The second day of the second lunar month—the Dragon raises its head.
At dusk, in a secluded part of a small town called Mud Bottle Alley, a thin, lonely boy named Chen Ping'an was following an old custom. In one hand he held a candle, in the other a peach branch, using its flickering light to inspect the beams, walls, and wooden bed, tapping here and there with the peach wood to drive away snakes, scorpions, centipedes, and other pests. As he moved, he chanted an old rhyme passed down through generations in the town:
"On the second day of the second month,Shine the candle on the beams,Strike the walls with the peach branch,So that all the earthly vermin have nowhere to hide."
Chen Ping'an, an orphan since childhood, came from this town famous for its porcelain. Ever since the founding of the current dynasty, the town had been tasked with firing ritual vessels for the imperial ancestral tombs, with officials stationed year-round to oversee the official kilns. With no family to rely on, the boy became a kiln worker from a young age. At first, he did only menial chores under a foul-tempered half-master. After several hard years, he finally began to grasp the secrets of porcelain-making—only for fate to strike again. The town suddenly lost its official kiln status, and dozens of dragon-shaped kilns around the area were shut down by imperial decree overnight.
Chen Ping'an set down the freshly cut peach branch, blew out the candle, and stepped outside. He sat on the steps and looked up at the glittering stars above.
He could still clearly remember the morning of late autumn the previous year, when his half-master, a man surnamed Yao who never fully acknowledged him as a disciple, was found dead, seated on a bamboo chair facing the kiln—eyes closed.
Stubborn men like Old Yao were rare.
The town's craftsmen, whose families had made porcelain for generations, dared not overstep their bounds or secretly sell the treasured wares to commoners. Stripped of the imperial kiln's protection, they had no choice but to find new livelihoods. Fourteen-year-old Chen Ping'an was turned out as well, returning to the dilapidated home in Mud Bottle Alley—so bare and broken there was nothing left to squander, even if he had wanted to.
For a time, he drifted like a wandering ghost. Without a way to earn a living, he scraped by on what little savings he had. A few days earlier, he heard that a blacksmith named Ruan had arrived in Riding Dragon Alley and was looking to take on seven or eight apprentices. No pay, but meals were included. Chen Ping'an rushed over, hoping to get in—but the middle-aged man took one look at him and waved him away. Chen Ping'an couldn't help but wonder—was forging iron really about looks, not strength?
Despite his frail appearance, Chen Ping'an was stronger than he seemed, thanks to years of working the kiln and the potter's wheel. He had followed Old Yao through the surrounding mountains, collecting clay, tasting the earth, learning the trade. He never shirked hard work or dirty jobs. But Old Yao had always disliked him, saying he lacked talent and was thick-headed, far inferior to the senior disciple Liu Xianyang. It was hard to blame the old man—after all, a master leads the way, but cultivation is up to the student. Even in something as tedious as throwing clay, Liu Xianyang's six months of skill far surpassed Chen Ping'an's three years.
Still, even if he never needed the craft again, Chen Ping'an continued as always: he closed his eyes and imagined a stone slab and wheel before him, practicing the motions of shaping clay. Through repetition comes mastery.
Every fifteen minutes or so, he would rest and shake out his wrists, repeating the cycle until he was completely exhausted. Only then would he rise to walk around the courtyard, slowly stretching his limbs. No one had taught him this—it was something he figured out on his own.
The world was silent, until a mocking laugh broke the stillness. Chen Ping'an stopped. As expected, he saw another boy about his age squatting on the courtyard wall, grinning with undisguised disdain.
That boy was his old neighbor, rumored to be the illegitimate son of the former kiln overseer. Fearing political scandal, the official had returned alone to the capital, leaving the boy in the care of his successor. But now that the town had lost its imperial designation, even the new overseer was in trouble, leaving the child with only some silver and no protector.
Even so, the boy's life hadn't changed. He still wandered idly about the town with his maid, never worrying about money. The earthen walls of Mud Bottle Alley were low, and he didn't even need to tiptoe to see into Chen Ping'an's courtyard. Yet every time he spoke, he insisted on perching atop the wall.
Unlike the plain name "Chen Ping'an," this neighbor had a more refined-sounding name: Song Jixin. Even his maid had a poetic name: Zhi Gui.
Zhi Gui now stood quietly behind the wall. She had timid apricot-shaped eyes.
Then a voice came from beyond the gate: "Is your maid for sale?"
Song Jixin was startled. He turned to see a richly dressed youth smiling at him—a stranger.
Beside him stood a tall old man with fair skin and kindly eyes, surveying the two adjacent courtyards.
The old man's gaze swept past Chen Ping'an without pause, but lingered on Song Jixin and the maid, his smile growing.
Song Jixin sneered, "Why wouldn't I sell her?"
The young man smiled. "Then name your price."
Zhi Gui's eyes widened in shock, like a startled young deer.
Song Jixin rolled his eyes and held up a finger. "Ten thousand taels of silver."
The youth nodded calmly. "Very well."
Song Jixin panicked—he hadn't expected that. "Wait—I meant ten thousand in gold!"
The youth grinned. "I was joking."
Song Jixin's face darkened.
The young man turned his gaze to Chen Ping'an. "Thanks to you, I was able to buy that carp. The more I looked at it, the more I liked it, so I had to come thank you in person. Grandpa Wu and I came through the night to find you."
He tossed over a heavy embroidered pouch. "This is your reward. Now we're even."
Chen Ping'an was about to speak, but the youth had already turned and walked away.
Chen Ping'an frowned slightly.
Earlier that day, he had seen a man carrying a fish basket with a golden carp thrashing inside. Chen Ping'an had offered ten coins, but the man demanded thirty. Chen Ping'an, low on funds, tried to haggle. Just as the price was about to drop, the richly dressed youth and the old man appeared and bought the fish and basket for fifty coins. All Chen Ping'an could do was watch helplessly.
Staring after the departing pair, Song Jixin sneered before hopping down from the wall. He turned to Chen Ping'an and said, "Remember that lizard from the first month?"
Chen Ping'an nodded.
Of course he remembered. According to local superstition, snakes and similar creatures entering a home were a good omen and should not be harmed. On New Year's Day, Song Jixin had seen a four-legged lizard crawl into his house. Disgusted, he threw it out—again and again—but it kept returning. Finally, in frustration, he hurled it into Chen Ping'an's yard. The next day, he found it curled up under his own bed.
Zhi Gui tugged on Song Jixin's sleeve.
They understood each other well. He swallowed the words he'd almost spoken.
What he'd wanted to say was: the lizard now had a bump on its forehead—like a budding horn.
Instead, he said, "Zhi Gui and I might be leaving next month."
Chen Ping'an sighed. "Travel safely."
Half-joking, Song Jixin added, "There are some things I can't take with me. Don't go sneaking into my house to steal anything."
Chen Ping'an shook his head.
Song Jixin laughed. Pointing at Chen Ping'an, he jeered, "Such a coward. No wonder the poor stay poor. You'll probably be bullied this whole life—and the next."
Chen Ping'an said nothing.
They each returned to their homes. Chen Ping'an closed the door, lay on his hard wooden bed, and whispered into the darkness:
"Peace in pieces, year by year. Peace in pieces, peace all years."