Chapter 1: Not for Sale

Chapter 1: Not for Sale

As winter set in, the north wind howled, and the snowstorm raged.

The world was a vast expanse of white, devoid of any signs of life.

Meng Yuan leaned on a wooden staff, having lost count of the days since he began his journey to escape the famine. Many of his fellow travelers had silently collapsed and perished by the roadside.

Crunching through the snow, he walked for an unknown duration until he spotted a low-walled courtyard beside the road, an abandoned post station.

As he approached the entrance, a scar-faced man suddenly rushed out, his eyes gleaming with greed, fixated on Meng Yuan's back.

The man's hunger was evident, and he had likely tasted human flesh before.

Behind Meng Yuan was an elderly man and his young grandchild, a pair who had joined Meng Yuan a few days ago but had never spoken or introduced themselves.

In their extreme hunger, people were reluctant to speak, lacking even the energy to think.

"Brother, this doesn't concern you. We just want the child," the scar-faced man licked his lips and said to Meng Yuan.

A child's meat is tender and cooks quickly, saving firewood.

"Brother, we're starving! We're desperate!" From behind a large tree over ten steps away, another man emerged, holding a long stick and forming a pincer attack.

The two men clearly had the same intention, and their hunger was evident.

"Share some soup with me," Meng Yuan said weakly.

"Sure!" The scar-faced man immediately agreed and raised his broken wooden stick to capture the child.

"Heavens above!" The old man protected his grandchild behind him, then let out a mournful cry. He charged at the scar-faced man, ignoring the blows from the stick, and tightly hugged the man's waist, "Run, child!"

Fearless of death, the old man momentarily stopped the scar-faced man.

"Grandpa!" The frail child, who turned out to be a girl, spoke up. Instead of fleeing, she strained her voice to help.

"Get away!" Meng Yuan stepped forward, brandishing his stick to block the girl, then turned to see that the scar-faced man was indeed strong, and after a brief struggle, he pinned the old man down, tightly choking his neck.

"Haha, I've got him! Hit his head quickly!" The scar-faced man shouted at Meng Yuan.

"Okay!" Meng Yuan seized the moment and struck the man's head with his stick, hitting the back of his skull.

This attack exhausted Meng Yuan, causing him to feel dizzy and unsteady on his feet.

The scar-faced man staggered and fell sideways.

His accomplice had already rushed forward, but seeing Meng Yuan's sudden change of heart, he stood there, stick in hand, looking lost.

"Get lost," Meng Yuan panted, ordering the man away. He then continued walking forward.

In this harsh world, this was the last act of kindness Meng Yuan could offer. Killing the scar-faced man was a clever move, but he truly lacked the strength to kill the other man.

The old man and his grandchild hurried to catch up, and the remaining man indeed dared not pursue them. He stumbled to his companion's body, cried a few times, and couldn't resist licking his lips, "Brother, you taste so good..."

Half a day passed, and Meng Yuan was almost at the end of his strength.

"Eat," the old man noticed Meng Yuan's slowing pace and took out half a bun from his pocket.

Meng Yuan looked at the old man, seeing his sparse beard and sunken cheeks, clearly on the verge of death.

"If I can't hold on, please look after this child, young brother," the old man's lips were cracked, and he forced a painful smile, pleading, "Even if you can't, don't let anyone eat her."

Meng Yuan took the bun, ignoring the child's expectant gaze, and swallowed it in large mouthfuls, even sucking in the crumbs. He scooped up some snow to melt and felt a little more energized.

The old man and his grandchild followed silently.

That night, they found a dilapidated temple, lit a fire, and huddled together for rest.

At dawn, they continued their journey and soon saw a city wall at the end of the road, a sign of hope.

Below the wall were many low, humble houses made of mud and bricks, likely inhabited by the poor struggling to survive.

There was also a soup kitchen where several law enforcement officers were serving porridge to the needy. Anyone who fought for the porridge would be met with a harsh whip.

Seeing this glimmer of hope, Meng Yuan and the old man exchanged a glance, both feeling a sense of escape from the jaws of death.

If they had endured for another day or two, they would have either perished by the roadside or fallen into a dire situation.

They joined the queue and waited for a while before each receiving a bowl of porridge.

The porridge was thin, with only a few grains of millet floating in it, but it was hot and sufficient to sustain life.

"Vagrants are like this; they just need to escape the famine. We have more to consider—disaster relief in the snow, preventing civil unrest," a nearby officer casually chatted.

Each person was only allowed one bowl of porridge before being driven away.

There was no work-for-relief program; they could only stand with straw in their hair, treated like animals.

(End)

The simple thatched hut was a porridge stall, and several people were soliciting refugees.

There were also a few horse-drawn carriages, with wealthy families personally coming to choose their servants.

For the poor, disasters were their greatest fear, while the rich welcomed calamities, as they could acquire land at low prices and purchase slaves cheaply.

"Young man, what are your plans?" An elderly man, having regained some strength after drinking hot porridge, asked.

Meng Yuan shook his head.

In these difficult times, without any skills to rely on, selling oneself into servitude seemed like the only option. Or perhaps joining the bandits? But even that path was uncertain.

Although he could read and do calculations, no one would hire a refugee with an unknown background as an accountant.

"There's always a way. Being a servant or a maid is better than freezing or starving to death," the old man sighed and added, "My old man's surname is Jiang. From now on, we'll look out for each other."

"Elder Jiang," Meng Yuan replied, "My name is Meng Yuan."

As the two were talking and preparing to ask the old woman about any possible opportunities, a horse-drawn carriage emerged from within the city.

A handsome yet effeminate young man jumped out of the carriage, his mannerisms somewhat frivolous. His face seemed powdered, and in the cold wind, a nauseating fragrance wafted from him.

A constable approached and addressed him respectfully as Yang Guanshi.

This person was likely a steward or manager of a wealthy family.

Holding a hand warmer, Yang Guanshi exchanged a few pleasantries with the constable before the latter struck the gong and shouted, "Yang Manor is recruiting several book boys. Those who can read, come over here!"

Upon hearing this, many of the refugees with straw-covered heads rushed forward.

"Me, me, me! Sir, I can read!" A middle-aged man with a beard pushed his way to the front.

"Get lost, you bastard!" Yang Guanshi kicked him away, raising his ring finger and cursing, "Can't you understand what I'm saying? I want a book boy! Can't you see how old you are?"

Indeed, no one dared to respond at that moment.

Reading and writing were not easy skills to acquire. Ordinary people who could recognize a few large characters were already considered knowledgeable. If one had the opportunity to attend school from a young age, it was certain that they came from a well-off family.

Seeing no one responding, Yang Guanshi continued, "It's fine if you can't read. We'll choose those who are younger! Stand up straight and let me have a look! If you're chosen, you'll live a good life!"

Meng Yuan observed with a cold gaze, feeling that something was amiss, so he didn't step forward.

Yang Guanshi, wearing a cloak, walked into the crowd of refugees, examining each person one by one. He would even pinch their arms or pat their bottoms to inspect their teeth.

It seemed less like he was choosing book boys and more like he was selecting livestock.

Soon, Yang Guanshi approached a teenager, lifted his chin with his hand, and asked, "What's your name? How old are you?"

"I'm Liu Dabao, sixteen years old. Sir, I've been carrying night soil since I was young. I'm strong and hardworking!" The teenager tried to please him.

"Your age is a bit old, but it's passable." Yang Guanshi covered his nose, seemingly disgusted by the boy's odor, he nodded, "You seem smart enough. You'll do!"

Liu Dabao wiped his tears, knowing he had a chance at survival. Just as he was about to kneel and express his gratitude, someone grabbed his sleeve.

The person holding his sleeve was an old man sitting on the ground, on the verge of death.

"What's wrong, sir? I don't know you," Liu Dabao said, puzzled.

"Young man," the old man tucked his hands in his sleeves, closed his eyes, and exhaled a white breath as he spoke, "This isn't about selling yourself; it's about selling your buttocks. Think carefully. Right now, there are more chances to survive in Songhe Prefecture. Young people should endure some hardships and not take the wrong path."

Before Liu Dabao could respond, Yang Guanshi lost his temper and kicked the old man, shouting, "What's wrong with selling your buttocks? Do you look down on those who sell their buttocks?"

"We can't survive anymore. We didn't say we look down on them; we just want to explain things clearly to the young man. That's the rule," the old man said, lying on the ground, extremely weak, yet not begging for mercy.

"You're looking down on those who sell their buttocks! Come on, beat him!" Yang Guanshi declared, his words filled with contempt. The servants who had followed him stepped forward and kicked the old man, beating him mercilessly.

The surrounding refugees watched with numb expressions, their eyes vacant.

Soon, the old man's breath left him, and his blood flowed into the shattered snow, resembling a ground covered in withered plum blossoms.

In these difficult times, with demons and monsters everywhere, there were still those who clung to the last shreds of their conscience.

(End of Chapter)

Chapter end