Before dawn had fully broken and long before the roosters crowed, Chen Ping'an was already awake. The thin quilt could hardly retain any warmth, and years of apprenticing in porcelain firing had ingrained in him the habit of rising early and sleeping late. He opened his door and stepped into the soft earth of the small courtyard. After a deep breath and a leisurely stretch, he left the yard. Glancing back, he saw a slender figure bent over, carrying a wooden bucket of water with both hands, using her shoulder to push open her own courtyard gate—it was Song Jixin's maid, likely just returning from the iron-lock well over in Apricot Blossom Alley.
Chen Ping'an averted his gaze and darted through the winding streets toward the town's eastern edge. Mud Bottle Alley lay to the west; at the easternmost city gate, a man was tasked with overseeing merchants and travelers entering and leaving town, as well as patrolling the nighttime curfew. He also collected and forwarded letters sent from afar. Chen Ping'an's next task was to deliver those letters to the townsfolk, earning a copper coin per letter—a modest income he had painstakingly arranged. Starting from the second day of the second lunar month, after the Dragon Raises Its Head festival, he would begin managing this business.
As Song Jixin often said, some are simply born into poverty; even if fortune visits their door, they cannot hold onto it. She frequently spoke in cryptic phrases, seemingly lifted from old books—words Chen Ping'an barely understood. Just days ago, she muttered something about the lingering chill of early spring that could freeze a youth to death. Having endured winters before, Chen Ping'an personally knew that spring could sometimes bring a harsher cold, what Song Jixin called the "reverse spring chill," as deadly as a cavalry's counterattack on the battlefield, claiming many lives at the threshold of death.
The town lacked defensive walls; there were hardly any bandits or thieves to fear. The so-called city gate was really just a row of rickety, leaning old fences with a barely functional passage for pedestrians and carts—a mere semblance of the town's face.
As Chen Ping'an trotted past Apricot Blossom Alley, he noticed many women and children gathered near the iron-lock well, the water wheel creaking incessantly. Rounding another street corner, he heard the familiar sounds of recitation from a rural schoolhouse, founded by several prominent families pooling their resources. The schoolmaster, a stranger to the town, was known for his strict teaching but never scolded the children who lingered outside, secretly eavesdropping on lessons. After Chen Ping'an left to apprentice at a kiln beyond town, he never returned to that school.
Further on, he passed under a stone archway supported by twelve pillars, locally called the Crab Arch. Song Jixin swore she had read in an ancient county gazetteer that this was the "Grand Scholar's Arch," a royal tribute honoring a historical official's civil and military achievements. Liu Xianyang, a fellow rustic like Chen Ping'an, scoffed, saying it was just the Crab Arch, a name used for centuries, and mocked the pretentious title. He once jokingly asked Song Jixin if the Grand Scholar's official hat was really larger than the iron-lock well's mouth, making her blush furiously.
Circling the arch, Chen Ping'an noted four inscriptions, each unique in script: "Rise to Duty Without Hesitation," "Seek Words in Nature," "Do Not Seek Beyond," and "Spirit Pierces the Dipper and Bull." Song Jixin mentioned that besides these four, the other stone plaques had been defaced and altered over time. Chen Ping'an had never pondered these mysteries deeply—indeed, even if he wished to delve into their origins, he lacked the slightest clue what the county gazetteer Song Jixin often referenced truly was.
Not far beyond the arch stood a flourishing old locust tree. Beneath it lay a weathered log, propped up by two flat stones to serve as a makeshift bench. In summer, townsfolk gathered here to cool off. Wealthier families would retrieve baskets of chilled melons and fruits from the well, while children, satiated and lively, played under the shade in lively groups.
Accustomed to climbing hills and crossing streams, Chen Ping'an approached the fence gate, stopping by a solitary yellow clay house. Calm and steady, he noticed few outsiders entered the town nowadays—especially since the official kiln, once a money tree, had collapsed, leaving no new faces.
When Old Yao was alive, he once drunkenly told Chen Ping'an and Liu Xianyang that their was an unparalleled official kiln business, crafting imperial porcelain exclusively for the emperor and empress. No matter how wealthy or powerful, any commoner who dared meddle faced execution. That day, Old Yao's spirit had been unusually fierce.
Today, Chen Ping'an looked beyond the fence and saw a gathering of seven or eight strangers—men, women, old and young—all waiting to enter the town. These were unfamiliar faces. Locals seldom used the east gate, since the roads leading out there connected to neither dragon kilns nor farmlands.
Across the wooden fence separating them, Chen Ping'an and the outsiders exchanged glances. The youth in straw sandals envied the warmth of their thick garments. The strangers, grouped but not unified, stared at the thin boy inside with indifferent expressions; some eyes already looked beyond him, toward the town's farther reaches.
Chen Ping'an wondered: did they not know the court had banned all dragon kilns? Or did their knowledge of the truth embolden them to seize opportunity?
A slender young man wearing a peculiar tall hat and a green jade pendant at his waist grew impatient. Stepping from the crowd, he reached out to push the unlocked gate but abruptly withdrew his hand, clasped it behind his back, and smiled warmly at the barefoot boy without a word.
From Chen Ping'an's peripheral vision, he caught subtle expressions behind the young man—disappointment, amusement, frowns, sneers—an array of nuanced emotions.
Suddenly, a disheveled middle-aged man slammed the gate open and spat curses at Chen Ping'an: "You little bastard, so eager to die you're waking souls at dawn! Hurry up and go meet your dead parents in the afterlife!"
Chen Ping'an rolled his eyes, unfazed by the harsh words. Living in a place with few books, he had no time for petty grievances. Besides, the gatekeeper was a frequent subject of town gossip and ridicule, especially by bold women who not only insulted but sometimes struck him. The man loved boasting to toddlers in split-crotch pants about his glory days fighting off bandits at the gate, leaving corpses and bloodied roads behind.
With a scowl, he told Chen Ping'an, "Save your nonsense for later."
No one in town took the man seriously. Yet he held absolute authority over who might enter.
Approaching the wooden gate, he rummaged inside his pants pocket, accepting small embroidered pouches from the outsiders, slipping them into his sleeve, and allowing each to pass.
Chen Ping'an stepped aside as the group of eight separated into five smaller parties and entered. Apart from the tall-hatted youth with the green pendant, two children followed—a boy in a festive red robe and a rosy-cheeked girl as delicate as fine porcelain.
The boy, half a head shorter than Chen Ping'an, mouthed two words with obvious provocation as he passed. His escorting middle-aged woman lightly cleared her throat, and the boy hushed.
The girl was led by a broad-shouldered, snow-haired elder who whispered a lengthy reprimand to her while nodding toward the boy. Chen Ping'an could not understand her words but guessed she was tattling. The elder shot a sidelong glance at the straw-sandaled boy, who instinctively stepped back, as a mouse might from a cat.
The once chattering girl fell silent, turning away as if a single glance might tarnish her eyes.
Though inexperienced, Chen Ping'an read the room well.
After the group moved on, the gatekeeper chuckled, "Want to know what they said?"
Chen Ping'an nodded eagerly.
"They were praising your looks—all good things," the man grinned.
Chen Ping'an smiled wryly, thinking, Do you take me for a fool?
Reading his thoughts, the gatekeeper laughed harder. "If you weren't stupid, do you think I'd let you deliver letters?"
Chen Ping'an dared not argue, fearing to lose the copper coins soon within reach.
The man turned back to the departing strangers, rubbing his scruffy chin, murmuring, "That woman back there—her legs could kill a man."
Curious, Chen Ping'an asked, "Did she train in martial arts?"
The man looked down, serious. "Boy, you really are dumb."
Perplexed, Chen Ping'an waited as the man strode inside and returned with a neat stack of letters—about ten in number. Handing them over, he asked, "Do you believe in the saying, 'Fortune smiles on fools and good men receive their due'?"
Chen Ping'an held the letters in one hand, palm open in the other, blinking, "We agreed one coin per letter."
The man's face darkened but he slapped five coins into the boy's palm and waved his hand grandly, declaring, "Consider the rest a debt for now!"