Part 2. Tadpole swim.

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Chapter 9, in which the hero's wishes are granted, but not in the best way

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Today, Feng was overjoyed, almost jubilant. Despite a recent incident that had resulted in a very hurtful and sticky nickname, his foster parents had sent him to wash clothes and underwear today instead of making him hunch over in the field. It wasn't so much a heavy task as a responsible one - it required attention and some dexterity. And the fact that they sent him instead of his own children meant a lot. Perhaps it was because he was a city boy by birth, though he had never seen the city itself, as he was too young to remember anything clearly. This, however, did not prevent him from lying that in the city the huts were built of the best bamboo and covered not with rice straw but with wood, that they were so large that they could accommodate as many families as there were fingers on the palms of their hands, and that they were built on two or even three floors. No one believed him, however, and he had even been slapped for such things, but just for the sake of order. In this village, he was not offended. His foster father Shirong beat him not too often and harder than the rest of the family, and his foster mother Zenzen fed him, albeit with leftovers, her husband, and her own children.

Feng's background, which usually only served as a cause for ridicule and cruel jokes from his adopted relatives and fellow villagers, now came in handy. After all, who better to do the laundry than "this city boy"? And the fact that it takes a lot of time to wash - well, that's the way it is in the city: to do everything carefully and to the best of their ability.

"Hey, Shitfeng, why are you standing there?" Senior Sister Aimin shouted from afar.

Feng turned around and grumbled resentfully, but he didn't say anything as he continued washing. Who could have known that in those bushes, through which he would decide to take a shortcut, someone had done a shit before? And even so, it wouldn't have been anything interesting - after all, everyone steps in shit sooner or later. If he hadn't been caught by Brother Kang, who had been sent by his father to see why Feng was taking so long. If only Kang hadn't had a tongue the size of a wagon and spread the word around! The nickname stuck. Even Mom used it! And it was much more offensive than the nickname "tadpole" that his master used to call him!

Wait, what kind of master? Feng had been born in the city, but those masters were for rich people who could read. In their village, they were the Headman and Auntie Zhao's grandmother, who had passed away before Feng was born, not just Feng, but his adoptive parents.

Feng sighed and banished the silly thought. This kind of thing had been going through his mind since he was a child, and lately, it had become more frequent. Strange thoughts would pop up, new and previously unknown desires would arise, and very unfamiliar habits would appear. Feng, who didn't want to be known as crazy and get a more offensive nickname, didn't tell a soul about it. He even thought that his head was as messed up as old Chun's, who had fallen from a tree and hit a rock a few years ago.

But first of all, Feng's head was only banging against his father's slap, and secondly, it didn't explain how he had become able to read. How would he even know that the large inscription at the entrance of the village - May the gods of fortune and fertility protect Duojia was wrong? But he somehow knew that instead of the character for 'river,' it was the character for 'frog,' thus making the word 'protect' into 'blow their nose.' Even though the two phrases sounded the same aloud, the inscription took on an ominous and true meaning - the gods were indeed blowing their nose at Duojia Village, having sent neither fertility nor good fortune for a long time.

Feng gripped the stick tighter and began to stir the laundry in the wicker tub. Only Crooked Yao knew how to make one. He was the only one who knew the intricate weaving to keep the buckets and troughs from leaking. Even though the tub was much lighter than the wooden trough, Feng never had the strength to carry it to the river; he always had to roll it.

The laundry in the bucket filled with water and ashes resisted. It only gurgled and moved reluctantly. Feng had to push the stick as hard as he could. He had no idea why to make the clothes clean, it had to be soiled even more in the dirty ash, but somehow it worked.

Purity turns to dirt, and dirt turns to purity, Feng thought. The beautiful phrase came out so well that he wanted to write it down on a scroll of the finest silk!

On a scroll? Silk? To write? Feng had never learned to write. The only scroll in the village was in the village chief's possession, and all the silk was in his wife's festive ribbon, of which she was very proud. What kind of nonsense was going through his head? Feng looked at his hands, which were unusually small, thin, calloused, and dirty as if he had been trained by a master. Should he order the servants to do the laundry while he was away?

Feng shook his head and groaned. Again! It's starting again! These stupid thoughts again! He grabbed the laundry from the tub and dragged it to the river to rinse. The water flowing down made the bamboo trunks of the small bridge on which the whole village was washing very slippery so several times he almost fell off.

Leaning over, he considered how best to begin rinsing the laundry, but when he saw his reflection in the calm river water, he opened his mouth in surprise.

Instead of the gaunt but beautiful young man who had been mocked in a thousand ways, he was looking at a child. A small, sharp face, sunken cheeks, sad, tired eyes - the reflection was that of a child of six or seven years of age. He was clearly a commoner, though not as evil or disgusting as the master looked.

Feng froze, stunned by the totally unfamiliar yet strangely familiar reflection. He leaned closer and closer to the water, fascinated until his foot slipped on the wet bamboo, and he fell into the river.

Feng flailed his arms and floundered in the water, but it only made things worse. He was caught up in the slow but strong current, pulled into the swamp, and swept away from the peasant women and other children.

"Hey, look, Feng is sinking!" someone shouted.

"Shitfeng is sinking!"

"Shit doesn't sink!"

"Watch your mouth, you little brat!" came a grumpy voice, and there was the sound of a slap.

Feng grabbed at his laundry, but it was torn out of his hands, dragged by the current. He tried to call for help but only got more water.

"Crooked-armed foster!" Aimin shouted. "What's wrong with you!"

"Truly, the city's idiot!"

"Row to shore, you fool!"

"Shitfeng is finally getting a wash!"

"You smell like shit!"

"Me? Why don't you go wash yourself?"

The children were fighting, and a couple of them went into the water, but Feng didn't care about the fuss on the shore. He swam farther and farther away, and the gurgling of the water and the sound of the river drowned out the distant voices. They must have been saying that he was an adopted crooked turd, the spawn of the city's cesspool whore, which certainly explained his crookedness. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Feng even agreed with them. How could he have dropped so much linen, so many important and elegant clothes, even when he was entrusted with the responsible task of helping to prepare for the summer solstice festival and the day of offerings to the spirits?

He tried to frantically grab the laundry, but it was tangled in his arms and legs, and his attempts to get up ended sadly. The current knocked him off his feet and dragged him further into the depths. The fear of losing the laundry and being punished was supplemented by the fear of death, that he would be carried far away, or even that a river monster would emerge from the depths and drag him away for his evil amusement.

"Ancestral Spirits, I beg you!" Feng howled, trying to raise his arms. But his hands were covered with wet rags.

Then again, what spirits, what ancestors? All he knew about his ancestors was that his mother was a harlot from the city who had given the child to traveling monks, who had left him in this village, and Shirong had taken him in. Extra hands are always needed in a village. He was not the son of a general but a homeless orphan who had been kept from starvation and beasts only by good people.

The current pulled him under the water, and he held his breath, terrified that now the bastard master would get his way, finishing what he had tried to do so many times before. He would tell his mother and father that Han had drowned because he was weak, and the Nao family could rest easy now that the stain of disgrace was gone.

But wait, what water? He was at the feast! And then Mother said. And May! And then... Han wanted to howl - it was hard to imagine anything more stupid than what he'd done! He'd disowned the Nao family, insulted the spirits of his ancestors, and so what? Now, he was an orphan, the adopted son of a peasant family in a village somewhere in the worst hole in the Empire. Work and work again, dirt, shit, more shit, more dirt, some unimaginably disgusting food, beatings from his elders for bad work, and all over again, day after day, monotonous and nightmarish.

And the worst of it was that until that day, he, an orphan, had not realized the horror of his life. He rejoiced when he was able to fill his belly with liquid rice and grass, considered a carrot a treat, and a small egg from a ruined bird's nest an occasion for a great feast. He was glad when he was not beaten badly and delighted when he could escape from work and escape to the forest or the marshes.

And they called him not by his noble name but by some dog name, constantly demanding something:

"Feng, why aren't you on the field?"

"Feng, bring the firewood!"

"Feng, you bastard, you ran away to the river again? Why didn't you catch any fish?"

"Feng!"

Han was floundering and struggling to get out, his whole body spinning and noisy, and he couldn't get enough air. He was about to go to the next rebirth when the darkness was replaced by light and the suffocation by the sweet, delicious, life-giving air. The world around him exploded with smells and sounds, the noise of the river, the scalding cold of the water, the ache in his back and stomach and arms and legs, so much battered against the rocks. He was dizzy, and the water around him was churning and foaming, trying to suck him back in, to drag him down to the depths again.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"For what?" he screamed. "Is this the reward for all my suffering?"

Whoever suffered in this life but did not give in to malice and envy will be exalted in the next life. Whoever lived righteously in this life would also be elevated in the next life and continue on his way to Heaven. This was a well-known truth, and this was how Han lived his short life! He lived righteously and had no bad feelings for anyone except for the villains, especially the bastard master, but he deserved it! No, no. It couldn't be: he had suffered so much! And he had done so much good - he had given the world his wisdom, sometimes praised the servants, and loved his mother and Mei very much! And if there was any justice under Heaven, he could not have gotten a new life full of more suffering and disgusting food!

"It's a dream, a dream, a dream," he kept saying, trying not to slurp up the water.

But if this was a dream, it was a nightmare of miserable misery, cold water, and impending doom. One of the floating rags caught on his face, covering his mouth and nose and preventing him from breathing, but he was only concerned now with the thought of punishment for losing his laundry. These rags, rags that in his previous life Han would have shunned even to wipe himself with, were a great treasure in the village, something that took a long time to sew or to buy for a great deal of money from a traveling merchant, and then to wait months for what they had ordered.

What to speak of his daily clothes, which were made of the fibers of nettles, a tall and dense weed, which he had so many times had to cut down with a sharp stone and then drag back to the village? Such things did not even deserve the right to be called rags; not only the servants but also the servants of their servants would not wear them! And the shoes were not much different in the best way at all - flip-flops woven from bark and lined with rice straw, as if they had been invented by the chief executioner of the imperial palace. But Feng wore them rarely and only on important occasions, running barefoot the rest of the time.

A new wave washed over him, and Han went under again. He had no strength to fight, but he wanted to drown to end his suffering.

"You insignificant tadpole drowned in a puddle!" The master's mocking voice sounded like the laughter of a thousand subterranean demons.

He jerked as hard as he could and started raking his arms and legs, trying to break free from the stream. Where did that rogue master come from here? Did he follow him to another life? Or was it Han's continued premonitory visions, the nightmares inflicted by the spirits of his ancestors?

"Yes, it's a nightmare," he began to say again.

Hope flared up inside. What if he wasn't dead yet? Maybe it was an illusion caused by the master's insidious qi? Maybe he would be saved, and Mother Lihua would beg the Ancestral spirits for forgiveness. Han's hope skyrocketed, and he dropped his hands... but immediately raised them, saving himself from another blow from the river boulder. All hope crumbled and vanished, washed away by a stone under the water, just as he had almost gone.

Damn, Father had sworn an oath to these very spirits, and Han had desecrated their shrine? Rescue? To what? What will the bastard master do to him after that?

"You are not a tadpole, not an egg, but the mud in which that egg drowned!" The master growled again.

Han even turned his head but saw nothing but the river and rocks, though the voice sounded as if it were real. Could it be that justice existed and the master had been punished as Han had dreamed, but this vengeful spirit had come after him? Han shrieked and rushed away, but he was still out of the stream, closer to the bank, the part where the water was shallower and flowed more slowly. The horror of the vengeful spirit made him run almost to the shore, to the bank, and only there did he collapse exhaustedly into the water, feeling completely devastated.

Feng's body was shaking and trembling, and Han inside was also shaking and trembling. Why did he have to suffer this? Why would he have such a nightmare? He had suffered so much in his past life. Why continue to suffer in this one? Standing up, he raked the water heavily with his feet and headed towards the shore.

"It was all him!" Han howled. "Yes, you scoundrel and rascal. You villain who pretended to be a master. I curse you, you hear, I curse you, and I am not afraid. Come here and fight me, the son of General Guang!"

The vague reflection in the ripples of the water seemed to float, to change, showing instead of the unfamiliar peasant child a younger but just as disgusting master. The flowing water revitalized his appearance and made him mobile and alive. His lips moved as if he were talking again about Han's insignificance, about eggs and tadpoles, and about what he would never be.

Han swung around and struck as hard as he could. His fist shattered the reflection, passing through the water with little resistance. Han lost his balance and fell back into the water.

"You fool!" A voice called out in response to his curses. "Did you hurt your head?"

Han turned around and saw a peasant standing on the opposite bank. His eyes were blurry from his nightmare swim in the river, but who cared who was in front of him? He wouldn't call this commoner by name, would he?

"You're a fool yourself!" Han yelled back, still getting out of the water. "I'm an aristocrat and the son of an aristocrat, a first-class general, and you're nothing! You're an ancestral peasant brat!"

"How dare you?" There was a shriek of outrage.

"I? Dare? My calling is to command peasants and commoners. I'm not cut out for some dirty work!" Han Feng yelled, coming to his senses.

He gazed into the water. The vengeful spirit had gone somewhere. It was clearly afraid of Han, or maybe it was bound to the river depths. And now that the villain's plans had failed, it had disappeared or just lurked.

"You're made for punching! Hey, Shitfeng, I'm talking to you!" Another voice, thinner, but much shriller, cut through his ears.

Han looked up to find his older sister Aimin standing on the other side of the river, angry as a hundred dozen vengeful and hungry spirits. If Han had swum to the wrong side of the river, he would have gotten a few smacks on the back, and his ears twisted. What this nightmare creature didn't know was that she was now the new Feng! That is Han! A hero who wasn't even afraid of spirits and ghosts, let alone a peasant girl!

"Come here, I'm not afraid of your kicks!" he shouted, assuming a fighting stance. "I'll flutter like a crane and sting like a snake!"

His foot immediately twisted on a slippery rock, and Han fell, nearly floating back into the depths.

"Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha," Aimin laughed. As she clutched her stomach. she lost her balance and almost flew into the water herself. "You really cracked your head, kid! Listen, you city idiot! Run for the laundry and hurry up. If you don't want to have a porridge of slaps for dinner!"

Aimin waved her hand and turned around to leave.

"Stop!" shouted Han involuntarily, holding out his hand.

"I'm sorry, your general splendor," she said with extreme sarcasm, imitating a bow to the ground, that is, to the water. "We peasants, unlike you, have to work from dawn to dusk."

She raised her head smugly and headed away. Han stood in the water for a long time until he was sure that no one cared about him now, leaned over, shook his palm in the water, and asked softly:

"Hey, vile sco... master, are you here?"

There was no reply, of course. Han sighed heavily and looked at the "salvaged rags." They were the clothes of Feng's foster parents: his mother's shirt and his father's pants. He furrowed his brow in thought. A little downstream, the river was overflowing, and there were a lot of shoals and debris. The peasants had even made a small dam there so they could water their goats and divert water for rice checks. Which meant he had a chance to catch all the laundry! Or not all of them, but at least most of them, so when he came back, he could get a dinner in addition to the porridge of slaps. Though if you remembered what they counted as dinner here... Han grimaced and spat in disgust.

"May you be cur.." Han started to curse the heavens, gods, and spirits, but he bit his tongue.

Enough! He's already disrespected the ancestral spirits once and got this! The stunted, emaciated body of a foster child in a peasant family living in a village somewhere on the edge of the heavens, in the corner of the ocean! Maybe it's an obsession, some kind of illusion, but then it's even worse because it means that if he wakes up, he'll see the bastard master in front of him.

Han saw him hugging and kissing Mei, and she reciprocated. His legs gave out, and he collapsed into the water, sobbing hopelessly again. He wanted to find the nearest tree or rock, to bang his head against it and beat on it until the physical pain drowned out the mental pain. If all this talk of the wheel of rebirth was even slightly true, he would be in the capital right now and would be the child of the Emperor's own concubine! Or at least some foreign prince, at the very least, the sole heir to a powerful barbarian chieftain! He groaned, clutching at his head, which was now humming and splitting from the misfortune that had befallen him.

It was good for Feng! As long as Han didn't remember anything, as long as he remained the adopted son of dirty peasants, he didn't realize the hopelessness of his situation. There was really no way out. There was no escape, no way to complain, no way to escape from the cycle of peasant labor until death, which came very early. Feng had no idea how disgusting the food was and how hopeless life was. Even the food that the servants at Nao's manor ate here was a holiday delicacy, and the hard training of the bastard master was almost tolerable compared to the peasant's work.

"We'll see who's the tadpole," he smeared tears and snot all over his face, then sniffled loudly.

He should have gone and collected the laundry and risked drowning again, but there was little choice, and the hopelessness of the situation was depressing. He couldn't run away and live in the forest - he would simply die of hunger and cold. Shirong and Zanzen's family, who had sheltered him, was the only place he could return to. But what to do without the linens, with these two rags here? Without the rest of the festive, if you could call it that, clothes? The master's beatings would seem like a light, playful tickle to him! Besides, there was no one to heal him, so death might be an easier option than being crippled.

"Spirits of the Ancestors, can you hear me?" he shouted across the neighborhood.

Alas, the heroic defiance of fate and circumstance that the heroes of the crystals had always made sounded pathetic when performed by a village kid. The thin, boyish voice trailed off, and Han coughed. If there was one good thing about this misfortune, it was Han was becoming more and more himself. Feng, who had lived a very short and joyless life, was dissolving into Han Nao's vast life experience, merging with him into one whole person. It would be nice to have his beautiful rounded body back.... But then Han remembered what the rascal master had turned his body into, so he cried again.

"Spirits!"

The spirits were silent. Maybe they were angry or had given up on Han, or they'd all been disembodied when he'd desecrated the family shrine. Maybe his death curses had brought doom upon the Nao family. Even though Han thought it was well deserved, regret still pricked his generous heart. In any case, the spirits didn't answer, not his father, the general, not his betrayed but still loving mother, not even his servants. He was a nobody, with nothing of his own, not even a name - just a childish nickname instead.

"You have qi, that's enough!" The bastard master's voice resounded in his head again, filling Han with indignation and a desire to act.

Han thought about it and tried a dabu stance. The stance didn't work, so he gave up. He would not willingly do what he had done before only after the master's stick, would he?

"The one who possesses qi possesses one's destiny," Han muttered, falling to the ground.

But there was no qi, and he had no control over his destiny. So Han rose, climbed ashore, and waded along the river to fish out clothes that might - perhaps! - stuck in the jam. If they were not stuck, he would get a porridge of slaps, and if he managed to save at least half of them, he would be added to the slaps... What do they give you in these villages?

"A chowder of grass and rice," Han grimaced.

Feng's body tensed, his legs quickened, and the pain faded into the background, replaced by fear. Han found that he had some stamina, at least enough to be able to run. Otherwise, he could not survive the grim peasant life of work, suffering, and very bad food. Of course, there wasn't a lot of food, even a bad one.

Maybe it's not all for nothing? Maybe like in the crystals or the scrolls? All true heroes fell to the bottom before starting their journey to the top. Often, they were considered worthless, mediocre, and trash. Sometimes, villains slaughtered their families, so eventually, the hero would become determined to become strong and seek revenge. Sometimes, the enemies stripped the heroes qi and destroyed the dantian, but the hero found a way to become stronger than before and take terrible revenge. Han's case combined all three - he was considered pathetic and worthless, he was left without a family, and his qi was completely gone. The only thing left to do was to find a wise Master, a hidden Hermit Expert, train himself, and then he could threaten the Heavens!

"This is the new stage of becoming a hero!" He proudly declared toward the forest.

That sounded really stupid. What hero? If there was a wise old Master here in the forest, the peasants would have stumbled upon him while searching for and gathering everything they could eat. The wise old Master would have left this place long ago and moved to a place where there are no people.

No wonder wise hermits preferred to hide in deep caves or gather the energy of Heaven and Earth somewhere on impregnable mountain peaks!

He should have run away from this village and from such a disgusting life. Perhaps even end it and try again. He could not be reborn in Nao's lineage, for he had renounced his blood oath. It is not known how many years have passed since his death and how quickly his curse would affect the clan. Most likely, the Nao family is long gone, and the name of General Guang was lost in history. Well, the other great clans had their own ancestors and their own spirits, so rebirth was questionable there as well. Han didn't know what to do but to continue his miserable and useless existence. And in order to live, he had to eat.

"It's only temporary hardships," Han mumbled through tears as he turned over a rotted log, picking out a particularly large, fat maggot and gnawing on it with a crunch. "Temporary."

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Chapter 10, in which the hero learns the underside of the world and then decides to turn it inside out