Volume One: The Scroll of New Rain Chapter One: The Child at the Mountain's Back

The rain had been falling in the small town for three days. In the early morning, the valley was alive with the gentle sound of flowing water. Mist drifted down from the mountain forests above, enveloping the little town in a hazy, white world.

Within the fog, the silhouettes of early risers appeared from time to time, but it seemed as though no one wished to disturb the town’s tranquility; their steps were gentle, their movements quiet.

Suddenly, heavy footsteps joined the chorus of water. The mist was violently stirred as a massive figure, taller than two men, moved slowly and ponderously through the haze.

The townspeople seemed accustomed to this sight, continuing their quiet work. When the figure brushed past a resident, the wind it carried scattered the fog, revealing its face.

A child’s face, no more than eight or nine years old. It was a boy of eight or nine.

Thin and frail, the boy carried a load of firewood taller than himself on his back. He looked like a little ant hauling a morsel many times its own size—comical, yet pitiable.

But in the moment he lifted his face, it was as if clear sunlight pierced the dense mist.

The fog condensed into sparkling dew on his long eyelashes, yet even more luminous than the dew were his eyes—black and white, calm and bright.

He was a clean boy. Clean—not only in appearance, but in spirit.

“Good morning, Uncle Wang!” The boy smiled, greeting the man he passed with familiarity.

“Morning, Yezi. Up before dawn again to chop firewood, eh? You’ve really got it hard.” Uncle Wang paused, looking at the boy beside him.

“No choice, you get used to it.” The boy grinned, his smile radiant.

“Sigh, with that strange... well, at least you’re broad-minded. Are you going to take the academy entrance exam again this year?” Uncle Wang affectionately patted the boy’s head.

“Yes, I’ll go after breakfast.” The boy lowered his head, rubbing it against Uncle Wang’s rough palm, replying obediently.

“Go on, then. Try your best to get into the academy this year. Though Master Zhuang’s temper is a bit odd and he’s prejudiced against your family, his scholarship is truly profound. If you’re taught by him, you’ll surely benefit.” Uncle Wang let go of the boy and pointed towards the road ahead.

“Goodbye, Uncle!” The boy waved, continuing on with his mountain of wood, stepping into the mist like a solitary boat carving its path.

The town was small, only a few dozen households, but the homes were spread far apart. The boy trudged for half an hour before reaching his house—a courtyard piled with firewood higher than the roof.

The house was simple, but the grounds were spacious: two bamboo huts, and the rest was a huge garden fenced with stakes. In a town with so few people, land was never an issue. It was said that the little peak behind the house belonged to them, though it had been designated a forbidden area for reasons unknown, making it as good as not having it at all.

The boy placed the damp firewood in the corner of the courtyard’s woodpile, grimacing as he stretched his stiff shoulders, his joints popping unpleasantly. Glancing at the still-shut door of the right-hand hut, he muttered, “Uncle’s not up yet.”

He lightened his steps, gently pushed open the door of the other hut, and began to busy himself. Soon, the aroma of breakfast drifted out, rousing the birds perched in the tree outside, who began to chirp noisily. A bright golden sun rose behind the trees, its rays dispelling the rain and mist, casting speckled patches of yellow beneath the branches.

It was the rare clear weather the town had seen lately.

After setting the wooden table beneath the courtyard tree, the boy turned to fetch the dishes: two porcelain bowls, two pairs of bamboo chopsticks. When breakfast was ready, the wooden door of the right-hand hut gave a gentle, familiar creak.

The door opened, sunlight spilling across a face with open, gentle features.

A middle-aged man sat in a wheelchair, temples touched with gray, his face tilted to gaze at the sun among the branches. His eyes were half closed, fine lines stretching from the corners, his expression distant. Only his brows stood out—pale, but straight as swords.

“Uncle, breakfast is ready,” the boy called.

“Coming.” The man replied quietly, wheeling himself over to the table. The boy waited for him to pick up his chopsticks before sitting down.

The breakfast was decent: steaming white porridge fragrant with rice, golden fried eggs, a plate of greens. But most of the porridge was the man’s, most of the greens were the man’s, and all the eggs belonged to him. The boy had only half a bowl of porridge and a single strip of greens.

He ate slowly, carefully savoring every bite. The man, meanwhile, ate quickly, his porridge and vegetables soon gone, while the boy’s half-bowl was barely touched.

The man glanced at the boy, who was still bent over his bowl. “You’re going to the academy trial today.”

Though his tone was inquisitive, it carried certainty.

“Yes.” The boy looked up, frowning. “Uncle, why don’t you want me to study with Master?”

“Why do you want to study with Master?” the man retorted.

“Because I don’t understand, and you can’t tell me. And you said Master knows the most.” The boy replied.

“Because Master won’t like you. I’ve told you before. The island is chaotic; we’re not like the others,” the man said.

“But I want to try.” The boy finished his porridge, set down his bowl, and looked up sincerely, his eyes bright. “Because I truly want to know.”

“Go, then. It’s your life—you can decide.” The man reached out, naturally wiping a stray bit of porridge from the boy’s mouth, then placed the remaining half-fried egg into the boy’s bowl.

“It’s been half a year since you’ve had an ‘overflow’. You’ll need your strength for today’s trial—eat a little more.”

“Okay.” The boy beamed, lowering his head again, burying his small face in his big bowl and diligently tackling his rare portion of egg.

The courtyard fell silent, while voices from the distant village grew louder. The man sat in his wheelchair, quietly watching the dappled shadows on the ground as a half-yellow leaf drifted lazily from the branch to earth.

His gaze softened; on this warm island, the trees shed old leaves for new.

Spring had come again.

The child was growing up.

PS. New author, new book—please add to your favorites, recommend, and comment.