In Apricot Blossom Alley stood a water well known as the Iron Chain Well. A heavy iron chain, as thick as a robust young man's arm, hung year after year, suspended deep within the well's mouth. When the chain was first placed, who wrought such a peculiar, pointless task—long ago, no one could recall. Even the town's eldest residents could not recount the tale with certainty.
Legend spoke of a curious townsman who once sought to measure the chain's length, heedless of the elders' warnings. According to an age-old admonition, passed down orally for generations: "For every foot the iron chain is pulled from the well, one's lifespan shortens by a year." The man, however, dismissed this as mere superstition. After fervently tugging at the chain for the duration of a single incense stick, he managed to draw out a seemingly endless length of iron links. Exhausted, he abandoned his effort, leaving the chains coiled beside the well's pulley, promising to return the next day—yet stubbornly refusing to heed the superstition.
That very evening, upon returning home, the man suddenly began bleeding from all seven orifices, collapsing lifelessly on his bed, eyes wide open in restless death. No matter how much his family struggled, the corpse's eyes refused to close. Finally, an elder, whose ancestors had dwelled near the well for generations, instructed the family to carry the body to the well's edge. Watching intently, the elder replaced the iron chain back into the well. Only when the entire length was restored, straight and submerged in the deep water, did the man's eyes gently close.
An old man and a child slowly approached the Iron Chain Well. The child, still with two dribbles of mucus dangling from his nostrils, spoke clearly and methodically about the tale—far beyond a rustic child barely a semester into his schooling. The boy lifted his head, his large eyes like two glistening black grapes. With a subtle sniff, the little nose snakes retreated. Looking up at the storyteller holding a large white bowl, he pouted, "I've finished my tale. Now you should show me what's inside your bowl."
The old man chuckled, "Patience, patience. When we sit by the well, I'll show you plenty."
With a mischievous grin, the boy warned, "No backing out. If you do, may misfortune befall you—fall headfirst into the Iron Chain Well the moment we reach it. I won't retrieve your body. Or perhaps a sudden thunderbolt will scorch you to charcoal, and then I'll take a stone to chip you to bits."
The old man winced at the relentless torrent of curses, sighing, "I promise I'll show you. By the way, who taught you all this?"
"Mother," the boy replied with certainty.
The old man sighed admiringly, "Truly a child born of this blessed land, blessed by nature's spirit."
Suddenly, the boy frowned, "Are you insulting people? I know some say good things sarcastically—like Song Jixin!"
The old man hurriedly denied it and changed the subject. "Do strange things happen often in this town?"
The boy nodded solemnly. The man pressed, "Tell me more."
The boy pointed at the man, deadpan, "Like you, holding that white bowl but refusing to let anyone put coins inside. Before you finished the story, my mother said you spoke well—mysteriously, like a trickster used to deceit—so she told me to offer you some money, but you refused. So, what's really in your bowl?"
The man smiled wryly. It turned out that the storyteller who had recited the tale beneath the old locust tree had sent the boy to see the water well in Apricot Blossom Alley. Initially reluctant, the boy was enticed when the man hinted that the white bowl contained something extraordinary. Though lively and restless, often scolded by his parents as a mischievous child, he had the patience to wait under the sun for half an hour to catch an eel or a loach with Liu Xianyang's gang of ruffians.
So when the old man hinted at the bowl's mysterious contents, the boy bit eagerly. Even when the man bizarrely proposed to test the bowl's weight by lifting him—wondering if he weighed forty jin—the boy agreed without hesitation. After all, a few lifts wouldn't hurt.
But what frustrated the boy was that the man, supporting the bowl with his left palm, strained with his right hand to lift him five or six times—and failed every time. The boy glanced at the man's slender limbs and shook his head, thinking that poor Chen Ping'an, the penniless lad, had far greater strength.
Though eager to glimpse inside the bowl, the boy restrained himself from mocking the old man, knowing well that in these alleys—Mudpots and Apricot Blossom—he ranked third in quarrels and sarcastic insults, second only to the scholar Song Jixin, and first to his own mother.
At the well, the man did not sit upon its ancient brick mouth. His breath grew heavy. The boy hopped backwards and perched carelessly on the well's edge, causing the man to break out in cold sweat—one misstep, and the child would plunge into the abyss below, where recovery of a body would be nearly impossible.
The man took a few measured steps forward, squinting to inspect the iron chain, knotted and secured at the pulley's base. "A place of potent feng shui, the finest in this region," he mused, "Who shall inherit this heavy burden, I wonder?"
He extended his free left hand, staring at his palm's intricate lines. Amidst the weathered creases, a new fissure slowly spread like the crack of shattered porcelain. A sage might read the fate of mountains and rivers here, yet this man only observed himself.
Frowning, he exclaimed, "In just half a day, such desolation—what fate awaits those few?"
The boy, perched atop the well, hands on hips, pointed at the man and demanded, "Will you show me the white bowl or not?"
The man relented, "Come down quickly, and I'll show you."
Skeptical, the boy finally leapt down. The man hesitated briefly, solemn, "Child, fate has bound us. I may reveal the bowl's secret, but you must never speak of it—not to strangers, not even to your mother. If you can promise that, you shall see; if not, even if you mock me, I will show you nothing."
The boy blinked, "Begin then."
The man solemnly approached the well, noting the boy now seated cross-legged at the edge. Regretting his choice of companion, the man gathered his thoughts, facing the well. His fingers grasped the bowl's base, palm tilting imperceptibly.
The boy waited, nose dripping, patience waning. Suddenly, a slender stream of water poured silently from the bowl into the well's depths.
The boy bared his teeth, about to curse, but stilled, astonished. Moments later, his shock gave way to confusion, then dread. Abruptly, he sprang from the well and fled home, convinced he had seen a ghost.
For though the man had poured what seemed a bucket's worth, water continued endlessly to flow from the white bowl.
Nearby, Liu Xianyang casually broke a sprouting branch, twirling it like a sword, spinning wildly like a rolling wheel, heedless of his new boots stirring up dust. The tall youth strode south out of town, passing the bridge built by Lord Song's patronage, then a few miles farther to the smithy run by the Ruan family.
Though prideful and arrogant, Liu Xianyang was humbled by Master Ruan's single declaration: "We are here solely to forge swords."
The prospect of wielding a true sword thrilled Liu Xianyang, who dropped his branch and ran, shouting wildly.
He began practicing the secret fist forms Master Ruan taught, fierce and spirited.
As the youth neared the bridge's northern end, four figures sat on the steps: a voluptuous woman cradling a boy clad in a scarlet robe, the boy raising his chin like a triumphant general; a tall, frosted-haired elder comforting a sulking little girl, whose delicate skin shone translucently beneath the sun, veins visible beneath porcelain-like flesh.
The children had just quarreled—the girl nearly in tears, the boy exultant. The majestic elder paid no heed to apologetic glances from the woman.
At the foot of the steps stood Lu Zhengchun, heir apparent to the Lu family, known for its dragon kiln—a name and force unmatched in town, and the most prolific family sending branches beyond.
Yet, once powerful and imposing, Lu Zhengchun now looked pale, tense, as if awaiting ruin at any moment.
The boy spoke in a tongue unfamiliar to townsfolk: "Mother, that Liu boy's ancestors truly were that great…"
The woman swiftly silenced him, "How many times has your father warned you—not to name names openly?"
The boy pushed her hand away, eyes blazing, whispering, "Is it true their family passed down the treasured armor and sword manual?"
The woman stroked her son's head, tenderly, "The Lu family guarantees half the genealogy, and those relics remain with that youth's family."
The boy whimpered, "Mother, can we trade our relics with the Bai family? The armor we've plotted over is hideous. Imagine if we had that sword manual—we could dream of beheading with flying swords, unseen by gods or ghosts..."