Chang An truly was a very peculiar child.

 

When Chang An stumbled and struggled his way to a little over six years old, everyone felt it was nothing short of a miracle.

He really didn’t look like a child who could grow up healthy. Not to mention beastmen—even the demi-beast children were a size bigger than him; even the girls looked far sturdier. No one knew what illness he had. From the small wooden hut where he lived, a thick smell of herbal medicine drifted out every day, and when he opened his mouth, he coughed far more often than he spoke.

Young children are usually full of vitality, their cheeks and lips more rosy than adults’. But this child was far too unhealthy—there was never any sign of colour in him, his lips pale, and on his whole face, only the line where his lips met and the corners of his eyes carried a faint, strangely precious flush.

He had been brought to the tribe when he was just over one year old by a demi-beast man named Zhe Yan. The two of them, one big and one small, had wandered for more than a year before finding a tribe willing to take them in.

At first, whenever people saw Chang An, they would say things like, “Will this child even survive?” After he became a little aware of things, hearing this so often made even him start to doubt it. But later, no one said it anymore—because once, when Zhe Yan heard it, he fought them like a rabid wild dog, risking his life.

Zhe Yan was missing an arm, yet he was still a man with refined features. He was always explaining to others that Chang An was not his biological child, as if afraid people might forget.

When Chang An was three or four, he often heard other children call the adult man in their homes “father”, and he envied them deeply. So he imitated them and called Zhe Yan that as well.

Zhe Yan’s response was a slap.

A woman who had gone out to gather vines for weaving baskets said that day she heard Zhe Yan shouting at the little boy.

“You called me what? Say it again and I’ll smash your mouth! Who’s your father? The bravest warrior in the tribe is your father! Back then, before the Great Elder died, he personally named you with his bone token—look at what you’re doing now!” the one-armed man roared. “How can you… how can you call someone like me ‘father’? This is willingly lowering yourself, have you no shame!”

But the woman didn’t hear the boy cry. Not even once.

Even though afterward, when he went out, half his face remained swollen for more than ten days.

The woman spoke of this matter with deep sympathy for the child.

Perhaps Zhe Yan, forced by displacement and hardship, had become somewhat hysterical. Or perhaps he simply felt unworthy of being called “father” by such a child. But something so complicated—how could such a small child possibly understand it?

And Chang An truly was a very peculiar child.

No one had ever seen him cry. He never played with other children either. All day long he would run off somewhere unknown, then at mealtime he would reappear unpredictably. He didn’t like to talk. When others kindly patted his head or teased him, he would stand there silently, not smiling, quietly enduring the touch. When they finished speaking, he would nod or shake his head, then leave.

Only occasionally, when someone pitied him and secretly brought him food from home, would the boy look at them deeply with those uniquely clear, dark eyes of a child, as if trying to remember them in his heart—then bow to express thanks.

And somehow, he survived like this, even growing into a child who knew to repay kindness.

When he returned home, he saw several long blades of grass stuck in the door of the wooden hut. Chang An paused—he knew this meant Zhe Yan was telling him to stay away.

From inside came heavy breathing and sticky moans. Chang An didn’t really understand what Zhe Yan was doing, but from others’ disdainful attitudes, he vaguely knew it was something bad.

Since he became aware, every time “guests” came to their home, Zhe Yan would drive him out. Gradually, the child came to understand—this seemed to be their only means of livelihood.

Zhe Yan’s health was poor. Forget missing one arm—even with an extra one, he couldn’t go out hunting like other fathers. Demi-beast men were naturally lacking in combat ability, so many of them grew up to become craftsmen; sometimes these skills earned them respect.

Of course, if one had neither skill nor fighting ability, a demi-beast could still exchange labour for food. Even if the income was meagre, it could at least sustain a poor life.

But Zhe Yan could no longer do manual labour. He hadn’t learned any craft either—and even if he had, delicate work couldn’t be done with just one hand.

Zhe Yan had become a truly useless man.

The north wasn’t like the south, with clustered cities. People lived in scattered tribes across forests and grasslands. To survive here, one had to obey the law of the jungle—survival of the fittest.

Those without value could not gain recognition.

Of course, there was another way to survive: attaching oneself to someone strong—for example, selling one’s body.

The reason Zhe Yan and Chang An could remain in this small tribe was because of a single sentence from the chieftain… and a single night.

But this tribe, called “Vulture,” was far inferior to their previous one. Resources were scarce. The chieftain already had three wives and had no capacity to take in a demi-beast who couldn’t bear children.

After two or three years, the chieftain gradually lost interest in Zhe Yan. From then on, the “guests” who came were no longer fixed.

Chang An turned away as usual and left, carrying his small basket to the riverside, sitting down and soaking his bare feet in the water.

“Chang An, Chang An, come here quickly!” A passing woman saw him and waved happily.

Her name was A Yan. She lived nearby. Her husband had died during a hunt, and she had no children, living alone as a widow. Generally, in northern tribes, women struggled to survive after losing their husbands and would remarry. But there were exceptions—like A Yan.

No one wanted to marry her—not because she was ugly, but because everyone knew she couldn’t have children.

A woman who couldn’t bear children couldn’t rightfully become someone’s wife. If she wished, she might survive like Zhe Yan, exchanging her body for others’ pity—but when she might be abandoned was uncertain.

Compared to such a life without dignity, she preferred to struggle on her own.

A Yan was skilled at extracting sugar from sprouted wheat used for making bread. No one had her skill—the sugar she made was crystalline and sweet. If she lived in the south, life might have been easier. In the barren, war-torn north, sprouted wheat was an important food, and only a few families could spare enough to make sugar for children and women.

So besides making sugar, she did heavy and rough labour for others.

Chang An picked up his straw sandals and ran over. A Yan carefully looked around, and seeing no one, crouched down and set down the heavy basket of skins on her back—winter was coming, and she was preparing them for the chieftain’s wives—then took a small paper packet from her clothes and stuffed it into Chang An’s hands.

“Take it.”

Chang An opened it. Inside were three small pieces of malt sugar, each the size of a fingernail, smooth and semi-translucent.

“Eat it—don’t let anyone see,” A Yan whispered.

They were leftovers from sugar-making; she dared not take too much.

Chang An picked one up, stood on tiptoe, and held it to her mouth.

A Yan gently pressed down his frighteningly thin hand and said softly, “You eat it, Chang An. I’ve already eaten.”

Only then did Chang An carefully place the sugar in his mouth. After all, he was a child—once he tasted sweetness, he couldn’t help but smile.

A Yan looked at his smile. His eyes were beautiful, but usually cold when he looked at people. Only when he smiled did the corners of his eyes show a faint pink, like peach blossoms drifting in spring.

She sighed, stroking his hair. “Chang An is more beautiful than any child in the tribe. If only you were my child…”

Her gaze fell on his neck, and her expression suddenly changed. She pulled aside his coarse clothes—there was a blood-red mark, like it had been whipped.

“How did this happen?” she demanded angrily, standing up and glaring at the hut. “That bastard… he hit you?”

Chang An shook his head quickly. “Zhe Yan is not a bastard. He treats me well.”

He opened his basket and took out a bundle of flowers. They grew in clusters like tiny bells. Even after being picked, they could stay fresh for days, carrying a faint fragrance. They were called “colour-bell flowers,” rare and found only deep in the forest.

“A Yan, for you,” he said softly.

She took them, surprised. “For me?”

He nodded.

She paused, then sighed, gently brushing his cheek. “Didn’t I say you shouldn’t go into the forest alone? What if you meet a beast?”

“To watch training,” Chang An replied.

The training grounds for young hunters and warriors lay beyond the forest. Chang An often hid in the grass to watch. The adults knew but didn’t mind, since he never caused trouble.

“You don’t like it?” the child asked nervously.

“It’s very beautiful,” A Yan said. “I like it very much.”

She seemed about to say more, but at that moment, Zhe Yan’s door opened. A man came out, and Zhe Yan followed, throwing on his clothes. After a brief exchange, Zhe Yan suddenly brightened and called out: “Chang An, come here!”

Chang An ran over. Zhe Yan pulled him forward and warmly pushed him toward the man. “This is Chang An—the child I told you about.”

The man frowned. “Are you crazy? He’s too small… is he even four?”

“He’s over six,” Zhe Yan said with a smile, bending down. “This is Lu Ke, a famous carpenter. He’ll be your master. You’ll become a respected craftsman like him.”

Chang An looked at Lu Ke silently.

Zhe Yan grabbed Lu Ke’s sleeve. “I can’t teach him anything. Please take him in. He can do anything, and he doesn’t eat much… please.”

Lu Ke examined him critically. “Really six? He looks too small. And there’s so much medicine in your house—does he have some illness?”

“No, no, he’s healthy! Just grows slower!” Zhe Yan denied quickly. “The medicine is for me. Really! If he’s troublesome, he can come back at night. I’ll take care of him. He’s smart—he never forgets a path once he’s walked it. Right? Say something!”

Chang An neither nodded nor shook his head.

Perhaps after venting desire, people tend to soften. Lu Ke hesitated, then agreed. “He can come try tomorrow. But if he can’t endure hardship, I’ll send him back.”

Zhe Yan’s eyes lit up.

Lu Ke roughly patted Chang An’s head, then reached into his clothes. “Today’s payment—”

“No, no,” Zhe Yan pushed his hand back, smiling meaningfully. “Nothing needed. I like you—I’m willing.”

After seeing Lu Ke off, Zhe Yan returned, chattering endlessly to Chang An:

“The best path for a demi-beast is to be a craftsman. You can live in any tribe your whole life. Do you understand? Learn well from Lu Ke—it wasn’t easy to connect with him…”

“I want to learn the blade,” Chang An said softly.

But Zhe Yan, immersed in his joy, didn’t hear him at all. He was busy dreaming of the future—this child was his treasure, once the only thing that kept him alive.

So he had to have a bright future—he had to become stronger than anyone.

 

Translator : DarNan