Chapter 27: Memories on Paper

Zhao Jin's life remained monotonous. The shop Zhao Zhenxing guarded still held many things no one had taken away — account books and writing brushes, for instance. Zhao Jin gathered these up, then brought out the ink and inkstone used for private tutoring at home. In a crooked, ungainly brush hand, he recorded some memories he considered crucial, then stored the papers in a corner of the shop.

Amid such dull, tedious days, Zhao Jin could clearly sense the changes in his body — sturdier than before, stronger, with better stamina.

Running from home to the martial training ground used to leave him panting and breaking out in cold sweat; now it felt basically normal. When sparring with the other youths at the goods yard, he took opponents down faster and faster.

Though Zhao Jin had only started martial training less than a month ago, a young body shows results quickly — train and you improve. On top of that, Zhao Jin ran every morning and did push-ups and sit-ups in his room every night. With adequate food, his physical fitness soared. The horse stance and other drills rapidly improved his stability, strength, and speed.

The autumn executions had taken place some days earlier. Zhao Zhentang went out each day bursting with energy and came home every evening dead drunk. The silver he handed to He Cuihua grew more plentiful. An executioner is naturally busiest when heads are being lopped off, but it was a happy kind of busy, for benefits poured in from all sides.

The weather turned colder and colder. Around the middle of the month, Zhao Jin had already switched to padded winter clothes. He noticed something: more and more yamen runners and constables were on the streets. It was true that government men walked the streets anyway, but in such cold weather no one wanted to suffer and freeze — they'd be warming themselves by the fire at the yamen or whiling away time in teahouses and gambling dens. Such frequent patrolling was truly rare. A few times Zhao Jin even spotted his own father, Zhao Zhentang. Even more surprising, he actually saw soldiers in tattered winter battle coats out on patrol.

Zhao Jin knew he didn't need to ask around; the answers could be found in the conversations at home. His parents were deeply attached to each other, and He Cuihua was no ignorant woman. Zhao Zhentang often chatted with her about outside matters, and from these talks Zhao Jin could glean a great deal of information. Zhao Zhentang didn't hide things from him either — perhaps he thought a child wouldn't understand. Precisely because of that, Zhao Jin listened all the more intently.

The reason so many runners and constables were on the streets was that a capital official from Xuzhou had resigned from office and returned home. Zhao Jin didn't understand the term at first; only later, from listening, did he realize it meant retirement.

Xuzhou flourished in martial spirit, but its literary culture was rather weak. During the Wanli reign, it had produced only this single presented scholar. Twelve years ago he passed the exams, becoming the pride of Xuzhou. Everyone assumed he would achieve great things in officialdom; no one expected him to return home after just twelve years in office.

His time as an official was not long, but a presented scholar background and capital official status made him an enormously important figure to Xuzhou. Even while this man was in the capital, he already wielded immense influence back in his hometown. Now returning to live in retirement was like planting a banner out of thin air in Xuzhou. How could the Xuzhou magistrate dare be negligent? These past few days he had been busy making arrangements from top to bottom, determined to leave a good impression on this grand personage.

Zhao Jin found it strange. He thought to himself: when an official holds his post, it's only natural for those around him to fawn and flatter. But this man had resigned and returned home — he was now just an idler with no position. The Xuzhou magistrate, whatever else he was, was still the honored prefect of a major prefecture. Why did he need to be so careful and ingratiating?

Yet both Zhao Zhentang and He Cuihua spoke of it as though it were only natural, and Zhao Jin never found an opening to interrupt and ask.

The matter was mentioned and then passed; Zhao Jin didn't take it to heart. The next morning, when he got up and was running his laps around the streets, he saw someone slouched against a wall, apparently asleep.

The weather was already bitterly cold — it took three laps before his body even warmed up — yet this person was just sleeping there like that.

By the time Zhao Jin finished his run and returned home, his father Zhao Zhentang was also up. He had swung his blade in the courtyard for a while and was now there stroking the monkey.

This was no affectionate petting. He was pinching the back of the monkey's neck with his fingers. Zhao Zhentang's eyes were slightly closed, his movements exceedingly gentle, yet the monkey — normally quite bold — was hunched over there. A closer look revealed it was trembling faintly.

"Dad, there's someone sleeping on the road. In this cold, I'm surprised he can fall asleep," Zhao Jin casually mentioned. After more than a month, he had grown more and more accustomed to this identity, and his feelings for his parents deepened.

Zhao Zhentang opened his eyes. In that instant, Zhao Jin felt his own warmed-up body turn ice-cold. Zhao Zhentang shook his head there, and his fingers left the monkey's neck. As if granted a great reprieve, the monkey shrieked once and shot straight into the side room.

"Someone sleeping on the road?" Zhao Zhentang asked, first puzzled, then stood up frowning. He cursed a few times under his breath and strode out of the courtyard.

Zhao Jin only learned the reason at breakfast. He Cuihua asked a question because her husband was late to eat. Zhao Zhentang spat and said, "Another roadside corpse. Just had someone carry it out of the city. What foul luck first thing in the morning."

"Isn't it like this every year? When it snows and turns cold, some just can't make it through," He Cuihua said, equally flat.

Zhao Zhentang casually scolded Zhao Jin: "Do you even know that every day in this Xuzhou city people freeze or starve to death? And you take a dozen pastries every day to squander, never even fighting seriously, just wasting things. What are you standing there dumbstruck for? Eat."

After saying this, Zhao Zhentang and his wife calmly began eating. Zhao Jin, however, sat there stunned. Only now did it hit him — that person on the road hadn't been drunk and asleep. He had frozen to death.

What shocked Zhao Jin even more was his parents' expressions and tone. They weren't surprised at all. No doubt in their minds, people freezing to death on the streets in such cold weather was perfectly normal. He figured that if not for that capital official's retirement, no one would have even bothered with the frozen corpse. Zhao Jin's understanding of this era's cruelty deepened a little more.

As the cold set in, the youths at the goods yard changed again. Though newcomers kept joining from outside, the overall numbers were dwindling. In such cold weather, going out meant you had to eat your fill and dress warmly. Many households couldn't manage that. Those who came here were at least from families of some means.

People like Shi Manqiang and Ji Xiang couldn't compare to the Zhao and Chen families, but compared to others, their families still had some property — they had padded clothes and could eat their fill.

Then there was the type like Liu Yong. They might not always eat their fill or dress warmly, but winning a single pastry was crucial. Some ate it themselves; others took it home to share with younger siblings. The colder the winter, the more vital it was to eat one's fill. Their families had no money to buy food — the only way was at the goods yard.

Because of these changes, the youths' sparring grew fiercer. Shi Manqiang, Ji Xiang, and Sun Dalei could no longer always make the top eight. Still, skill was skill — Chen Sheng took first place most often.

On the twentieth day of the tenth month, the martial training content finally changed. In addition to the horse stance and holding the wooden pole level, a new drill was added: gripping the wooden pole and thrusting.

Zhao Zhenxing demanded precise movements with extreme strictness. According to him, only with correct posture could you deliver maximum power and thrust accurately.

The seemingly simple motion was actually very hard to execute properly. Stepping, swinging the arm, coordinating the whole body — one mistake and the effect was greatly diminished. Because of his mistakes, Zhao Jin endured countless lashings from the rattan switch.

At first, Zhao Zhenxing had worried that Zhao Jin might refuse to keep training after being beaten. But after more than a month, he no longer held back when disciplining Zhao Jin. He now truly treated Zhao Jin as a disciple.

Though Zhao Jin wore a sheepskin jacket, the rattan always struck where the protection was weakest. The pain made him grit his teeth, but he endured it all. He noticed that since winter began, his uncle Zhao Zhenxing's complexion had worsened considerably, and his coughing had intensified. The harsh winter seemed to affect his body greatly.

Zhao Jin had developed a habit: during breaks from martial training, he would wander through the shop's storeroom and storefront. It was abandoned anyway, so it didn't matter.

Inside were all coarse, heavy things. Zhao Jin would weave in and out among them, and when it was time to train, Zhao Zhenxing would call him out.

Children all love exploring unknown spaces. The storeroom and storefront were locked from the outside — perfectly safe. Zhao Zhenxing let his nephew play as he pleased; it was better than running wild in the streets. But he had no idea what Zhao Jin was doing inside.

Every time Zhao Jin went in, he would linger a long time at the shop counter. He took out the paper and brush hidden there and wrote down the things he considered important.

On a sheet of white paper, he laboriously drew a square with his brush, then drew four small squares at the four corners of the large square. Chewing on the brush handle, he pondered for a moment, then crookedly wrote "Pikemen" inside the large square and "Musketeers" in the small squares.

That friend who used to read by his sickbed had been quite fond of military history. When he read something that delighted him, he would often hold up the book to show Zhao Jin the illustrations.

"... Seems like Portugal... no... the Spanish Tercio..."