Chapter 17: A Bountiful Harvest

The rice plants stood tall with their heads held high, exuding pride. Through the plump, golden grains, one could glimpse faces glowing with the joy of a bountiful harvest. The sheaves piled into mountains, and the wind swept through, turning the fields into waves. Luo Gan was now adept at reaping, working in seamless tandem with Er Hu, their efforts lively and spirited. Uncle De and Farmer Jia, among others, toiled in their own rows a few lines away.

The air was thick with the fragrance of rice, a heady scent that seemed to tie together all hopes for a good winter ahead. The scarecrow stood silently at its post, fulfilling its final duty of the year.

Two of the minor underlings, A and B, followed into the fields to work. They bent their backs and stooped side by side, but their expressions were worlds apart.

Farmer Jia, working nearest to Underling A, came over to strike up a conversation.

“You, you… you look like you haven’t eaten your fill—why do you look so downcast?”

Underling A didn’t even lift his head, squatting as he fiddled with the rice roots. “What’s there to do? It’s like being sold into servitude.”

Beside him, the quick-handed A Dao scoffed coldly, “With your scrawny frame, you wouldn’t fetch much even if you were sold.”

Underling A leapt up, squaring off with the sturdy A Dao. “With this body? I can’t get by a night without at least ten hibiscus flowers.”

Farmer Jia burst out laughing. “Hibiscus, is it? I think it’s more like withered lotuses!”

The farmers around them roared with laughter, and even Uncle De let out a dry chuckle.

Uncle De’s tone grew meaningful. “Ah, youth… hibiscus and lotuses, you say?”

Underling A replied, “Withered lotuses? You lot have never seen chrysanthemums or peonies; there’s no point in explaining.”

Uncle De gave Underling A a light cuff on the ear. “Whatever flower you think you are—hibiscus, chrysanthemum, or whatnot—you’re still not as valuable as this rice. Grown from the earth, it fills our bellies. Only things grounded in the land are truly worthwhile.”

Hearing this, Underling A fell silent, with nothing more to say. Underling B, in contrast, worked swiftly and diligently, with earnest devotion.

Uncle De then asked, “By the way, I haven’t yet asked where you two are from?”

Underling A replied, “We do business for our master.”

Underling B added, “We ran into some trouble on the road. Thankfully, Er Hu and Brother Luo Gan helped us, so we can rest here.”

As he spoke, Underling B bumped into A Dao, who was busy working, and looked up at the tall man.

A Dao’s hair was unkempt, sweat streaming down his bronzed chest. The coarse brown tunic he wore barely contained his frame; a simple belt was tied at his waist, and a pair of straw sandals, thick with calluses, protected his feet. Up close, his strong body carried an odor that was less than pleasant.

A Dao remarked, “Looking at you, anyone could tell there’s risk in doing business.”

Underling B replied, “At best, you lose everything you own.”

Underling A added, “At worst, your family is ruined and your life is lost.”

Uncle De said, “That’s why I always say honest labor is the way. When the year’s crops are in, you can finally rest easy.”

A Dao muttered, “But the children born here will never compare to those in the city. No matter how many generations we work, we’ll never catch up.”

Uncle De could only sigh. A Dao was a solid man, but his thoughts always drifted toward the city, as if it held another world. Uncle De disagreed; the city wasn’t another world, but rather another kind of prison.

Uncle De said, “Each person with a plot of land, tending a corner of earth, raising sons for generations, passing on the family line, living in peace—that’s worth more than all the gold in the world. That’s what life is meant to be.”

Underlings A and B gradually blended in, working peacefully alongside the others. The hills and fields gleamed gold, a harvest so bountiful it charmed the eye. Time belonged to the villagers; when dusk fell, they stopped work, because if another farmer finished sooner and took over your land, there’d be no end of trouble.

Luo Gan and Er Hu worked together off to the side, quietly exchanging words.

Er Hu said, “I don’t think those three are any good.”

Luo Gan replied, “Bad tempers, and their backgrounds are suspicious too.”

“Exactly!” Er Hu said. “I bet they’re some kind of bandits. Luo, are you getting soft? Why let them stay at your house?”

Luo Gan said, “They’re definitely odd. What kind of servant calls his own master ‘sir’ when doing business?”

Er Hu made a fist and struck his palm, realization dawning. “No wonder! That’s what’s strange.”

Luo Gan said, “Let’s wait and see.”

The scene was peaceful; the clues remained at five percent. Luo Gan pondered how to extract more information, but no opportunity had presented itself.

Night fell, and bonfires were lit. The air was filled with clamor and excitement. After every harvest, the entire village gathered for the famed “Anping Harvest Festival.”

Uncle De, respected and elderly, served as the festival’s officiant. Clad in earth-toned linen, with a wreath of wheat atop his head and the season’s first sheaf of rice cradled in his arms as if it were pure gold, he led the procession. People lined the path, celebrating boisterously, the scent of rice filling the air and intoxicating everyone in the festive atmosphere.

He led A Dao, Farmer Jia, Er Hu, and Luo Gan, all draped in yellow linen and shod in straw sandals. The four carried a large roast pig, fragrant and inviting. On either side, farmers beat drums and gongs, whipping up the crowd’s excitement.

Uncle De reached the stage, where an altar was set with fruits, vegetables, and a statue of the ancestor of agriculture, all arranged with care. Solemnly, he laid the sheaf of rice upon the altar, pressed his palms together, and prayed, murmuring words of blessing.

The whole village reveled in the festival’s joy, hoping for another year of abundance and peace.

Wandering through the festivities, Magistrate Wang’s gaze was fixed on the flickering bonfire, entranced. Underling B stood by his side, faithfully attending him, while Underling A had vanished in search of wine and had yet to return.

Magistrate Wang said, “How wonderful. Like the fire—if you’re unafraid of death, you must let yourself blaze.”

Tears welled up in Underling B’s eyes, understanding the meaning behind his master’s words. He immediately knelt.

“Your humble servant awaits your triumphant return, sir!”

The flames gradually died down, leaving only blackened embers.

Magistrate Wang shook his head with a sigh. “Decades of war and glory, all of it turns to ashes in the end. You come with nothing, and you leave with nothing.”

With that, he grew melancholy, and the two slipped away from the celebration, feeling their way home.

Luo Gan and Er Hu had both drunk their fill, tipsy and dazed.

Luo Gan slurred, “You, Er Hu, you’re not bad—just thick-headed.”

Er Hu retorted, “And you, Luo, you’re no better—just a bit reckless.”

They burst out laughing, clinking cups for another round before collapsing by the bulletin board, dead drunk.

An official hurried over, carrying a notice. Luo Gan, deep in his cups, had no idea someone was standing right beside him. The official, seeing Luo Gan sprawled across the board, unable to post the notice, patted his flushed face. Luo Gan muttered drunken nonsense, but the official, pressed for time, quickly moved Luo Gan aside and pinned up the wanted notice.

Not long after, A Dao and Farmer Jia, both a little tipsy, passed the bulletin board and found Luo Gan and Er Hu sprawled there, laughing at their poor capacity for drink.

A Dao looked up and spotted a new wanted poster: three fugitives, including Wang Jun’kuo, former Commandant of Youzhou, and several household servants. Wang Jun’kuo, it was said, had a face as red as dates, a magnificent beard cascading to his chest, recalling the heroic visage of the great Lord Guan—clearly no ordinary man.

But why did this face seem so familiar? A Dao thought hard… and suddenly it all made sense.