The town was neither large nor small, home to just over six hundred households. Chen Ping'an was familiar with the doors of most poor families—he had delivered letters to them for years. As for the wealthier families, their gates were high and imposing, the kind of place a barefoot boy like him couldn't just walk into. Some of the broader lanes where these grand households clustered together, Chen Ping'an had never even set foot in. Over there, the streets were paved with massive slabs of bluish stone. On rainy days, stepping on them wouldn't splash up any mud at all. These stones, of excellent quality, had been worn smooth as mirrors by centuries of trampling by people, carts, and horses.
The Lu, Li, Zhao, and Song families were the four great surnames in town. The local school was funded by them, and they each owned two or three dragon kilns outside the town. The residence of the kiln inspector had been built on the same street as their mansions.
Unfortunately, today's ten letters were almost all addressed to the town's most affluent families. But that made sense—just as dragons give birth to dragons, and phoenixes to phoenixes, those who could afford to send letters from far away were usually from wealthy households. Otherwise, how could they afford to leave home in the first place? Of the ten letters, nine were delivered to just two places: Fulu Street and Taoye Lane. The first time Chen Ping'an stepped onto one of those stone slabs—each as big as a bedboard—he felt nervous. His pace slowed, and he couldn't help but feel ashamed, as if his straw sandals had dirtied the street.
The first letter he delivered was to the Lu family, who had once received an imperial jade ruyi from an emperor. Standing at their gate, Chen Ping'an felt increasingly uneasy.
The Lu household was as grand as expected, with two stone lions standing tall and proud at the entrance. His friend Song Jixin had once said that such lions could ward off evil spirits, though Chen Ping'an didn't know what "evil" meant exactly. He was more curious about the smooth stone ball held in the lion's mouth—how had the sculptor managed that? He resisted the urge to touch it, climbed the steps, and knocked on the brass lion-head knocker. A young man opened the door. When he heard the letter was for the household, he took it between two fingers with a blank expression, turned around, and shut the ornate door—painted with colorful gods of wealth—heavily behind him.
The rest of Chen Ping'an's deliveries went about the same.
Only at the corner of Taoye Lane did he encounter a rare exception. An unassuming household opened its door to reveal a kindly old man, short and smiling. After taking the letter, he said gently, "You've worked hard, young man. Would you like to come in and rest? Have a sip of hot water?"
Chen Ping'an smiled shyly, shook his head, and ran off.
The old man tucked the letter into his sleeve, didn't hurry back inside, but instead looked into the distance. His cloudy eyes followed a long line of sight, slowly falling from far to near, settling on the peach trees lining the street. Despite his seemingly senile appearance, a faint smile crept across his face.
He turned and left.
Not long after, a small yellow sparrow landed on a peach tree branch. Its beak was still soft, and it chirped faintly.
The last letter was for the teacher at the local academy. On the way, Chen Ping'an passed a fortune-telling stall run by a young Daoist priest in old robes. He sat upright behind a wooden table, wearing a tall hat shaped like a blooming lotus flower.
When the priest saw the boy running past, he called out, "Young man! Don't pass by in a hurry. Come draw a fortune stick! I'll read your fate and reveal your blessings or misfortunes."
Chen Ping'an didn't stop, just turned his head and waved.
Undeterred, the Daoist leaned forward and raised his voice. "Usually I charge ten copper coins, but since you're the first customer of the day, I'll make an exception—only three coins! And if you draw a good fortune, just add one coin for luck. If it's the best of the best, five coins in total—what do you say?"
Chen Ping'an hesitated slightly at the sound of this, his footsteps slowing. The Daoist seized the opportunity, standing up and calling loudly, "As the first guest this morning, I'll even throw in a bonus. I'll write a talisman to bless your ancestors and accumulate merit for your family. I can't guarantee wealth and nobility in the next life, but a little more fortune is always worth trying, right?"
Chen Ping'an stopped, unsure. After a moment, he turned back and sat on the bench before the stall.
There they were: a poor Daoist and a poor boy, sitting face-to-face like two beggars.
The Daoist smiled and gestured for him to pick up the fortune-stick container.
Chen Ping'an paused, then suddenly said, "I don't want to draw a fortune. Can you just write me a talisman?"
In his memory, this wandering Daoist had already lived in town for five or six years. His appearance hadn't changed, and he was always kind to everyone. Most days he told fortunes, read palms, or wrote letters. Strangely enough, of the 108 bamboo sticks in his container, no one had ever drawn the very best or the very worst fortune. It was as if every stick only told "moderately good" fortunes.
So during holidays, folks would pay ten coins just for a little good luck. But if someone was truly troubled, they'd avoid this stall. Calling the Daoist a fraud wasn't fair—if he were truly a cheat, he'd have been chased out long ago. In fact, he was known to brew talisman water that cured minor illnesses surprisingly well.
The Daoist shook his head. "A deal's a deal. Five coins for the reading and the talisman together."
"It was three," Chen Ping'an muttered.
The Daoist laughed. "That's if you didn't draw a great fortune. If you do, it's five, right?"
Determined, Chen Ping'an reached for the stick container, then looked up and asked, "Daoist, how did you know I had exactly five coins?"
The Daoist sat up straight. "I can read a person's fate and fortune. I'm very accurate."
Chen Ping'an thought for a moment, then picked up the container.
The Daoist said calmly, "Don't worry. If it's meant to be, it will be. If it's not, don't force it. Face uncertain things with a calm heart—that's the best approach."
Chen Ping'an slowly put the container back down and said solemnly, "I'll give you all five coins. Don't bother with the fortune stick. Just write the best talisman you can."
The Daoist smiled, nodded, and said, "Very well."
He already had brush, ink, and yellow paper ready. After asking for Chen Ping'an's parents' names, birthdates, and birthplace, he quickly wrote out the talisman in a single fluid motion.
As for what it said, Chen Ping'an had no idea.
The Daoist blew gently on the wet ink and said, "When you get home, stand just inside your threshold and burn this outside the door. That's enough."
Chen Ping'an took the talisman carefully, tucked it away like a treasure, and placed the five copper coins on the table before bowing in thanks.
The Daoist waved him off.
Chen Ping'an ran toward his last delivery.
The Daoist leaned back in his chair and glanced at the coins, pulling them toward himself.
Just then, the little yellow sparrow swooped down and pecked at one of the coins. Finding it dull, it flew off again.
"Yellow sparrow seeks the spring bloom,But peach blossoms have yet to open at your gate."
The Daoist recited a line of verse, then sighed dramatically, waving his sleeve and muttering, "Fate grants eight feet, don't ask for ten."
With that wave, two bamboo sticks slipped from his sleeve and clattered to the ground. Startled, he hurried to pick them up, glancing around nervously before stashing them back in his sleeve with relief.
Straightening up, he resumed his solemn posture, waiting for the next customer.
He couldn't help but think—women really were easier to swindle.
The two hidden fortune sticks in his sleeve? One was the very best, the other the absolute worst. Tools for making real money—best not to speak of it.
Chen Ping'an, of course, knew none of this. His steps light, he soon arrived at the schoolhouse surrounded by dense bamboo and thick green leaves.
He slowed his pace as a deep, steady voice echoed from within."The sun rises bright, the lambskin cloak is soaked."
A chorus of clear, youthful voices repeated,"The sun rises bright, the lambskin cloak is soaked."
Looking up, Chen Ping'an saw the sun rise over the distant hills, golden and vast.
He stood still, transfixed.
When he returned to himself, the students were swaying as they recited the next passage:"As spring awakens the earth, all life begins to flourish. Rise early, walk slowly through the courtyard. A gentleman walks with purpose, so that his will may grow…"
Chen Ping'an stood at the door, hesitant to interrupt.
The gray-templed scholar glanced over and stepped outside.
Chen Ping'an respectfully handed over the letter. "This is for you, sir."
The tall man in green robes took it and smiled warmly. "You're welcome to listen in whenever you're free."
Chen Ping'an looked troubled. He didn't want to lie—he likely wouldn't have time to come.
The man understood and smiled again. "No matter. All reason is in books, but being a person is learned outside of them. Go on now."
Chen Ping'an breathed a sigh of relief, bowed, and left.
Far down the path, he couldn't help but turn back.
The teacher still stood in the doorway, bathed in golden light—distant and radiant, like an immortal.