Jian Lai · Chat

February the second, the Dragon Raises its Head. The morning mist in Mud Bottle Alley had not yet dispersed, and the moss on the flagstone path gleamed with dew. Chen Ping'an crouched on the threshold, gnawing on half a flatbread left over from last night, an old book with curled corners spread across his knees—he had learned the characters from the old scholar who set up a stall at the entrance of the alley, and the pictures were traced from crooked charcoal drawings on the wall. The sound of reading from the private school echoed from deep within the alley; the teacher's voice was gentle, occasionally pausing to correct the pronunciation of a character. He didn't look up, but he memorized that character with his ears. This was how the days in Mud Bottle Alley passed, day after day: carrying water, firing the kiln, passing messages for neighbors. Recognizing one more character was a gain. The courtyard door next door creaked open a crack. Liu Xianyang poked half his head out and called in a low voice, "Ping'an, my mom said she saved a bowl of noodles for you. If you don't eat it soon, it'll get clumpy." Chen Ping'an responded, and just as he was about to get up, a man suddenly appeared at the alley entrance. Wearing a bamboo hat askew and a wine gourd slung across his body, he poured wine into his mouth as he walked, his straw sandals loudly slapping against the flagstones. "Little Ping'an, not practicing your punches today?" His voice was loud, startling the sparrows under the eaves into flight. Chen Ping'an recognized him as A Liang, who often loitered around the wine shop at the edge of town. He smiled without answering, then turned and went inside to get the noodles. He crouched back on the threshold, slurping down his food. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a Confucian scholar in a green shirt at the end of the alley, bending down to tie a neighbor child's shoelaces. When the man stood up, he glanced over in this direction. Through the morning mist of the entire alley, his gaze was as warm as the March wind. Chen Ping'an lowered his head and drank the last mouthful of noodle soup. He didn't know that hidden within that single glance was a sixty-year wait, nor did he know that these hands holding the bowl would soon be gripping a sword. Mud Bottle Alley remained quiet and peaceful, the cooking smoke rising a bit higher than yesterday. The youth set down his bowl, grabbed his dirt-carrying shoulder pole from behind the door, and walked toward the alley entrance.