C17 Trust Between People(1)

As we neared Eventide, the main road swelled with refugees clad in tattered garments. They huddled in small groups or queued in lengthy lines, congesting the thoroughfare so that donkey carts could only trudge past them at a snail's pace.

For Wu Ziming, an Earth native, witnessing refugees firsthand was a sobering experience. Among them were youths, elders, and women cradling infants, their gaunt, sallow faces betraying a prolonged absence of nourishment.

They devoured anything in sight that wouldn't kill them – tree bark, grass roots, even dirt. The spark of intelligence had vanished from their eyes, leaving behind a primal desperation.

From a bird's-eye view, one could see the relentless stream of refugees marching from west to east, leaving barrenness in their wake. Villages and towns, whether guarded or not, were stripped bare by their ravenous passage. In another era, on Earth, such a force might have been called a rebellion. But in a world ruled by cultivators, defiance meant death, for a cultivator could easily twist off a rebel's head.

Thus, the unprotected hamlets became their prey, pillaged repeatedly as their numbers swelled with coerced villagers. Merchant caravans under cultivator protection steered clear, avoiding the spreading plague of hunger and panic.

The scene weighed heavily on Wu Ziming. On Earth, refugees he'd seen in the news were still recognizably human. But these people? They had degenerated into creatures driven solely by the need to feed.

"Brother Xiaoming..."

"I know what you're thinking, but you can't help them. This is your first lesson: don't get involved in affairs that aren't your own," Wu Ziming said, noting Xiaoming's faintly defiant look.

Xiaoming retrieved a clean white radish from the vegetable basket and offered it to an androgynous child at the roadside. The child bowed in gratitude before scurrying back to an adult's side.

But the child didn't get far before the radish was snatched by ravenous refugees nearby. Chaos ensued as a mass looting broke out, and amidst the tumult, the child was knocked unconscious, all for a single radish.

"See that? They're beyond help..." Wu Ziming had intended to give Xiaoming a piece of his mind, but one look at the refugees, eyes blazing as they sharpened their hoes and sickles, changed his mind. Their gaze was fixed on the goods atop the donkey cart. Xiaoming felt a sense of resignation; he had already taken enough lives for one day.

Following a chorus of screams, Xiaoming leisurely guided the donkey cart back, trailed by a swath of refugees too beaten to rise.

After a brief exchange with the city gate guards, they entered Eventide.

Wu Ziming surveyed the ancient streets. The cobblestone road stretched to the north gate, the main thoroughfare connecting the north and south gates, bisecting Eventide. The architecture lining the road boasted a Shang Dynasty style, with hieroglyphic signs swaying in the breeze. Though Wu Ziming couldn't read them, he could discern a teahouse from a tavern by the activity within.

The street was alive with frolicking children, shouting vendors, and a throng of busy pedestrians, along with camel traders and carts hauling exotic animals.

Navigating the donkey cart through the neighborhood, Xiaoming passed residential blocks reminiscent of modern living complexes and bustling commercial districts. Glancing back at the city gate, he was struck by its stark separation of hunger and poverty.

This sight involuntarily brought to mind a line from a poem he'd learned in school: "Behind rich doors, the stench of meat and wine, while frozen bones litter the road."

Approaching Auspicious Alley near one in the afternoon, he passed the Red House, devoid of soliciting courtesans, turned the corner, and steered the donkey cart into the backyard. There, Mark, shirtless and muscular, was washing his face.

"Back so late, did you go rustling chickens or sheep?" Mark doused his head with water from the basin, grabbed a towel from the well, and wiped down his sculpted muscles with an almost philosophical air.

"Cut it out, young master. Who are you showing off that scrawny frame for?" Xiaoming was baffled by Mark's odd behavior. With running water inside, why use well water? And why sun his skin in broad daylight? Wu Ziming also found it rather eye-watering.

Xiaoming scanned his surroundings, his gaze rapidly extending until he spotted a middle-aged woman perched atop a mansion in the northeast corner of the yard. She was peering through a telescope, her face flushed and drooling in a manner that suggested perversion. Turning back, he noticed Mark had already struck a pose.

"Enough already, no need to show off. I'm starving. Let's get some food going." With that, he flung the clothes from the drying rack onto Jefferson's face and signaled to Ziming to help move the goods into the icehouse.

Jefferson, now dressed, blew a kiss into the distance and made his way back to the kitchen. As he approached the door, he saw Ziming struggling to push a heavy box forward.

Technically, Ziming was supposed to be pushing the goods into the icehouse. Having skipped breakfast and lacking strength, it was Xiaoming who had managed to move all the goods while Ziming was still wrestling with the first crate.

Traversing the yard and into the icehouse, pushing a hundred-pound box, Ziming felt as though he had completed an entire Ironman Triathlon.

"I think, young Ziming, you'd be better off washing dishes at my place."

Mark, observing Ziming's exhausted state, chuckled heartily. "I bet back in the main world, he's the kind of kid who has everything handed to him. This heavy labor must be tough for him."

"Do you enjoy creating more troublemakers? Wasn't it you who led Ou Yang astray with that ridiculous harem theory? Aren't you a follower of God? How can you even face Jesus?" Jefferson, clearly embarrassed, could only offer a sheepish grin as he entered the kitchen.

"Who's Ou Yang?" Ziming inquired, hearing the unfamiliar name.

"A disciple of Jefferson with an overinflated ego and a case of chuunibyou. He took Jefferson's talk of men having multiple wives and concubines too seriously, tried to charm Xiao Nan, and ended up getting beaten so badly he's afraid to even come through the door," Xiaoming explained, wincing at the memory.

Ever since he left home to forge his own path, he became a completely different person. With brazen audacity, he charmed several true disciples from various sects, claiming to love each and every one of them. But really, what does an underage kid know about love?

"Is Nan really that violent?" Wu Ziming suddenly recalled the image of Baihe pummeling Xiaoming the night before, leaving him barely recognizable.

"It was Xiaoming who got the beating," Jefferson chuckled, poking his head out from the kitchen. "Ou Yang had to learn the hard way not to mess with Xiao Nan. He came to me in tears, snot running down his face—I almost burst out laughing."

"Hmm…" Wu Ziming pondered, realizing that Baihe was much taller than Xiaoming. They were quite the mismatch.

"Enough chit-chat, let's get cooking. You're supposed to be the chef," Xiaoming said as he barged into the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets like a bandit. "What's left?"

"We've only got rice and eggs," said Jefferson, tying on his apron with a hint of resignation. "You got back so late, it would take an hour just to prepare any meat."

"Then it's settled—egg fried rice. And don't try to pass off anything made by the system as your own. For Ziming, though, the system will do just fine."

"Okay." Jefferson skillfully tossed the ingredients into the pan, his movements fluid and effortless.

"System! Is Uncle Mark's system related to gourmet food?" Wu Ziming perked up at the mention of the system.

"Uncle!" Jefferson, who was by the stove, nearly flung the pan away in his surprise. He took his hands off the heat and placed them on Wu Ziming's shoulders, stating with gravity, "I'm only thirty-two. I'm not old enough to be called 'uncle' yet."

"Uncle! He's not even of age yet, so it's perfectly fine to call you uncle," Xiaoming quipped from his seat on a low stool.

In no time at all, Jefferson had whipped up two servings of fried rice. "Dig in, mascot!"

"You were asking about the system earlier. Yes, it's indeed a gourmet food system," Jefferson confirmed, removing his apron and sitting down on a bench by the stove to answer Wu Ziming's earlier question.