I stood up, facing the sky, and cursed a string of profanities, waving my arms angrily. I tightened my belt and began to fantasize with bitter resentment.

First, I wanted to rob someone, go to Drunken Wind Tavern and have a big bowl of shark fin soup. Next, I wanted to kill someone—the gang leader Frank Smith in Luoyang had slapped me a few times before, and I wanted revenge! Besides, I was still a virgin. Every morning when I woke up, my pants were often soaked. I wanted to make up for this regret. Yichun Brothel was nice, and Yihong House would do in a pinch—the girls there had pretty tender skin.

I was dying soon, but I wanted to get back what I was owed! I could almost see Frank Smith kneeling at my feet, sobbing and begging for mercy, and also the courtesan of Yichun Brothel, wearing a mandarin duck bellyband, her skin white and soft, caressing me while laughing seductively.

Thinking about this, I leaned against the riverbank and fell asleep.

All night, I was plagued by nightmares.

The next day, I woke up in a daze, and as usual, hurried to Lion Bridge in the city center. Every morning, some rich man would hand out porridge there. Even though the porridge was so thin you could see your reflection in it, the line of beggars was always long.

When my father was alive, he refused to drink relief porridge, saying a gentleman does not eat food given with a sigh. In the end, he starved to death, cold and hungry. Heh, my father, who wouldn’t bow for five pecks of rice—if he knew what I’d become, he’d probably be furious.

After selling the thatched hut to buy my father a coffin for a proper burial, I was left with nothing.

Standing at the head of Lion Bridge, I looked at the scrambling, sallow-faced beggars and found it a little funny, but also a little sad.

I knew I was one of them.

We were like wild dogs, fighting over bones with no meat.

Luoyang was a prosperous, beautiful city, but it had never belonged to us.

“Second Brother, you’re here too! Where did you go yesterday? Big Brother saved your share of the money for you.” Grace Thompson protected his cracked porcelain bowl with both hands, squeezed out of the crowd with difficulty, and looked up at me, slurping the porridge noisily.

I looked at him and said nothing.

Grace Thompson wiped his mouth and dragged a long string of snot. “Aren’t you going to get your porridge? If you’re any later, there won’t be any left.” With that, he squeezed back toward the big iron pot.

“I’m not drinking porridge! I want to eat meat!” I shouted, then turned and ran.

Before I die, I refuse to live like a wild dog any longer!

Very soon, I found a rusty hatchet, grabbed it, and picked out a fat, silk-clad fellow on the street. I quietly followed him, planning to rob him in a secluded spot.

I hadn’t gone far before he noticed me.

“You little punk, what are you following me for?” He turned around and slapped me, making stars spin before my eyes, and my hatchet went flying.

Damn it! I was too weak—robbery was out of the question, let alone killing the burly Frank Smith. Forget it, Frank Smith, I’ll let you off the hook out of pity.

Since I couldn’t rob anyone, I swaggered straight to Drunken Wind Tavern, planning to dine and dash. As soon as I stepped in the door, the waiter kicked me out.

“There’s no leftovers here!” he snarled, then turned around, smiling obsequiously and bowing to usher a richly dressed guest inside.

I stood in the middle of the street, on the verge of tears. Damn it! Are you really not going to let me enjoy myself even once before I die?

A luxurious carriage slowly passed by me.

“Huh?” The carriage suddenly stopped. The thick velvet curtain was pulled aside, and someone inside the dim compartment gave me a deep look.

The sun was scorching, but I couldn’t help shivering. Those were strange, demonic eyes—sinister, cold, with dark red pupils, as if they could devour a person.

“How old are you this year?” the person suddenly asked, his voice hissing like a rattlesnake.

“Sixteen.” I answered softly. I hadn’t wanted to tell him, but I was a little scared. Bullying the weak and fearing the strong—that was my survival rule.

“What’s your birth date and time?” he pressed. When he heard my answer, his pupils suddenly lit up, shooting out a strange red light.

I sensed something was wrong and wanted to slip away, but then I thought, what does a dying man have to fear? I straightened my back and met his gaze.

Today, I’m not afraid of anything!

“You’re about to die, you know that?” he said coldly. “Your brow is dark, the lines of misfortune run straight between your eyebrows—great calamity!”

It was like a club to the head—I nearly fainted. This guy could actually see it too. I really was doomed!

I stammered, “Can… can you… save me? Is there a way?”

“Get in.” He pushed open the carriage door. The wrinkles on his face spread out like a strange chrysanthemum blooming at me.

Inside, the carriage was pitch dark. It slowly moved forward, but I couldn’t figure out how it was being driven with no coachman.

It seemed this person really had some supernatural skills.

“You can call me George Smith.”

“George Smith?”

What a strange name—not like us Han people. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. George Smith was very old—so old I couldn’t tell his age—but his hair was jet black and shiny, hanging down to cover both cheeks.

He didn’t look like a barbarian, or rather, he didn’t look like a human at all.

The sound of the wheels rolling was monotonous and dull.