Chapter Forty-Eight: The Veteran

There were many beggars in the city, so many that Liu Chengzong had long since grown accustomed to their presence; seeing a beggar in Fushi City was like not seeing one at all. Yet this beggar was different. He wore a double-breasted mandarin jacket, and even though the black side was turned outwards, covered in filth, and he mingled among the beggars only to be chased away by the inn’s errand boy, Liu Chengzong could still recognize it as a cavalryman’s uniform.

The jacket was red on the outside and black within, narrow-sleeved above and reaching the knees below—the most basic soldier’s attire of the Ming era. Military uniforms had four types of collars: crossed, coiled, round, or square; and two types of closures: broad and double-breasted. Infantry wore broad closures, while cavalry wore double-breasted ones for the ease of riding.

This attire caught Liu Chengzong’s attention just as he was receiving thick wine from Cao Yao at the tavern. Four horses were tethered outside, and he worried they might be stolen, so he took his jug and wooden cup, sat on the railing of the stable, and drank while observing.

That man stood among the beggars, seeming both excluded and unwilling to blend in, lingering at the edge, neither coming nor going. His face was gaunt, his hair a tangled mass, his eyes half-lidded with a fierce glint—a man beyond his prime, perhaps over forty. When the errand boy from the tavern struck and chased him, he did not retaliate but merely dodged and squatted in the sunlight by the wall, staring unblinkingly at the boy. After a long while, he stood once more.

Liu Chengzong followed his gaze and saw a group of merchant-looking men emerging from the inn across the street. The man joined the other beggars in seeking alms.

In times of scarcity, the price of charity grew ever higher. In disaster years, when the poor were many, one could save an individual but not a multitude. In such times, everyone struggled; few genuinely believed in helping others.

The two merchants and their attendants walked from the inn, and before they had taken two steps, a swarm of beggars surrounded them. Each held their nose and recoiled, the attendants hurried to drive the beggars back, then, with faces of disdain, scattered a handful of copper coins.

The beggars scrambled to snatch them up. The man tried to force his way forward but was no match for the beggars’ unity; he was shoved to the ground, and when he rose, covered in dust, he had managed to keep only two coins. He carefully blew them clean and tucked them into his chest.

“What are you staring at, brother? Why not go inside?”

Liu Chengzong snapped out of his reverie at Chengyun’s words. He smiled at his cousin, patted him on the shoulder, and said, “Go buy some dry food from the shop, I’ll need it.”

Chengyun didn’t know what his second brother was up to, but nodded and quickly went into the inn across the street. Soon, he returned carrying a parcel of steamed cakes. “Brother, the shop only had these cakes left—they’re a bit cold. Should I have them warmed over the fire?”

Liu Chengzong waved him off. “No need. Bring me some small change as well.”

He took the parcel, secured five coins’ worth of silver, split it into two in his pouch, and approached the man.

“Were you a soldier?”

The man, uncertain of Liu Chengzong’s intent, shrank back, bowed slightly, nodded, and smiled apologetically. “Sir, I once served as a soldier.”

As he bowed, Liu Chengzong noticed a hole in his right ear amid the tangled hair—further proof of his military past. It was a mark of punishment in the army: the earlobe pierced by an arrow, typically for drunken brawling or damaging civilians’ fields—reserved for only the strictest commanders. It was called “threading the ear and parading the camp.”

“Where did you serve? How did you become a beggar?”

“A beggar? I’m not a beggar.”

He said this with unwavering seriousness, though he seemed embarrassed after, lowering his voice: “Just picked up a couple of coins. I work as a porter at Shunyang Gate, but haven’t found work in days. All the jobs are for cart-pullers, and they won’t let me do it. So I came to the city to scavenge what I could.”

Hearing this, and recalling the man’s behavior, Liu Chengzong understood. No wonder the beggars excluded him. It wasn’t that they shunned him, but rather, he was competing for their hard-earned spoils.

He hadn’t bowed to others, nor kowtowed; he simply snatched money thrown to the ground.

“Why won’t they let you pull carts?”

The man raised his left hand and forced a smile—a hand filthy and missing its thumb, making even the simplest gesture unsettling. “Actually, I can manage, but they think I can’t.”

“Did you ever fight the northern invaders?”

The man lowered his head and smiled, saying nothing more. Seeing his reluctance, Liu Chengzong didn’t press. He handed over the parcel of cakes and the five coins. “Fate brings us together, and we’ve both worn the uniform. Take this and live well.”

The gesture stunned the man. After a moment, he came to himself, hurriedly thanked him, and asked, “Sir, which camp do you command?”

“I’m not an officer—just wearing an old armor.”

Noticing Cao Yao and Lu Bin leaving the tavern, joining Chengyun at the inn door, Liu Chengzong cupped his fists. “I’m Liu Chengzong from Beixiang, Black Dragon Mountain militia. Farewell.”

As he crossed to the inn, Cao Yao sneered, “Little Lion, you’re too soft-hearted. He was a soldier; you gave him food, but you can’t save him forever. If you really wanted to help, you should have given him a knife.”

Cao Yao’s mind was never quite like other people’s, and Liu Chengzong laughed. “You just wish for chaos. Why give him a knife? He wants to live a peaceful life. He couldn’t get work in the south of the city, so he begged. If I gave him a knife, should he go around with it, kowtowing to people for alms like Guo Zhashi?”

To Liu Chengzong, helping that old soldier had nothing to do with the man himself—it was about seeing his own reflection in him. As for Cao Yao’s bandit logic, he simply ignored it.

Entering the inn, the attendant led them through the back courtyard to a room Chengyun had reserved early. Fushi County was a mountain city; the inn’s guest rooms were not upstairs or in the main house, but through a yard beside the warehouse, into a kiln cave. Outside, enough firewood was stacked on the slope to last half a year.

The mouth of the kiln cave was tall, the interior deep, with a roof reinforced by thick logs. One side held a wide kang bed, planked and topped with thin mattresses. Other than that, there was only a water bucket on a stool behind the door.

“This room’s really just for sleeping,” Cao Yao chuckled, tapping here and there before settling cross-legged on the kang. “Nothing but a bed!”

“Having a room at all is a blessing. Strange—you’ve camped in mountain temples for years, yet you’re picky about sleeping arrangements?”

Cao Yao pouted. “So what if I’ve dug pits and rolled in mud? Am I not allowed to want a good life?”

“Fine, fine, live well. When we get back, stay in the cave behind my house with my sister-in-law and enjoy a few good days. I’ll go roll in the fields at the old temple manor…” Liu Chengzong grinned mischievously, sitting at the edge of the kang, then frowned and waved a hand. “Where’s Chengyun? I still need him to calculate how much grain twenty-four refugee households will need—where’s he gone?”

He hadn’t noticed. But Cao Yao, guessing why, leaned in and said, “I really should watch my mouth. He probably heard me and went to chat with the innkeeper to avoid trouble.”