The town was neither too large nor too small, home to over six hundred households. Chen Ping'an was familiar with most of the doors belonging to the town's impoverished families. As for the wealthy and well-established ones, their thresholds stood high and imposing—no mud-clad youth could easily cross into those grand alleys where affluent clans gathered. The streets there were paved with large slabs of bluestone, which, on rainy days, prevented any splash of mud beneath one's feet. These exquisite bluestone slabs, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps and passing carriages, gleamed like polished mirrors. Among the prominent surnames on this side of town were Lu, Li, Zhao, and Song. The local village school was funded by these families, who also owned two or three large dragon kilns outside the city. The residences of the kiln supervisors all stood along the same street as these households.
By coincidence, the ten letters Chen Ping'an was to deliver today were almost all addressed to the town's renowned affluent families. This was only natural—dragons beget dragons, phoenixes beget phoenixes, and mice bore their young in holes. A distant wanderer capable of sending letters home surely hailed from a respectable lineage; otherwise, they would lack the confidence to journey far. In fact, nine of these letters were destined for just two locations: Fulu Street and Taoye Lane.
When the boy first stepped onto the broad bluestone slabs, his heart fluttered uneasily, and he slowed his pace, feeling unworthy, as if his humble straw sandals sullied the immaculate street. The first letter he delivered belonged to the Lu family, whose ancestors had once been granted an imperial jade ruyi scepter by the emperor. Standing at the gate, Chen Ping'an felt increasingly awkward. Wealthy households paid meticulous attention to detail—the Lu estate was vast, flanked at the entrance by two towering stone lions that exuded a commanding presence. Song Jixin claimed these guardians warded off misfortune and evil spirits, though Chen Ping'an barely understood the concept of evil. He was simply fascinated by the round stone balls held in the mouths of these statues—how were they carved so flawlessly?
Suppressing the urge to touch one of the stone spheres, Chen Ping'an ascended the steps and rapped on the bronze lion-shaped door knocker. A young man soon opened the door; upon hearing the purpose was to deliver a letter, his face remained expressionless. He took the envelope delicately by a corner, then swiftly retreated inside, shutting the grand door adorned with a painted image of the God of Wealth with a resounding thud.
The rest of Chen Ping'an's deliveries followed a similarly uneventful pattern. At the corner of Taoye Lane stood a modest household, where a kindly, diminutive elder greeted him. After receiving the letter, the old man smiled warmly and offered, "Young lad, thank you for your efforts. Would you like to come in and rest, have some warm water?" The boy shyly smiled and declined, then hurried away. The elder gently tucked the letter into his sleeve, then gazed distantly, his eyes clouded with haze. His gaze drifted downward to the peach trees lining the street, and despite his frailty, a faint smile emerged. Turning away, the old man departed. Not long after, a small, charming yellow bird alighted upon a peach branch, softly chirping with its tender beak.
The last letter was destined for the village schoolmaster. On the way, Chen Ping'an passed a fortune-teller's stall, where a young Daoist priest in worn robes sat upright behind the table. His head was adorned with a tall crown resembling a blooming lotus. Seeing the boy approach quickly, the Daoist called out, "Young man, don't pass by! Draw a fortune slip—let me divine your fate and foresee your blessings or calamities."
Chen Ping'an did not stop, but glanced back and waved his hand. The Daoist persisted, leaning forward and raising his voice, "Young man, usually I charge ten coins per reading, but today I'll make an exception—only three coins for you! And if you draw the top fortune slip, you might consider giving an extra coin as a token of gratitude. If luck is truly with you, I'll only ask for five coins—how about that?"
Chen Ping'an's steps faltered. The Daoist stood quickly, seizing the moment to speak louder, "You're my first customer this morning, young man. I'll be kind—just sit down and draw a slip. Honestly, I can also write a yellow talisman to pray for your ancestors and accumulate virtue. I can't promise you'll be born into great wealth and honor, but gaining a bit more fortune is worth a try."
Startled, Chen Ping'an hesitated, then turned and sat on the bench before the stall. A simple Daoist and a humble youth—two impoverished souls facing each other. The Daoist smiled, gesturing for the boy to take the bamboo slip container. Chen Ping'an hesitated, then said, "I won't draw a slip. Can you just write me a yellow talisman?"
In Chen Ping'an's memory, this traveling Daoist had been in town at least five or six years, unchanged in demeanor and always courteous. He helped people read bones, cast fortunes, and occasionally wrote letters for them. The bamboo container held 108 slips, and over the years, no one had ever drawn the best or worst slip—it seemed all were moderately favorable. On festivals, townsfolk would pay ten coins for a good omen, but no one came here with serious troubles for fear of wasting money. The Daoist was hardly a complete charlatan; if he only knew trickery, he'd have been driven out long ago. His true power lay not in divination, but in healing—many ailments and minor misfortunes eased quickly after drinking his talisman water.
The Daoist shook his head, "I charge five coins for the reading and talisman together."
Chen Ping'an whispered, "But you said three coins."
The Daoist laughed, "If you draw the top slip, it's five coins, isn't it?"
Resolved, Chen Ping'an reached for the slip container, then asked, "How did you know I had exactly five coins?"
The Daoist sat up straight, "I can see a person's fortune and wealth—always accurate."
After some thought, Chen Ping'an took the container. The Daoist smiled, "Young man, don't be nervous. What's meant to be will be; what's not, won't. Accept fate with equanimity—that is the greatest wisdom."
Putting the container back on the table, Chen Ping'an looked serious. "Daoist, I'll give you all five coins, but won't draw a slip. Just please make the talisman better than usual, alright?"
The Daoist smiled thoughtfully and nodded. Ink, brush, and paper were ready; after carefully asking for Chen Ping'an's parents' names, birthplaces, and birthdays, he swiftly completed the talisman in one smooth motion. What was written, Chen Ping'an could not fathom. The Daoist blew on the ink, "At home, stand inside your doorway and burn this talisman outside on the threshold."
The boy received it solemnly, carefully treasured the talisman, and placed five copper coins on the table, bowing respectfully. The Daoist waved him away to attend to his tasks. Chen Ping'an sped off to deliver the final letter.
Leaning lazily in his chair, the Daoist glanced at the coins, scooped them close, when a small, delicate yellow bird swooped onto the table, pecked at one coin, then lost interest and flew away.
"The yellow bird meant to bring flowers, but your peach blossoms have yet to bloom," the Daoist murmured, reciting a line of poetry. He swept his sleeve with feigned nonchalance and sighed, "Fate grants eight feet, don't ask for a yard."
Two bamboo slips slipped from his sleeve and fell. The Daoist exclaimed, hastily picked them up, glanced around furtively, and, seeing no one noticed, tucked them back into his wide sleeve. Clearing his throat, he resumed his wait for the next visitor, musing how it was always easier to make money from women. The two slips concealed in his sleeve were the very best and worst fortunes—his secret to big earnings.
Unaware of such intricacies, Chen Ping'an moved lightly toward the village schoolhouse, surrounded by verdant bamboo groves dripping with green vitality. He slowed his steps as the rich voice of a middle-aged scholar echoed inside, "The sun rises with brilliance; the lamb's robe glistens with dew."
Soon, clear, youthful voices followed in unison, "The sun rises with brilliance; the lamb's robe glistens with dew."
Chen Ping'an looked up at the rising sun, radiant and majestic. Lost in thought, he watched the young pupils nodding rhythmically as they recited under their teacher's guidance:
"At the time of the awakening of insects, heaven and earth revive, all things begin to flourish. Rest early and rise soon, walk broadly in the courtyard, a gentleman walks slowly to nurture his spirit…"
Standing at the schoolhouse entrance, Chen Ping'an hesitated. The middle-aged scholar, his temples touched with gray, turned and stepped lightly outside. Chen Ping'an respectfully handed over the letters, saying, "These are your letters, sir."
The tall man in a flowing azure robe accepted the envelopes with a warm voice, "Come listen in here when you have free time."
Chen Ping'an felt uneasy—he wasn't sure he'd truly have the time to attend. He did not wish to deceive the scholar.
The man smiled understandingly, "It's alright. Wisdom lies in books, but living well lies beyond them. Now go on with your business."
Relieved, Chen Ping'an bowed and departed. After running far, an inexplicable urge made him glance back. The scholar still stood at the doorway, bathed in sunlight, his figure distant and ethereal—like a deity among men.