Cheng Qian was ten years old, but he seemed older—too tall for his age, yet too small to carry heavy burdens.
As the sun climbed the sky, he dragged bundles of firewood from the courtyard into the house. They were too big for his small frame, so he had to make two trips. Afterward, he wiped away the sweat on his forehead and quietly focused on starting the fire to cook.
There were guests at home these days. His father was busy entertaining them, which meant all the chores—washing dishes, cooking, chopping wood, feeding the fire—were left to Cheng Qian. He ran around like a top, worn out and spinning from one task to another.
He was too short to use the big stove properly, so he fetched a small, wobbly stool from the corner of the room to stand on. The stool's legs were uneven, but he had been using it since he was six. After nearly falling into the cauldron many times and almost becoming stew himself, he'd learned to balance on it like a tightrope walker.
One day, as he stood on the stool pouring water into the pot, his eldest brother came home.
Cheng Dalang, the eldest son, was already fifteen—a tall boy with a tired look and sweat on his brow. He walked silently into the room, glanced around, then gently lifted Cheng Qian off the stool with one hand. He gave his little brother a light push on the back and said, "I'll do it. You go play."
Of course, Cheng Qian didn't just run off. Instead, he squatted by the stove and began pulling the bellows, quietly calling out, "Big Brother."
Dalang didn't say anything. He just looked down at Cheng Qian, his eyes filled with complicated emotions.
The Cheng family had three sons. Cheng Qian was the second, once known simply as "Erlang." But just before the guest arrived, his name—and his life—were about to change.
The guest who came that day was a Taoist priest with a strange air about him. He called himself "Master Mu Chun," but didn't look particularly impressive. He had a sparse goatee, half-closed triangle-shaped eyes, and his thin, pale feet peeked out awkwardly beneath his robes.
The priest had only come by for a drink of water. But then he saw Cheng Qian.
Cheng Qian had just returned from the edge of the village, where an old, stingy tutor taught children. The man wasn't very knowledgeable and only cared about money. He never taught for free and always demanded more silver.
Though the old man wasn't worth much, Cheng Qian was fascinated by books and often climbed a big locust tree near the tutor's yard to eavesdrop on the lessons. Hidden in the branches, he listened to words about "self-cultivation and peace at home" while sweat dripped down his back.
That evening, Cheng Qian was still sweaty when his father made him bring water to the Taoist priest. But the priest didn't take the bowl. Instead, he stretched out a bony hand, lifted Cheng Qian's chin with surprising gentleness, and looked closely at his face.
No one knew what he saw in the boy, but after a moment, he nodded and said seriously, "This child has good potential. He may have a bright future. He's not meant to stay in this small place."
Dalang, who was there at the time, wanted to laugh at the man's nonsense. But before he could speak, he noticed his father actually listening—and suddenly, a sinking feeling settled in his stomach.
Their family was poor. A few years ago, their mother had nearly died giving birth to their youngest brother. Since then, she'd been weak and bedridden. They lacked a strong worker and had another mouth to feed—one who was constantly sick and needed medicine.
This year had been dry—no rain for months. A famine was looming. There just wasn't enough to go around.
Dalang understood what his parents were thinking. He was already apprenticed and would be earning money for the family in another year. The youngest child was still too small. That left Cheng Qian—quiet, obedient, and easy to overlook. To their parents, he was the one they could afford to give up.
If he became successful with the Taoist priest, maybe it would bring the family luck. If he failed... well, it wouldn't make much difference.
So Master Mu Chun and Cheng Qian's father quickly came to an agreement. The priest left behind a piece of silver. That afternoon, they would leave together—money in one hand, a child in the other. Deal done.
Dalang didn't usually feel too close to his second brother. But Cheng Qian had always been sensible, never cried, never made trouble. He worked hard, helped with their sick mother, and never complained. That quiet strength pulled at Dalang's heart.
Still, what could he do? The family had no choice. Dalang wasn't yet a man of means—he couldn't change anything.
Even so... flesh and blood—is it so easy to sell?
The more Dalang thought about it, the more bitter he felt. He wanted to crack that old priest's skull with a ladle. Wouldn't robbing houses be easier than cheating kids?
Cheng Qian understood more than they thought. He wasn't a child genius or a prodigy, but he had a sharp sense of reality.
His father woke up early and worked till dark. His eldest brother worked under the stars. His mother doted only on the younger and eldest sons. No one beat or scolded Cheng Qian—but no one paid him much attention either.
He was sensible. He tried not to be loud or cause trouble. In his own mind, he was a helper, a small laborer—not really a son.
He didn't know what it felt like to be a son.
Kids were supposed to play, make noise, be carefree. But Cheng Qian wasn't like other kids. He was more like a little beast with hidden scars in his heart.
So when he realized his parents had sold him, he wasn't surprised. Strangely, he felt calm, as if he'd always known this day would come.
Before he left, his frail mother called him over. For the first time in years, she gave him something—a small bundle with some old clothes and a few dry cakes. The clothes weren't even his—they were hand-me-downs from his elder brother. The cakes were made by his father the night before.
And then, she reached into her sleeve with trembling hands and took out a single copper coin.
That one tiny coin, old and worn, stirred something in Cheng Qian's cold little heart. Like a wild animal in winter, he twitched his nose and caught a faint scent of maternal warmth.
But before she could hand it over, their father coughed heavily. She froze. And with tears in her eyes, she stuffed the coin back into her sleeve.
4o