On the second day of the second lunar month, known as the Dragon Raises Its Head, twilight shrouded a secluded corner of the small town called Nipíng Alley. There, a solitary and gaunt youth stood, clutching a candle in one hand and a peach branch in the other, casting flickering light upon the beams, walls, and wooden bedposts. He tapped rhythmically with the branch, invoking an ancient town ritual to ward off serpents, scorpions, and centipedes, murmuring the time-honored incantation passed down through generations:"On the second of the second, candle lights the beam, peach strikes the wall, no serpent nor worm shall find a home."
The boy's surname was Chen, given name Ping'an. Orphaned of both parents, he had long been left to his own devices. The town's porcelain was renowned far and wide, having served since the founding of the dynasty as the imperial kiln producing vessels for ancestral rites, with court officials permanently stationed to oversee the operations.
With no family to rely on, Chen Ping'an had started as a humble kiln worker at a young age, initially relegated to menial, rough tasks under a cantankerous, half-hearted master. After years of arduous labor, he had only just begun to grasp the delicate craft of porcelain firing, when fate cruelly intervened. The town abruptly lost its status as an official kiln, and dozens of dragon-shaped furnaces around the town were ordered shut down overnight by imperial decree.
Chen Ping'an set down the freshly broken peach branch, extinguished the candle, and stepped outside. Sitting on the worn steps, he gazed up at the glittering night sky. He still vividly recalled the master named Yao, who had grudgingly accepted him as only a half-apprentice, found in late autumn last year slumped on a small bamboo stool by the kiln, eyes closed—never to awaken again. Yet, men like old Yao, stubborn and narrow-minded, were few.
The town's craftsmen, whose lives had revolved solely around porcelain for generations, neither dared to overstep their bounds by crafting tribute ware without sanction, nor dared to sell stored ceramics privately. Forced to seek new livelihoods, the fourteen-year-old Chen Ping'an was cast out and returned to the dilapidated family home in Nipíng Alley—a nearly bare, desolate dwelling where even if he wished to squander away his youth, there was nothing to squander.
For a time, he drifted like a restless spirit, unable to find any means to earn a living. Relying on scant savings to stave off hunger, he recently heard that a blacksmith named Ruan had arrived a few streets away in Qilong Alley, recruiting seven or eight unpaid apprentices with meals provided. Seizing this chance, Chen Ping'an hurried over to try his luck, only to be dismissed with a mere sidelong glance by the middle-aged smith.
Perplexed, Chen Ping'an wondered if blacksmithing judged not strength, but one's appearance. Though slight in frame, his strength was not to be underestimated—built by years of porcelain throwing and kiln work. Besides, he had traveled all over the surrounding hundred-mile region with Master Yao, sampling various soils and terrains, willing to toil through the dirtiest, most grueling tasks without complaint.
Yet old Yao never warmed to him, dismissing Chen Ping'an as dull-witted and slow to grasp, far inferior to the favored eldest apprentice, Liu Xianyang. Such favoritism was understandable—"A master can open the door, but cultivation lies within the individual." Whereas Liu Xianyang mastered the monotonous art of throwing in six months what Chen struggled to achieve in three years.
Though uncertain if he would ever wield this craft again, Chen Ping'an closed his eyes as usual, envisioning the worn stone slab and potter's wheel before him, practicing with steady hands. Every quarter hour, he paused to shake out his wrists, repeating this cycle until utterly spent. Rising, he strolled slowly around the courtyard, stretching his limbs. This regimen was self-devised—no one had taught him.
In the profound stillness of night, a harsh mocking laugh pierced the air. Stopping, Chen Ping'an spotted a boy his age crouching atop the low courtyard wall, grinning with undisguised contempt. This boy was his old neighbor, rumored to be the illegitimate son of a former supervising official. That official, wary of scandal and criticism, had returned alone to the capital to report, entrusting his child to a close friend and successor for care.
Now, the town had inexplicably lost its official kiln status, and the supervising official himself was struggling to hold his own, leaving the bastard son to idle in carefree ease. Year-round, he wandered the town accompanied by his personal maid, never troubled by money.
The earthen courtyard walls of Nipíng Alley were low—this neighbor need not even stand on tiptoe to see into Chen Ping'an's yard, yet he preferred perching on the wall when speaking to him. Compared to Chen Ping'an's plain and modest name, this neighbor bore a more refined one: Song Jixin, whose companion maid was named Zhigui. The young girl stood quietly beyond the wall, her almond-shaped eyes shy and timid.
Suddenly, a voice called from the gate, "Is your maid for sale?"
Song Jixin paused, glanced toward the speaker—a smiling youth in brocade standing outside, a complete stranger. Beside him stood a tall elder with a fair complexion and kindly eyes, quietly scrutinizing the two youths in adjoining courtyards.
The elder's gaze passed over Chen Ping'an without lingering but rested appreciatively on Song Jixin and Zhigui, growing more genial.
"Of course she's for sale!" Song Jixin retorted with a sly look.
The youth smiled, "Name your price."
Zhigui's eyes widened in bewilderment, like a frightened young fawn.
Song Jixin rolled his eyes, wagged a finger, "Ten thousand taels of silver!"
The brocade youth nodded calmly, "Agreed."
Seeing the youth was serious, Song Jixin hastily amended, "Make that ten thousand taels of gold!"
The youth's lips curled, "Just joking."
Song Jixin's face darkened.
Ignoring him, the youth turned to Chen Ping'an, "Thanks to you, I was able to buy that carp. The more I look at it, the more delighted I become. I insisted on coming to thank you in person, so I sent Grandpa Wu to bring me here overnight."
He tossed a heavy embroidered pouch to Chen Ping'an with a radiant smile.
"This is your reward—we're even now."
Chen Ping'an opened his mouth to speak, but the youth had already turned and left.
Earlier that day, Chen Ping'an had glimpsed a middle-aged man carrying a fish basket down the street, holding a golden carp about the length of a palm, lively and leaping within. Sensing fortune, Chen Ping'an asked to buy it for ten cash. The man, initially intending only a meal for himself, seized the chance for profit, demanding thirty cash.
Chen Ping'an, poor and reluctant to part with the gleaming fish, followed and bargained persistently, hoping to reduce the price to fifteen—or even twenty cash. Just as the man softened, the brocade youth and the tall elder appeared, paying fifty cash outright for the carp and basket, leaving Chen Ping'an powerless.
Fixating on their retreating figures, Song Jixin leapt down from the wall, his harsh gaze softening as he turned to Chen Ping'an.
"Do you remember the four-legged creature from the first month?"
Chen Ping'an nodded; how could he forget—etched clearly in memory. According to the town's centuries-old customs, a snake entering one's home was a good omen, and must never be driven away or killed.
On the first day of the lunar year, Song Jixin had been sunning himself on the doorstep when a small creature known locally as a four-legged lizard scurried in beneath his gaze. Catching it, he threw it into the yard, but the battered reptile grew more tenacious, frustrating the skeptical Song Jixin who scorned superstition. In anger, he flung it into Chen Ping'an's yard, only to find it curled beneath his own bed the next day.
Zhigui gently tugged Song Jixin's sleeve. The boy and girl shared a silent understanding, and he swallowed the words on his lips.
He wished to say the hideous four-legged lizard had recently sprouted a horn-like protuberance on its forehead. Instead, he said, "Zhigui and I might leave here next month."
Chen Ping'an sighed, "Travel safely."
Song Jixin half-joked, "There are some things I surely can't take with me, so don't take advantage and pilfer them while I'm gone."
Chen Ping'an shook his head.
Suddenly, Song Jixin burst into laughter, poking Chen Ping'an playfully, "Cowardly as a mouse, no wonder the poor never rise. Not only must you endure poverty and humiliation in this life, perhaps the next as well."
Chen Ping'an remained silent.
Each returned to their homes. Chen Ping'an closed the door, lay upon the hard wooden bed, and murmured softly with closed eyes:
"Peaceful days, year after year; safe and sound, year after year..."