Chapter Two: The Ruined Song Family

When Song Mu awoke again, dawn had already broken. His head still felt heavy, and his body was weak, but he sat up cautiously. Glancing down at the thin blanket covering him, Song Mu surveyed the room by the faint moonlight streaming in from outside.

The house bore an ancient and simple elegance, with carved beams and painted rafters, exuding a certain old-world charm. Yet it was strange—bare white walls stood empty on all sides, and even the paper on the ornate windows was yellowed and tattered. The floor was even more peculiar: the earth was exposed in a patch, sunken deeper than the corners where a few chipped blue bricks still survived. Clearly, someone had pried up most of the bricks that once paved the room.

As for the bed beneath him, it was merely a plank laid across two benches. Besides a pile of books in one corner, the room was devoid of any other furnishings. Tables and chairs must have long since disappeared.

Only now did Song Mu recall the physician Liu who had visited him the day before; it was no wonder he had been sitting on his own medicine chest. In a house adorned with such intricate woodwork, the family had fallen into utter destitution.

Song Mu shook his head with a soft sigh, preparing to get up and fetch some water. But he believed that as long as one lived, change was always possible, no matter how bleak things seemed.

“Ah, Mu, you’re awake?” Just as Song Mu was about to rise, a muffled voice came from the corner. A short, stocky figure crawled up from the floor and approached. Relieved to hear a human voice, Song Mu was momentarily stunned to see who it was.

“Uncle, why are you here?”

“I was afraid you might have another attack during the night, so I slept here to keep an eye on you. How are you feeling now? Hungry? I’ll get you something to eat.”

Song Liangda studied him with concern as he lit the oil lamp. Only then did Song Mu see the bedding in the corner where his uncle had slept. Song Mu felt deeply grateful for his uncle’s care. Pressing his lips together, he shook his head gently.

“I just want some water, uncle. I’m all right now.”

“No, don’t get up. I’ll fetch it. There’s still some medicine left from yesterday—I’ll bring that too.” Song Liangda quickly helped Song Mu sit back down and hurried outside, soon calling for his wife in the courtyard.

As the courtyard came alive with the stirrings of the waking household, Song Mu leaned against the windowsill, wrapped in his robe. The early morning air brought with it the comforting sounds and smells of home.

With a sigh, Song Mu finally accepted his reality. There were many things left unfinished in his past life, but in this one, he would not allow himself to die frustrated and unfulfilled.

Before long, Song Liangda returned with a bowl of water and a bowl of medicine, placing them by Song Mu’s bed. Behind him bounced a little girl—his only daughter, Song Mingwei, seven or eight years old, nicknamed Yaya.

She wasn’t fair-skinned, but her large eyes sparkled in the lamplight. Her two thin, slightly yellow braids swung as she carefully drew a handkerchief from her pocket. She opened it, pinched out a small piece of brown sugar, and placed it in Song Mu’s hand.

“Big brother, this is sugar for you. Take it after your medicine,” she said sensibly, clenching her handkerchief tight and forcing her gaze away from the sugar cube she had given him—inside, only some tiny fragments remained.

“All right, Yaya, go ask your mother to bring the breakfast. We’ll all eat in Mu’s room today,” Song Liangda instructed. The little girl ran off.

“Mu, drink your medicine first. We’ll eat soon. You haven’t had a decent meal in days; your body won’t endure it,” Song Liangda urged.

Song Mu nodded, taking the medicine without a frown, draining it in one gulp.

“Slowly, slowly, don’t rush.” Song Liangda hurried over to pat his nephew’s back. He cared for this boy more than his own daughter.

Song Liangda’s health had always been poor; the doctor said it was a miracle he’d fathered even one child. Now, with his elder brother Song Liantong gone and only this nephew left, Song Liangda was determined not to let any harm come to him—otherwise, he would have no face to meet his ancestors in the afterlife.

Fortunately, his nephew had always been polite and humble; though a bit awkward socially, he was exceptionally bright. The year after his brother’s death, he had even passed the county-level examination on his own, giving the fallen Song family a glimmer of hope.

Yet Song Liangda couldn’t fathom why his nephew, so careful in all things, had gone off to do something so dangerous the other day without a word.

Song Mu, suppressing the bitterness of the medicine, had no idea what his uncle was thinking. He only felt his body was too frail—he would need to train and grow strong to survive.

Soon, Aunt Zhu arrived with breakfast, Song Liangda helping with the table and stools. When Song Mu tried to lend a hand, they stopped him.

Aunt Zhu was a broad-shouldered, robust woman—rather formidable, by the look of her. Song Mu remembered from his memories that she came from a farming family; when his uncle married, the family could hardly afford a dowry, and with his uncle’s poor health, the old master settled on a strong peasant girl from a tenant household.

Since Song Mu’s parents had passed away, this broken family had leaned ever more heavily on her. She worked hard, but it was just enough to keep four mouths fed.

“Mu, eat more. Here’s chicken I stewed for you. You only had a little broth yesterday—today, eat your fill,” Song Liangda said, picking all the chicken into Song Mu’s bowl.

Song Mu nodded, urging the others to eat as well, but none of them touched their chopsticks.

With a sigh, Song Mu put a piece of chicken in his mouth and placed a drumstick in Song Mingwei’s bowl. “Yaya, help your big brother with this drumstick—I can’t finish it,” he insisted, blocking Song Liangda and pressing the chicken into the little girl’s bowl.

They all protested, but when Song Mu grew insistent, Song Mingwei thanked him and began to eat happily, swinging her skinny legs on the stool, while Aunt Zhu’s eyes filled with tears.

“Whoever did this is truly heartless. My Mu was always so lively—now he nearly crossed death’s threshold,” she sobbed. “Mu is meant to be a scholar. He’ll raise a scholar’s archway for the family… What a curse upon us!”

Song Liangda stopped her from speaking such ill-omened words at the table, but Song Mu only smiled. Liangda’s face shifted through several expressions before he finally asked, “Mu, tell your uncle honestly—why did you go out to Yanggang the other day? You know you’re not supposed to go there.”

Song Mu was at a loss. He could only shake his head helplessly.

He had no memory of why he had sought death. He only recalled storming out of the city toward a desolate grave, but it hadn’t even been at Yanggang.

“Uncle, I truly don’t remember,” he replied. Seeing the boy’s sincerity, Song Liangda did not press further.

The conversation shifted to this year’s prefectural exam, for which Song Mu needed to travel to the provincial city. But the family had no money for the journey.

“Don’t worry about a thing. Your aunt and I have strong backs. We can scrape together a few taels of silver. If it comes to it… Stone County is hiring labor to build the city wall. I’ll take work there if I must.”

“Yes, this time we won’t be tricked by scoundrels and let them strip our house bare—not even the blue bricks…” Aunt Zhu wept softly.

Song Mu knew the wall-building was corvée labor, harsh and exhausting. The family, thanks to their scholar’s status, had barely escaped such burdens, but if his uncle worked, he could earn a few dozen coins a day.

When Song Liangda spoke, it was through gritted teeth. For the sake of his nephew and the family’s legacy, he had resolved to do whatever it took.

Song Mu put down his bowl, clenching his left fist beneath the table.

Now that he had survived in this world, he would not live as a useless mouth to feed.

And as for Yanggang—he was sure he hadn’t gone to such a dangerous place. Who, then, had wished the original Song Mu dead?