Chapter 57

Chapter 57

After breakfast, Bian Hong fixed lunch and left it warming in the pot, so the two children could eat when they got hungry at noon. Only then did he and Rong Feng head down the mountain.

They rode on horseback this time, because Bian Hong figured they might need to haul seeds back, and bringing Silver Frost would make hauling things easier.

Besides, the horse needed exercise. This creature, whose very instinct was to run, wasn't meant to be cooped up in a stall for long. Silver Frost would occasionally trot a lap or two on the mountain path in front of the yard, but it still wasn't enough to put them at ease.

After all, in these times, a horse was an extremely valuable asset—even if you had the money, you couldn't buy one. Bian Hong had been able to get Silver Frost out of the Border Army for two reasons: first, because the horse was a sickly warhorse too badly injured to save and was slated for slaughter; second, because of his status as a Junior Officer of the Tiger Guard.

The surviving members of the Tiger Guard were highly treasured in the Border Army, and people felt a certain sense of duty to look after the orphans of loyal martyrs.

And Silver Frost, a true orphan of the Tiger Guard, had recently put on a bit of weight. Its coat was gradually getting glossy, no longer showing any trace of its former sickly, skinny look.

Carrying two people didn't seem to tire it, though it didn't run fast—just a slow amble.

In spring, everything bursts with life. Even the mountain path was covered in a thin layer of wild grass, with little flower buds popping up here and there, waiting to bloom.

Gazing out at the wilderness, the layered peaks were tinged with green under the gentle spring breeze, a sight too much to take in all at once.

As if spring had returned to the earth in just a few days.

The two rode along, taking in the scenery. Once they left the mountains and got closer to town, the terrain flattened out, and both sides of the road were lined with endless farmland.

Some fields had just one or two people hurrying to sow seeds, but others had whole groups bent over, working fast. In no time, a plot would be plowed, furrows dug, soil scooped, seeds scattered—almost in one smooth motion.

The people working in groups were usually sturdy men, sometimes with a few skinny, half-grown boys in tow.

Bian Hong craned his neck to watch for a good while, until the group had worked their way along the field edge to the foot of the mountain and disappeared from sight.

"Is the whole family out for spring planting? Doesn't look like it." Bian Hong casually blurted out the question on his mind.

Rong Feng sat behind him on the horse, arms wrapped around him, holding the reins loosely. In the spring sunlight, he looked lazily comfortable in a way that was hard to describe—like a big lion basking in the sun.

"Probably itinerant farmhands."

"Itinerant farmhands?"

"Yeah. They hire themselves out during the busy season and make a living that way."

They were usually from the same village or clan—sometimes fathers brought their sons along. A group of them would follow the unplanted land in spring and the unharvested wheat fields in autumn, working their way along, field after field, until they finally headed home as the intense summer or biting winter set in.

Itinerant farmhands spent their whole lives on the road of labor, their feet treading countless field ridges and boundaries, measuring the distance of the seasons inch by inch.

Years of disaster had brought poor harvests, and even the itinerant farmhands felt it. Forget wages—some farmers couldn't even afford seeds, leaving vast stretches of land barren in the drought.

But this year, the thick winter snow had melted, seeping into the earth that had been parched for years, promising a good harvest season. And the court's unified seed distribution had saved countless farming households, as well as the itinerant farmhands.

So they had finally banded together again, stepping onto those country paths they knew by heart.

The common folk needed them. The spring planting season was so short—only a few days of good weather. Plant a day late, and you could lose a tenth of your harvest.

If they ran into a client who truly couldn't pay wages, the itinerant farmhands would do the work first and come back at harvest time.

Year after year, they were familiar faces, full of human warmth and obligation.

Bian Hong turned his head, gazing at the neatly tilled fields, seeming to see, between the furrows, those unceasing footprints pressing ever forward.

They were proof of people living with everything they had.

In the blink of an eye, the sun was directly overhead. The town entrance was just ahead, and in a single glance, Bian Hong spotted no fewer than a dozen people entering—clearly all there for the seeds.

Once inside the town, they found that even at lunchtime, the government office handing out seeds was packed. The line stretched from inside the door all the way out into the street.

Rong Feng couldn't help frowning at the sight of so many people. Bian Hong looked up at him, then turned the horse and headed toward the west end of town.

"Let's check out that school first. If it's a good fit, Yuan Ding should start his education."

In Bian Hong's view, learning was a big deal. He had grown up in an orphanage, and no matter how hard he tried, he'd only gotten to the point of being literate enough to work outside. Most of what the orphanage taught were skills for getting by in society.

There was even a time when the orphanage director hired a professional car repair instructor. Once the course ended, the teacher took several of the best students with him, right to work at his garage.

Bian Hong hadn't gone, partly because he was too young then, but there was another reason.

After a full day of hands-on practice, all the kids in the class were covered in grease and dust, but only Bian Hong looked just the same as when he'd arrived. Only the hem of his clothes was slightly dirty, with visible wrinkles where he'd been rubbing it.

The instructor understood right away—this kid might learn fast, but he wasn't cut out for this line of work.

Bian Hong thought back on it now and it felt like a past life.

He admired educated people and believed that being able to study was a wonderful thing. Such a good thing—he wanted his younger brothers to experience it too. Whether they did well or poorly was another matter, but he didn't want them to miss out on the process of shaping their character and qualities.

But based on the location the village head's son from Shangyu Village had given them yesterday, the moment the two arrived at the school, they felt this probably wasn't going to work out.

The school didn't even have a proper door—just a long thatched hut. The yard was a mess, with all sorts of things scattered about. Bian Hong nearly stepped in a pile of shit right at the entrance—some kid must have had an upset stomach and just relieved himself right in the yard.

Bian Hong couldn't stand seeing that, so he found a wooden shovel nearby, scooped up some dirt, and cleaned it up.

Walking further in, they could hear the sound of lecturing from inside the thatched hut. Judging by the voice, the teacher was an elderly man, speaking in a dialect with a singsong quality that Bian Hong could barely understand.

The old gentleman was in the middle of an enthusiastic lecture, paying no attention to the drowsy students below him, spit flying everywhere.

At this moment, the two couldn't very well barge in and interrupt, so they stood outside waiting.

But Rong Feng stood by the window, cocking his ear to listen for a while, and the more he listened, the deeper his frown grew.

Bian Hong didn't know much about the scholarship here, so he looked up and whispered to the man, "What's wrong?"

Rong Feng lowered his head, looking at Bian Hong who was gazing at him eagerly over this matter. He thought for a moment, then told the truth.

"This man's scholarship is no good—he's a hack. He's already gotten five things wrong in the 'Collected Theories of the Masters.'"

"Huh?" Bian Hong had no idea about any theories, but he trusted Rong Feng more.

"Anything else?"

The man endured the old man's rambling, incoherent noise for a bit longer. "The rest is just classics from great scholars—flashy but hollow."

Bian Hong finally began to take Rong Feng's learning seriously. "You know all this?"

Wasn't this guy raised in the mountains? He'd assumed it was at the level of basic literacy.

After all, when someone's built like a wall of muscle, you rarely find brains to match.

Besides, after all this time together, Bian Hong knew the man's martial skills were genuinely impressive—almost to the point of being formidable. Even those Mountain Guards who came to deliver medicine, when they sparred for sport, ended up in a three-against-one fight.

Rong Feng looked at Bian Hong, who was clearly astonished, and was silent for a long moment, just leaning by the window watching him.

Bian Hong finally realized he'd let something slip. He reflected on it too—he didn't know what was wrong, but in front of Rong Feng, his mouth was getting less and less guarded.

"So what's wrong with the great classics?"

Bian Hong asked humbly, and Rong Feng, not one to hold it against him, just reached over and picked off a piece of dry grass stuck to the back of Bian Hong's head.

"Nothing but tired clichés and moaning. My master said they're all a bunch of crap. You'd be better off reading some picture books instead."

Bian Hong almost nodded out of habit, but remembering Rong Feng's unreliable master, he wasn't so sure. And speaking of picture books, Bian Hong couldn't help thinking about Rong Feng's tattered volumes.

So he muttered back, "What picture books? The kind with no words, just two little stick figures?"

Rong Feng didn't argue. He just squinted at Bian Hong and chuckled.

Bian Hong shot him a look, then hung his head, worried. This school's teaching was seriously lacking.

Just then, a window on the other side of the hut rattled, and a figure jumped, startled, and scurried off. The old man yelled "Hey!" and chased after him, grabbing a pebble off the ground and chucking it.

"You little thief, don't let me catch you!"

Bian Hong saw a kid dash out from beside the house. He wore patched-up, ragged clothes, was barefoot, even in this weather, and covered in dirt, head to toe.

"I—I didn't steal anything!"

"Still talking back! You need a good whipping."

The kid looked honest. Besides, his thin clothes clung to his lanky frame—he clearly hadn't stolen anything. His face was red as he protested in a cracking, teenage voice.

"I just heard someone was teaching here and wanted to listen."

The old man huffed, "Want to listen? You miserable little mud-foot, can you even pay the tuition?"

Bian Hong frowned hard at that, and finally couldn't hold back—he stepped forward.

After a lot of back-and-forth, the old man, seeing how well-dressed Bian Hong was and the tall horse tied up outside, decided to drop it.

Bian Hong dropped the idea of sending Yuan Ding to study here, just saying he was passing through and wanted a drink of water.

But seeing the unidentifiable stuff floating in the water tank, he ended up not drinking any.

From talking, Bian Hong learned this kid was a wandering farmhand, out working the fields with his father to earn a living for the family.

He couldn't afford schooling, but thought even listening for a while would be worthwhile—only to be mistaken for a thief.

The old teacher, seeing this, paid him no more mind. He just tilted his chin, stroked his long, unwashed beard, snorted, and went back to lecturing his nonsensical "knowledge."

The young farmhand, too embarrassed to stay, followed Bian Hong and Rong Feng out of the courtyard. He was deeply grateful to Bian Hong for intervening on his behalf. He was used to being called a "mud-foot" after years of following the wandering farmhands, enduring countless disdainful looks.

But being called a thief was different. His father had said: live upright, earn your keep with your own strength, never cheat or steal.

The kid grew close to Bian Hong, sharing many stories of his travels with the farmhands along the way.

Had he been a grown man, Bian Hong might not have kept such close company, but the kid's appearance reminded him of what Yuan Ding and Guan Bao might look like when they were a bit older, so the two chatted quite amiably.

Though young, the boy was nearly as tall as Bian Hong.

Rong Feng, leading the horse behind them, watched as the boy edged closer and closer to Bian Hong.

By the time they reached the outskirts of town, somehow, the man had naturally maneuvered the horse between the two of them.

Bian Hong didn't notice. As soon as they left the town, the boy ran off toward the vast fields, where a group of farmhands had just plowed their way back to the roadside. They paused, straightened their backs, and waited for the boy to catch up.

Before leaving, the boy pressed a small packet of coriander seeds into Bian Hong's hand. He had nothing else to offer as thanks, but since he was always planting crops, he could get his hands on some unusual seeds.

Bian Hong was delighted—he was in need of seasoning vegetables, but the locals prioritized rice and wheat cultivation, leaving little room for such accompaniments, and seeds were hard to come by.

So the two agreed to trade new seed varieties the following year, and the boy readily agreed.

Back in the fields, a burly man wiped the dirt from his hands and patted the boy's head—likely his father.

The boy merged into the busy crowd of farmhands, taking up a hoe and straw hat, and before diving into the work, waved at Bian Hong, signaling a reunion next year.

Bian Hong clutched the packet of seeds, gazing at the group of plainly dressed farmhands bent over their labor, working without pause.

The sun hung high, scorching the ridges and baking the earth. Sweat trickled down faces in streams, splattering into the soil, seeding the autumn harvest.

The hardships of the common folk were many.