Chapter 16: Entering the City

Late in the evening, on the main street of the provincial capital.

After two days of traveling outdoors, the master and his disciple finally entered the city, eager to find a place to satisfy their hunger.

The two walked toward the commercial district.

The provincial capital in the Republic era was shabby and worn, far from the splendor of later times, yet the streets remained bustling.

At a glance, several main thoroughfares were filled with a steady flow of traffic—bicycles, rickshaws, and light rail trams all mingled together.

Alongside the streets, people came and went.

There were rickshaw pullers, men and women dressed fashionably in Zhongshan suits, students in Republic-style school uniforms, foreigners in Western suits, and local tycoons clad in long robes…

Not far off, on an open patch of ground, some wandering performers were putting on a show.

An elderly man, thin and weathered past sixty, twirled a pair of wooden hammers with a blustery flourish.

Next to him, a dirt-streaked, half-grown boy banged on a battered gong, shouting out loudly to attract attention.

A single sweep of the scene revealed the myriad facets of humanity—the very essence of everyday life.

Time seemed to crystallize in this moment, weaving together a tapestry of contrasting atmospheres.

“Extra! Extra! Students from many universities in the capital strike! Workers join in protest against the endless war among the Beiyang factions!”

“Extra! Extra! The King of the Northeast sweeps through the region, holding power over three provinces!”

These cries came from newsboys.

Newsboys—a profession steeped in the spirit of the era.

Mostly poor children, barely scraping by selling newspapers. The character Sanmao from the classic “The Wandering Sanmao” once played this role.

Having spent long stretches on Mount Longhu, where news was scarce, Zhang Zhiwei planned to buy a newspaper to get a sense of the current situation.

Suddenly, a commotion arose ahead.

Upon closer inspection, it was an elderly man wearing a melon cap who had been apprehended by a patrol squad.

“Gentlemen, what’s the matter?” the old man bowed repeatedly, his voice full of supplication.

The patrol surrounded him. “Take off your hat. Even from a distance, we can smell the sour stench on your head.”

Hearing this, the old man dropped to his knees, pounding his head on the ground, begging for mercy.

“Please, spare me, spare me! Just treat me like nothing and let me go!”

“Why are you kneeling? The Qing dynasty has fallen. You’re not allowed to kneel. Stand up. We don’t want your life—we only want you to cut off that queue of yours!”

The patrol roughly yanked off the melon cap.

Beneath the hat was a coiled queue.

After the fall of the Qing Dynasty, the Republic government, citing the filial duty to honor one's body as received from one’s parents, forbade citizens from wearing the traditional “wild boar” hairstyle; all queues were to be cut off.

This decree was initially met with widespread resistance.

Nearly three centuries of imperial rule had entrenched the queue as an indispensable symbol in many hearts.

When the order to forcibly cut queues was first issued, the streets were filled with people wailing and begging, heads bowed in desperation.

Now, after some time, the shaving order had been enforced, and except for a few deeply submissive individuals, most had adapted to the new hairstyles.

This old man was one of those deeply attached to old customs.

He knelt on the ground, bowing his head repeatedly, even slapping his own face as he did so, displaying practiced familiarity.

He must have endured many such humiliations in earlier years.

Having seen such scenes often, the patrol was unmoved. One grabbed the old man’s queue and, starting at the root, snipped it off with a decisive clip.

A long, filthy braid, decades old and washed perhaps only twice a year, dropped to the ground.

The old man touched the top of his head in despair, realizing he had lost his queue forever, then collapsed limply onto the ground.

“Oh heavens!”

He wailed, clutching the foul-smelling braid to his face, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Ugh, what a pathetic sight!”

The patrol cursed, pushing the crowd aside. “Move along, move along, nothing to see here!”

After the patrol left, the onlookers lingered a moment, touching their own thick hair, then dispersed.

Only the old man remained, clutching his queue, lamenting as if mourning a lost son.

Zhang Jingqing seemed unfazed, neither staring nor commenting, walking ahead with his hands behind his back.

Zhang Zhiwei followed closely; such things were beyond his empathy.

From every perspective—beauty, practicality, and others—the “wild boar” hairstyle was hardly a blessing.

After this interruption, the newsboy had moved on. Zhang Zhiwei, uninterested in chasing after him, prioritized finding a meal.

By chance, they spotted a restaurant by the roadside, its ornate decor suggesting prosperity, and the master and disciple entered.

“May I help you, gentlemen?” a waiter greeted them.

Zhang Zhiwei placed several silver dollars on the counter. “Two of us. Bring whatever delicious dishes you have.”

Having just defeated a band of bandits and gained several dozen silver dollars, Zhang Zhiwei was flush with cash and generous with his spending.

Zhang Jingqing said little in response; as a Daoist of the Zhengyi sect, he had fewer formalities than those of the Quanzhen school.

“Master Daoist, please wait! The best dishes will be served right away!”

The waiter swept the money into his tray, poured tea with great attentiveness, then hurried to the kitchen, loudly ordering all the signature dishes to be brought out.

Though dramas often portray characters casually handing over large sums of silver, the reality of the time was that silver dollars held considerable purchasing power.

One silver dollar equaled one yuan, equivalent to two medium silver coins (five jiao each), ten small silver coins (one jiao each), or one hundred copper coins (one fen each).

The waiter they just saw earned about two silver dollars a month, while the chefs in the kitchen made around five silver dollars.

Prices were as follows: rice at three fen per jin, millet one fen, beef fifteen fen, mutton thirteen fen, pork eleven fen, white sugar ten fen, cotton cloth about twelve fen per market foot, and vegetables varied by a few fen.

Two silver dollars could buy sixty-six jin of rice.

In millet, that was two hundred jin—enough to feed a whole family.

The dozens of silver dollars in Zhang Zhiwei’s hand seemed trivial to the wealthy elite.

But for ordinary poor families, it was a fortune sufficient to sustain them for years.

While rubbing the portrait on the silver dollar, Zhang Zhiwei thought to himself how true the old saying was: “Kill and plunder, wear a golden belt; build roads and bridges, no corpses seen.”

Soon, various meat dishes arrived one after another.

Both master and disciple were practitioners accustomed to hearty meals, and before long, they had consumed most of the feast.

Next to Zhang Zhiwei, plates and bowls stacked into a thick pile.

Beside Zhang Jingqing, the pile was even taller.

Their appetite resembled the scene in “The Mischievous Sons,” where two apprentices and their master devoured a white-cut chicken.

Well… if only they had a third disciple.

Full and satisfied, Zhang Jingqing and Zhang Zhiwei stayed overnight at the restaurant.

The next morning, they set off for the train station.

A Daoist master was certainly no reactionary; if a train was available, he would ride it rather than a horse.

Zhang Zhiwei wholeheartedly agreed.

In fact, he had never ridden a coal-powered steam train before and was curious to experience it firsthand.