! So good!

Meng Wan was almost in tears. It was delicious. He downed half the bowl in one go, then paused to grab a bite of the stir-fried celery.

This was great too!

Meng Wan squinted, finished the bowl rapidly, then sneaked a glance at Chang Jinhua.

“What are you looking at me for? Can't you serve yourself?”

Meng Wan smiled shyly and drank two more bowls until he felt full.

“How old are you this year?” Chang Jinhua asked as she cleared the bowls and plates.

Meng Wan recalled hearing the young page beside that girl mention his age when he first crossed over, so he answered, “Sixteen.”

Chang Jinhua was delighted. “That's three years younger than my eldest son—perfect.”

Meng Wan lowered his head, helping her clean up in silence.

Seeing his reluctance to mention her son, Chang Jinhua put the washed dishes into the kitchen cabinet and called him into the main room.

“I won't bother with empty words. You know why I bought you. I realize you might have some background, but now, if not for your literacy leading me to buy you, that slave dealer might have sold you off as a servant elsewhere. Now that you're in my home, don't feel wronged. Once you marry my son, your slave status will be lifted, and you'll become a free male wife.”

Her words struck a chord with Meng Wan. He'd already glimpsed the lowly status of a slave in this world—no matter how eloquent, a master could decide life or death without a chance to argue.

So marrying to become a commoner was indeed a good thing. Marry? Sigh… maybe he'd just go with the flow for now.

Chang Jinhua pulled him to sit on the kang's edge, cleared her throat, and continued, “My husband passed early. I raised my eldest son alone. He's studying at a private school in town, coming home every ten days. In these parts, you can count the scholars on one hand. Though my son's luck has been poor these two years—he hasn't passed the county exam yet—with his talent, it's only a matter of time. I won't promise more, but at least you can be a scholar's wife.”

A widow and her son, a scholar who'd failed the exams for years?

Meng Wan clenched his fists. I'm the one who controls my own fate!

That night, Meng Wan slept in the small room. With the summer window open, a cool breeze blew right through, making it nice and cool. Meng Wan figured he wouldn't be able to sleep, but the second his head hit the pillow, he fell into a deep slumber.

In the middle of the night, Chang Jinhua tiptoed over and cracked the door open, peeking in by the light of the moon. Meng Wan was already dead asleep, wrapped up in half a thin blanket.

Relieved, Chang Jinhua returned to her own room.

So Meng Wan ended up staying at the Song place. Chang Jinhua didn't let him go out, so he kept himself busy doing little chores around the yard. The page boy's clothes he'd worn when he arrived were washed spotless—the fabric was good, at least. Chang Jinhua told him to turn them into an undershirt, the kind with four straps hanging down.

Meng Wan looked at the one he was wearing, which Chang Jinhua said she had made years ago but never worn, so he got lucky.

The thing was simple to make—just a piece of cloth, cut roughly and stitched with straps. Meng Wan's cutting was kinda crooked, and the straps were sewn haphazardly, but it was good enough for a spare set.

Anything harder, like a rough cotton short tunic, he couldn't do. Chang Jinhua had to dig up one of her son's old robes and fix it up for him.

In poor families, clothes were patched up and remade over and over. Unless they were too tattered to wear, they were never thrown away—only cut up and glued together for shoe soles.

Widow Song's gate had been shut for days, and the villagers were already talking.

Zhang Xiaoyu was dying to walk past the village entrance three times just to talk about the young man in Widow Song's home, but she was too afraid of Widow Song tattling to her husband, so she could only suffer in silence.

Song Tingzhou was returning to the village with his book satchel when he spotted her lurking around his wall, looking sneaky.

"Second Aunt."

"Ah! It's Tingzhou back. Why do you walk so quiet, kid?" Zhang Xiaoyu jumped, almost falling off the wall.

Inside, Meng Wan, who was watering the vegetable garden, heard the conversation at the door and hurriedly dropped his water ladle and went back inside. Damn, it really had been ten days. Aunt Song had said the day she went to town was when her son was at the private school, and she'd gone along to buy stuff.

"Da Lang, you're back. Why earlier than usual?" Just then, Chang Jinhua returned from fetching water at the river. She had a water vat in the yard and one in the kitchen—the kitchen one was for drinking water, usually drawn from the public well in the village center, while the yard water for watering plants and bathing came from the river just outside.

"Zhang Xiaoyu? What are you doing at my house?" Setting down the carrying pole, Chang Jinhua's face soured. The joy of seeing her son was ruined by this gossipy woman.

"I... I was just passing by, passing by." Zhang Xiaoyu turned and scurried off, her steps quick.

Song Tingzhou bent down and lifted the carrying pole, his steps steady.

"Da Lang, no need. Let your mother handle it." Chang Jinhua hated to see her son work after walking all the way home.

Song Tingzhou dodged her hand. "Mother, open the door first."

"Alright, alright." Chang Jinhua quickly took a key from her bosom and unlocked the copper padlock on the gate.

Song Tingzhou carried the two buckets of water inside. "Why lock the door during the day?" His mother had only gone to the public well, not far away—why lock up? Then he thought of Zhang Xiaoyu peeking over the wall into the yard...

"Da Lang, come inside with me. I have something to discuss with you."

Chang Jinhua told her son to put down the carrying pole and follow her into the house. Song Tingzhou entered and first glanced at his usual small bedroom—the door was tightly shut. Then he followed her into the main bedroom, where only one set of bedding lay on the kang.

"Tingzhou, I bought a young man in town." Chang Jinhua cut straight to the point.

Song Tingzhou pressed his lips together. "Send him away."

"Da Lang, you..."

But Song Tingzhou wouldn't listen to her persuasion. Tall and long-legged, he turned and strode to the small bedroom door in two steps.

"I don't know who you are or where you come from, but since you were bought and sold, you must have a poor background. I won't force you. Stay here for a few days. I'll leave and go back to the private school in town. Once you find a good place, you can leave on your own."

Inside the room, Meng Wan leaned against the wooden door, growing more alarmed. He still didn't know the laws of this world, but on the road, he had heard the slave dealer say that in the official registry, he was already recorded as a slave. Even if the Song family returned his deed, he would at best be a free slave—still unable to open a household or buy land.

Moreover, from the ancient history of his previous world, doing business with over a thousand taels of silver automatically classified one as a merchant—but he wasn't even the lowest merchant class; he was a slave, lumped together with prostitutes, actors, and beggars as the despised class.

Slaves couldn't do business. If caught, they would be sent to the authorities and exiled to the army. As a young man, what kind of army would that be? It would be better to die on the road than to be tortured to death in the barracks.

Theater troupes traveled far and wide, living hand to mouth, and actors were chosen by the troupe head from among beggar children—the youngest and smallest—to be trained from childhood.

At his current age, that was out of the question. That left only two options: become a prostitute or a beggar.