Dawn did not care that Li Shen had made a decision in the dark.
It arrived like every other: a slow bleaching of black into grey, the house taking shape in fragments—the table, the shelf, the outline of his father's shoulders.
But when Li Shen opened his eyes, something was already wrong with the morning.
There was no flint.
No scrape of metal.
No sharp crack of sparks.
Instead he heard cloth being folded—slow, methodical—like someone packing a wound.
Li Shen pushed himself up.
Li Heng was at the table. A small cloth was spread in front of him with the economy of a man who hated waste. On it lay a heel of dried bread, a strip of meat tough as rope, and a wedge of hard cheese that had been hidden from their own hunger for reasons Li Shen did not want to think about.
Li Heng cut the cheese in half.
"You're awake," he said, without turning.
"Yes."
The knife moved again. Precise. Unemotional.
"For the road," Li Heng said, tying the bundle tight and setting it aside.
Li Shen stared at the bundle like it might bite.
"You're going now?" he asked.
"In a bit. We talk to Han while the day's still young."
"We," Li Shen echoed before he could stop himself.
Li Heng's eyes slid toward him. Not warm. Not cruel. Just clear.
"I said I'd go with you," he replied. "Did you think I changed my mind in the night?"
Li Shen shook his head.
He stood, cold stinging his skin through thin clothing, and hesitated at the doorway.
"I need to do something first," he said.
Li Heng's gaze sharpened.
"Something that can't wait?"
Li Shen swallowed.
"No. But if I don't do it now, I'll carry it in my throat the whole way."
A pause. Then Li Heng exhaled through his nose—half irritation, half understanding.
"Be quick," he said. "Problems don't get lighter because you stare at them longer."
---
The burial ground was colder than the path.
Frost clung to the mounds like a second skin. Li Shen's breath came out in white bursts that dissolved fast, as if even air refused to stay.
Li Mei's grave waited on its small rise, the mound darker where the earth held a little warmth, the plain stone rimmed with white.
There were no carved characters. Not yet. Not because she didn't deserve them—because grain did not turn into stonework by wishing.
Li Shen stopped a pace away.
He had come here with his father. With Old He. With the village when grief became a public duty.
But he had never stood here alone with a decision in his hands.
"Mother," he said.
The word landed heavy and dull in the cold.
"We're going to the bourgade today," he continued, because he did not know how to say it without sounding like a thief. "Old Han needs workers. He pays in grain."
He stared at the mound and forced the truth out.
"I'll be gone for two seasons."
The knot in his chest tightened.
It felt wrong to leave her here while he walked away alive. As if movement itself was betrayal.
"I know it's only earth," he said, voice rougher than he wanted. "But this is the only place the world still lets me speak to you."
Wind slid between stones.
Li Shen clenched his jaw.
"If I stay, we run thin again," he said. "Father breaks his back. We borrow from people we shouldn't. We lose more than food."
He remembered Li Mei's voice—quiet but hard—saying debt could rot a house faster than mould.
"So I'm going," he whispered. "Not because I want to. Because I don't want him to crawl for grain. And I don't want this house to turn into a warning people point at."
He stepped closer and scraped the frost from the top of the stone with bare fingers. Pointless. The frost would return by night. Still, it mattered.
"I'll come back," he said. "After two seasons. I'll tell you what I saw."
The mound did not answer.
He didn't expect it to.
He turned away before his legs found reasons to stay.
---
The village was waking by the time he returned.
Smoke thickened above roofs. Doors opened, closed. Chickens complained in half-asleep noises. Life had the brutal talent of continuing.
Near the well, the children had gathered early as usual, breath puffing white as they argued over something that mattered only because it was theirs.
Zhou Liang's voice carried above the rest—bright, fast, hungry.
"I'm telling you, the caravan guard last week was a real cultivator," Zhou insisted, hands flaring. "He had a sword on his back, and he didn't even look cold."
"Lots of men carry swords," Da Niu grunted, thick arms folded. "Doesn't mean he can fly."
"Maybe he could," Zhou shot back. "Maybe he just didn't want to show off for you."
Qian Mei stood a little apart, scarf tight at her neck. She listened without smiling, eyes shifting between faces like she was weighing something.
Li Shen almost walked past without stopping.
But Zhou spotted him.
"Li Shen!" he called, waving. "You heard me, right? You saw that guard. He looked at Old Wu like he could cut him in half—"
"He looked at Old Wu like Old Wu was talking," Qian Mei said quietly.
Da Niu snorted.
"That's the same look," he agreed.
Zhou opened his mouth to argue, then stopped when he really looked at Li Shen.
"You look strange," he said bluntly.
"Normal," Da Niu corrected. "He always looks like someone stole his sleep."
Li Shen stopped a few steps away.
"I'm going to work in the bourgade," he said.
Zhou blinked.
"Work? Like… for real? For someone else?"
"Old Han," Li Shen said. "Two seasons."
Qian Mei's eyes tightened. "Two seasons?"
Li Shen nodded.
"Grain," he added. "We need it."
Zhou's excitement faltered into something less tidy.
"That's… a long time," he said.
"It's not forever," Li Shen answered.
Da Niu squinted at him. "Han works people hard."
"I know."
"You can't just quit," Da Niu warned, as if explaining weather.
Li Shen didn't answer immediately.
Because Da Niu was right, and that truth had teeth.
Qian Mei took a step closer, voice lower so the others didn't steal it.
"You'll come back?" she asked.
"Yes."
Her gaze held him. Calm. Not begging, not dramatic—just the quiet force of someone who did not waste words on what wouldn't happen.
Li Shen felt something in his chest shift. Not softness—responsibility.
"I'll come back," he repeated, slower. "And… Qian Mei."
She waited.
He took a breath, then said the thing he hadn't planned until the words forced their way out.
"When I return, I'll teach you how to keep a ledger."
Zhou made a face. "A what?"
"A record," Li Shen said, still looking at Qian Mei. "Numbers. Grain. Debts. How to know when someone is cheating you."
Da Niu scratched his head. "Why would you teach her that?"
"Because people steal from those who don't count," Li Shen said.
Qian Mei's expression changed slightly—like a door opening just enough to admit air.
"You don't have to," she said.
"I'm going to," Li Shen replied.
Zhou leaned in, suddenly jealous again. "Teach me too."
Li Shen looked at him.
Zhou's grin faltered under the weight of the stare.
"…Fine," Zhou muttered. "Maybe later."
Da Niu snorted. "He'll teach you how to count your bruises."
Qian Mei nodded once, small but decisive.
"Then you have to come back," she said.
It wasn't a request. It was the shape of a contract.
Li Shen felt it settle on him—light enough to carry, heavy enough to matter.
"I will," he said.
Zhou recovered and waved his hands again, trying to reclaim the world.
"When you come back, you have to tell us everything," he announced. "The market. The people. If anyone flies—"
"No one flies," Qian Mei said automatically, but her eyes flicked up to the empty sky anyway.
Li Shen almost smiled.
Then he saw Li Heng waiting at the end of the lane, bundle in hand, posture already braced for the road.
The almost-smile died.
"I have to go," Li Shen said.
He nodded once to them—too stiff to be casual, too awkward to be formal—and walked away.
Behind him, Zhou resumed talking because silence scared him. Da Niu made a noise that might have been a laugh. Qian Mei stayed quiet.
Li Shen didn't turn back.
---
The road to the bourgade was not long, but it felt different with intention planted in every step.
Fields lay in uneven squares, some already turned, some still stiff with frost. A line of low hills sat under the pale sky like the backs of tired animals.
Li Heng walked slightly ahead, not rushing, not waiting.
After a while, he spoke.
"When we talk to Han," he said, "I do the speaking."
Li Shen nodded.
"If he offers less grain, you keep your mouth shut," Li Heng continued. "You're there to work, not to practice arguing."
"Yes."
"And if he starts boasting that the place is named after his family," Li Heng added dryly, "ignore him. He's been telling that joke since before you were born."
Li Shen blinked. "It's a joke?"
"It's a delusion," Li Heng said. "Same disease as Old Wu's self-importance."
Li Shen couldn't help the flicker of amusement.
Li Heng noticed, and the lines around his eyes softened by a fraction.
"Han is loud," he said. "He pushes. He tests where you bend. Don't pretend you're stronger than you are. Don't pretend you're weaker either."
"I understand."
"You'll understand better on his fields," Li Heng replied. "Now you listen."
They walked on.
---
The bourgade was bigger than the village, not in grandeur but in density.
More smoke. More noise. More bodies moving like time cost money.
Near the edge of the road, stalls had been set up: dried fish, cheap cloth, tools, a few herbs laid out like promises.
And there—by stacked bundles of stalks—stood Old Han.
He looked exactly the way stories described: thick arms, chest like a barrel, a face carved in frowns and forgotten how to smile properly. His hair was greying at the temples, but his posture was straight and stubborn.
He was shouting at a worker twice Li Shen's size.
"…if you drop another bundle like that, I'll send you back to your mother to learn how to hold a broom before you touch my grain again!" Han barked. "You think the field cares that your arms are tired? The field doesn't care. Winter doesn't care. Mouths don't care."
The worker mumbled and tightened his grip.
Han waved him off, then turned and spotted Li Heng.
"Li," Han said. "You look like winter chewed on you."
"Winter chews on everyone," Li Heng replied. "Some just taste better."
Han snorted, then his gaze dropped to Li Shen.
"This the boy?"
"Yes."
Han stepped closer, close enough that Li Shen smelled sweat, earth, and something sharp like old anger.
"How old?" Han asked.
"Ten."
"Ten?" Han's brows climbed. "He'll snap."
"He works," Li Heng said. "He doesn't complain. He doesn't fall over for nothing."
Han grunted and jabbed a finger. "Hands."
Li Shen held them out.
Han took them, turned them over, ran a thumb along calluses and cracked skin.
"Not soft," he conceded. "Not useless. Good. I don't like broken tools."
He squeezed once—hard. Pain lit Li Shen's fingers. Li Shen didn't pull back.
Han watched his face.
"Hm. Stubborn." He released the hands and looked back at Li Heng. "Two seasons, you said."
"Yes."
Han spat to the side.
"Two seasons," Han repeated, then named a number of sacks—enough to tempt, not enough to breathe.
Li Heng didn't move.
"That's what you pay for a boy who's never carried more than a bowl," he said.
Han's face tightened. "I can find another village full of sons who think grain grows on pity."
"If I wanted pity, I wouldn't be here," Li Heng replied. "He's already working fields. You'll train him to your patterns, but he's not starting at zero."
Li Heng named a higher number.
Han scowled. "Do you think I'm harvesting gold?"
"The field doesn't care," Li Heng said. "But numbers do. One more sack, and we don't have to taste Old Wu's smile this winter."
Han's eyes narrowed.
"You don't want to owe Wu," he said.
"No."
Han grunted, as if agreeing felt like swallowing dirt.
"Fine," he said at last. "One more sack."
Then he held up a thick finger.
"But there's an advance," he said. "Food. Sleeping space. Tools. You don't get to take that and then run when it hurts."
Li Heng's jaw tightened.
Han turned slightly and barked, "You! Bring the ledger."
A thin, older man appeared with a worn book tucked under his arm like it was his spine. He opened it without looking up, pages stained by years of sweat and ink.
Han pointed at Li Shen.
"Two seasons. Work every day the weather allows," he said. "If the boy leaves early, his father pays the difference in days or grain."
Li Shen felt the words land like a hook.
So Da Niu had been right.
You couldn't just quit.
Li Heng looked at the ledger, then at Han.
"How many days?" he asked.
Han named a number—cold, simple.
Li Heng didn't flinch. He just nodded once.
"Write it," he said.
The older man's brush moved. Ink sank into the page like a verdict.
Han's gaze returned to Li Shen.
"You hear that?" Han asked.
"Yes."
"You do what I say, when I say it," Han continued. "You sleep when you can, eat when it's given, and you don't try to be clever with shortcuts. Clever shortcuts fall on people and cost me grain."
"Yes."
Han squinted.
"You talk too little," he grumbled. "Might be a blessing."
He jerked his chin toward a low building at the edge of the bourgade.
"You sleep there," he said. "With the other boys. Today you learn where everything is and you don't get in the way. Tomorrow you start earning your food."
Li Heng nodded.
He turned to Li Shen, and for a moment his face was blank—tired lines, eyes that had run out of softness and replaced it with duty.
Then he put a hand on Li Shen's shoulder and squeezed.
"You listen," Li Heng said. "You don't carry more than your body can take. You don't prove anything to anyone who can't feed you or keep you alive."
"I know."
"You don't," Li Heng corrected. "But you will."
His hand tightened once.
"If you break yourself, I pay," he said, voice low. "Not just with sacks. With years. Don't make me pay for nothing."
Li Shen's throat tightened.
"I won't," he said.
Li Heng held his shoulder a heartbeat longer, then released.
"I'll come at the end of the second season," he said. "If you're thinner, I'll shout at Han. If you're fatter, I'll shout at you."
Li Shen's mouth twitched.
"I'll try to make you shout at both," he said.
Li Heng snorted—almost a laugh, almost not—and turned away.
No dramatic goodbye. No long speeches.
Just a man walking back down the road because work waited and grief didn't pay.
Li Shen watched his father's back shrink until it merged with the road and disappeared over a low curve of land.
For a heartbeat, the urge to run after him surged so hard his legs shook.
Run back to the house that still smelled faintly of smoke and memory. Back to the grave on the rise. Back to a life he understood.
But the ledger existed now.
Ink. Numbers. A clause that would drag his father into punishment if Li Shen failed.
Li Shen closed his hands into fists.
If I run, I don't just abandon this. I make Father pay.
He turned toward the shed.
The first step felt heavier than any sack he'd ever carried.
He took it anyway.