Volume One: Youths Meet in Humble Times Chapter Two: Each Unfortunate Person Is Unhappy in Their Own Way
The Earth God immediately understood the hidden meaning behind the Taoist’s words and hurriedly explained, “He came here fleeing with others two years ago. He was only three then, all skin and bones, terribly frail. There are so many strange things in this world—one more is hardly unusual. Besides, he’s kinder than most people I’ve known. I cannot believe someone so good-hearted could be the cause of all this.”
“Is it simply because he never stopped making offerings to you?” the Taoist asked, amused.
With solemnity, the Earth God replied, “Immortal Master, I may be a humble earth spirit, but I am not blind to right and wrong. I trust him, not because of what he offers me, but because he is more human than most humans.”
The Taoist seemed indifferent to his earnestness. “What do you mean by that?”
The Earth God replied, “When the drought first began, only some left the village. But when monsters and ghosts emerged, those so-called filial sons and virtuous grandsons—anyone who could—ran. If they had old, weak, or sick family members who could not travel, they left them behind to die. That child could have left with the others, but he didn’t. He chose to stay and wait for death at her side, caring for her tenderly. Whenever he found food or water, he let the old woman have it first. Someone with such warmth—I can’t believe he is the reason for all this misfortune.”
After a moment’s silence, the Taoist noticed the Earth God hadn’t finished. “If you still have something to say, speak.”
The Earth God added, “Even if he truly is involved, I firmly believe it wasn’t intentional. I only hope that when you investigate, you will judge fairly.”
At these words, the Taoist understood the Earth God’s intentions. He wanted to ensure the Taoist wouldn’t simply use the child as a scapegoat to complete his task, but would look deeper for the truth. The Taoist, however, was unfazed. He had seen much in his long life, and though he felt a tinge of disappointment in the world, he said nothing more.
He dismissed the Earth God and, alone, performed a spell. The world around him seemed to rewind, the flow of time reversing from the thatched hut as a spatial anchor, tracing events backward.
He saw, day by day, the child bringing food to his grandmother; the child’s distress and fear as the old woman fell ill; the beginning of the drought and people leaving, yet the child staying loyally by her side; the child ostracized for his strange eyes; all the way to the day he first arrived.
The Taoist stopped his tracing and, with a gentle press of his palm, let time resume its normal flow. He studied the child carefully: his bones, his growth, the passage of time—all matched. The child’s body was that of an ordinary boy, unchanged or manipulated, not some demonic creature disguised as a child.
He saw the child, only three years old, begging his way here with refugees. His clothes were in tatters, his body bruised and battered, so thin he seemed about to scatter with the wind—a testament to the suffering he had endured.
Locals had little sympathy for refugees, suspecting them of bringing disaster. The villagers greeted them with hostility, begrudgingly giving a little food only to hasten their departure, lest desperation breed violence. The child, with his unusual eyes, was shunned even among refugees, and the villagers, seeing him so rejected, treated him even worse. He was denied food, scorned by their children, who threw stones and vegetable leaves at him, chasing him to the old woman’s door.
The Taoist watched unseen as the child, though bullied and hurt, wore an expression of indifference, as if none of it mattered. He simply kept his head down, retreating where he could, until a stone struck his forehead, and he looked up—just in time to meet the Taoist’s invisible gaze. Their eyes met for an instant, but the child quickly looked away, and the Taoist, thinking he’d imagined it, let the thought go.
The child backed against the hut’s fence. The old woman emerged, saw the children tormenting him, and spoke with gentle firmness, “Enough. Go home, all of you. If you don’t, I’ll call your parents.”
One of the bigger children protested loudly, “Granny Li, he’s a refugee, and his eyes are scary—maybe he’s a monster. We’re driving him out for the village’s sake.”
Granny Li replied, “If he were a monster, would you be able to bully him like this? Is this what your teacher at school tells you—to torment those weaker than you? Go home.”
She tried to help the boy up, but he shrank away, unwilling to accept her aid, leaning against the fence, catching his breath.
The commotion drew nearby adults. The children, emboldened by their parents’ arrival, recounted what had happened.
“Sister-in-law Li, it’s not that we want to make things hard for him, but you know we’re all barely surviving. If we don’t drive him away, what if more refugees follow his example? What will become of us? It’s best to send him off quickly,” said an elderly woman of similar age to Granny Li.
Before Granny Li could answer, others chimed in, “She’s right, Granny Li. Helping him will only bring endless trouble.”
“That’s right! If you don’t care about living, don’t drag us down with you.”
“If you want to be a good person, do it yourself—don’t make things harder for us.”
Their words were endless. The child, only three, seemed to understand. Granny Li had only intended to help him rest, give him some food, and send him on his way. But as she looked at him, his face and eyes triggered a memory. She realized where she had seen him before.
The boy stood, turned to her, and bowed as best he could—a clumsy but earnest gesture. He said nothing, just slowly walked away, as if unwilling to trouble her further. The crowd seemed relieved, their anxiety easing.
Granny Li felt a pang of sorrow, memories surfacing, and, recalling her past connection with the boy, made a sudden decision. She quickly went to his side, knelt, took his hand, and, in the astonished gazes around her, spoke softly, “Child, from now on, live with me, will you?”
The boy stared at her in disbelief, trying to withdraw his hand, but she held it firmly, her gentle and resolute gaze silently telling him, “Don’t be afraid—I won’t hurt you.”
He could not remember the last time someone had looked at him this way—perhaps he had never known it. It felt like winter sunlight, warm on his skin, like a hot bowl of soup warming his heart, something inside him softening, wanting to spill from his eyes. Not knowing what he felt, he lowered his head and said nothing, but did not pull his hand away.
Granny Li knew then that he trusted her and agreed. She led him before the others and declared, “From today, he is my grandson, Li Wangshi’s grandson.”
This immediately sparked an uproar.
“Granny Li, you can’t do this to us! You might adopt him now, but what about all the trouble later? Have you thought about the rest of us?”
“Yes! If you don’t care about living, don’t bring us down with you!”
“Who would have thought you’d be so heartless!”
The boy, seeing their indignation, grew frightened and tried to pull his hand free, whispering, “Granny, I should go.”
Granny Li, who had been coldly watching the crowd, brightened at his words. “You can speak! I thought you were mute. Good, now you can keep Granny company. Don’t be afraid—I’m not scared of them.”
The crowd argued for a while, but when Granny Li refused to respond, their voices dwindled.
Suddenly, someone shouted, “The village chief is here!”
The crowd parted like a river for the village chief to step forward.
“Li Wangshi, why must you oppose everyone?”
Granny Li replied, neither humble nor arrogant, “Because you all owe the Li family a life. I’m only asking you to return it—do you think that’s unreasonable?”
The villagers fell silent. After a long pause, the chief sighed, “So you still remember.”
“I wish I could forget,” Granny Li said coldly, “but you won’t let me.”
He pressed, “Have you thought about the consequences?”
She sneered, “Don’t think I’m a fool because I’m old. You claim you’re afraid the refugees will follow his example, but everyone knows our village’s situation. Even if outsiders wanted to stay, do you think our men would let them take our fields? You’re just afraid of trouble—hoping to avoid it altogether.”
The villagers, exposed, looked uncomfortable, but one protested, “That’s not true! We’re worried about disease—what if he brings something filthy here?”
Granny Li retorted, “If he’s sick, I’ll be the first to die. You can roll both of us up in a mat and burn us. As for filth—” She cut herself off with a cold laugh. “Who could be filthier than you?”
Angry, someone snapped, “You crazy old woman, what nonsense are you spouting?”
A shadow crossed Granny Li’s face as she spoke of her pain. “Is it not true? My son was the only heir of the Li family. To save your own children, you tied him up and burned him alive as a sacrifice, all the while claiming it was for the greater good. You think I don’t know it was all arranged in secret? You think my life these years has been easy? If not for... for...” Her voice faded, choked with grief.
The crowd fell silent, her words cutting to the heart. They could not deny it. Years ago, when a mountain demon plagued the village, a wandering Taoist advised them: only a sacrifice could save them—a three-year-old child. Families with eligible children balked, until someone said, “Doesn’t the Li family have a three-year-old?”
There was hesitation: “That’s not right. He left with the army and asked us to care for his family.”
Another said, “It’s been nearly two years, no word from him. Who knows if he’s alive? If we offer his child, and Li Wangshi kills herself, that’s their whole family reunited.”
They rationalized their evil, seeking any excuse to absolve themselves. When people become cruel, it is not a matter of degree, but of opportunity.
In the end, they chose the Li family—no man to speak for them, only the old woman and her child. In secret, they arranged with the Taoist for the sacrifice. Li Wangshi resisted desperately, but the families were determined. The others, faced with reality, pretended not to see. One night, they tied up her child and took him away. She was knocked unconscious trying to stop them; when she awoke, the ritual was over, the fire nearly out, and in the ashes, a charred little body.
It was a sordid past, and whether from guilt or fear, the villagers became distant yet polite with Granny Li, turning a blind eye to everything—except this.
As the argument dragged on, the village chief tried to mediate. “You can keep him, but let’s be clear: if anything happens, his life and yours are your own responsibility. If he brings any trouble, we’ll drive you both out.”
With this, the chief made his final ruling, and the villagers had nothing more to say.