The man, embarrassed and angry, slammed the five copper coins he had prepared in advance into the boy's palm, then waved his hand grandly and declared, “The remaining five coins, you can owe me for now!”

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Volume One: The Caged Sparrow

Chapter Three: Sunrise

The town was neither too big nor too small, with over six hundred households. Ethan Brooks recognized most of the doors of the poor families in town, but as for the wealthy ones with solid family backgrounds, their thresholds were high, and a mud-legged boy like him couldn’t step inside. There were some spacious alleys where the big families clustered together—Ethan Brooks had never even set foot there. The streets in those parts were paved with large slabs of bluestone, and on rainy days, you’d never step into a puddle and splash mud everywhere. Those high-quality bluestone slabs, after centuries of being trampled by people, horses, and carts, had long since been polished smooth as a mirror.

The surnames Lu, Li, Zhao, and Song were the big names in this town. The village school was funded by these families, and most of them owned two or three large dragon kilns outside the city. The official residence of the successive kiln supervisors was on the same street as these households.

As luck would have it, the ten letters Ethan Brooks had to deliver today were almost all for the town’s most well-known wealthy families. This made perfect sense—like begets like, as the saying goes, and only those with a good family background could afford to send letters home from afar; otherwise, they wouldn’t have the means to travel in the first place. Of the ten letters, Ethan Brooks actually only went to two places: Fulu Street and Taoye Lane. The first time he stepped onto those bluestone slabs as big as bed boards, the boy felt a bit uneasy, slowed his pace, and even felt a little ashamed, thinking his straw sandals were dirtying the street.

The first letter Ethan Brooks delivered was to the Lu family, whose ancestors had once received an imperial jade ruyi from the emperor. Standing at their door, the boy felt even more nervous and ill at ease.

The wealthy really did things differently. The Lu residence was not only large, but also had two stone lions at the entrance, as tall as a person and imposing in their presence. Jason Smith said these things could ward off evil spirits, but Ethan Brooks had no idea what “evil spirits” even meant. He was just curious about the stone lions’ mouths, which seemed to hold a perfectly round stone ball—how was that even carved? Ethan Brooks resisted the urge to touch the stone ball, walked up the steps, and knocked on the bronze lion’s head at the door. Soon, a young man came out, and upon hearing he was delivering a letter, took the envelope by pinching one corner between two fingers, then turned and quickly walked back into the house, shutting the door—painted with a colorful image of the God of Wealth—firmly behind him.

The rest of the boy’s deliveries were just as uneventful. At the corner of Taoye Lane, there was a family of little renown. The door was opened by a kindly, short old man, who, after taking the letter, smiled and said, “Young man, you’ve worked hard. Would you like to come in, rest a bit, and have some hot water?”

The boy smiled shyly, shook his head, and ran off.

The old man gently tucked the letter into his sleeve, not in a hurry to return to the house. He looked up into the distance, his gaze clouded.

At last, his eyes moved from high to low, from far to near, settling on the peach trees lining the street. The seemingly senile old man finally managed a faint smile.

He turned and left.

Not long after, a cute little yellow sparrow landed on a peach branch, its beak still tender, chirping softly.

The last letter Ethan Brooks had to deliver was for the teacher at the village school. On the way, he passed a fortune-telling stall, manned by a young Taoist in an old, worn robe, sitting upright behind the table. He wore a tall crown on his head, shaped like a blooming lotus flower.

When the young Taoist saw the boy hurrying by, he quickly called out, “Young man, don’t just pass by—come draw a fortune stick! I can tell your fortune and help you foresee good or bad luck.”

Ethan Brooks didn’t stop, but turned his head and waved his hand.

The Taoist, still unwilling to give up, leaned forward and raised his voice, “Young man, usually I charge ten coins for interpreting a fortune stick, but today I’ll make an exception—just three coins for you! Of course, if you draw a very good stick, you can add one more coin as a tip. And if you’re really lucky and draw the best of the best, I’ll only charge you five coins. How about it?”

In the distance, Ethan Brooks’s footsteps clearly paused. The young Taoist quickly got up, seizing the opportunity, and called out loudly, “It’s early in the morning, and you’re my first customer. I’ll be a good person to the end—if you just sit down and draw a stick, to be honest, I can also write some yellow talisman papers for you, to pray for your ancestors and accumulate merit. With my abilities, I can’t guarantee you’ll be reborn into a rich family, but I can at least help you gain a bit more good fortune. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

Ethan Brooks hesitated, then turned back, half-believing, and sat down on the bench in front of the stall.

A plain Taoist and a shabby boy—two penniless souls—sat facing each other.

The Taoist smiled and gestured for the boy to pick up the bamboo tube of fortune sticks.

Ethan Brooks hesitated, then suddenly said, “I don’t want to draw a stick. Can you just write a yellow talisman for me?”

In Ethan Brooks’s memory, this wandering young Taoist had been in the town for at least five or six years, and his appearance hadn’t changed at all. He was always friendly to everyone, usually helping people read their fortune, tell their fortune, or write letters for them. Interestingly, the bamboo tube on his desk, crowded with one hundred and eight fortune sticks, had never produced the very best or the very worst stick in all these years, no matter how many townsfolk drew from it. It was as if all one hundred and eight sticks were middling—none especially good, none especially bad.