Chapter Thirteen: Fellow Exiles

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Ordinarily, forging a friendship with someone like this would not be so easily achieved. But now, the man in question was a disgraced official, recently fallen on hard times. Was this not precisely the moment to offer timely assistance?

Stepping out from the Huai Cai Tavern, Jia Ping’an’s gaze swept the surroundings, settling on a ragged youth.

In the bitter cold of midwinter, the boy wore only a thin paper garment. Even so, this fragile clothing was riddled with holes, leaving him barely covered as he hunched in a corner.

Despite his trembling from the cold, his eyes remained bright and alert, scanning the area as if searching for something.

Jia Ping’an had seen many such typical young beggars in the city.

Setting aside the fact that Ningguta’s climate was indeed harsh and bone-chilling, the native population was sparse. The city’s population of fifty thousand was largely made up of exiled officials and their families, whose presence crowded the area.

These pitiable beggars were often descendants of disgraced officials, sent here with their families. When their elders passed away, they were left to survive on their own. Lacking skills, many resorted to begging.

Jia Ping’an naturally held a low opinion of beggars. After all, with hands and feet intact, why not strive to do something worthwhile?

Of course, that was his perspective from a past life. In this feudal dynasty, even those of somewhat reputable background would not hire beggars, no matter the need.

The reason was simple: beggars were not trustworthy. Who could be sure they would work diligently, or worse, might steal from their employers?

And if such theft occurred, what recourse was there? Could they be handed over to authorities?

Even the officials were reluctant, for imprisoning them meant the state had to bear the cost of their upkeep—a poor investment indeed.

Common folk avoided hiring those of uncertain origins. Over time, beggars found it nearly impossible to improve their lot. So when Jia Ping’an saw them, he did not view them through his past life’s lens. If possible, he preferred to give them a chance.

Like now, stepping out of the tavern, his eyes caught that youth, whose bare, tattered clothing did not mask the brightness and purity of his gaze, leaving a deep impression.

“You, come here.” He pointed directly at the boy.

But that very gesture drew the attention of a dozen or so other beggars nearby. Like rats drawn to meat, they quickly swarmed.

“I didn’t call you all. Step back.”

Seeing so many beggars rush forward, Jia Ping’an’s brow furrowed.

He knew every trade had its own rules; even among beggars, there were hierarchies and territories.

But those were their rules, not his.

“I am stronger and more capable than he is. Choose me,” one said.

“Master, he’s starving and weak. Consider me instead,” another urged.

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Some beggars in their twenties or thirties approached, each belittling the youth to highlight their own superiority.

“I said, all of you step aside. Or I won’t hesitate to summon the guards and let you feel pain,” Jia Ping’an warned, knowing some people could not be reasoned with. As he spoke, he raised a token.

A wooden token inscribed with the character for “Hu” appeared in his hand—gifted by Steward Hu Shoufu after Jia Ping’an had successfully treated the old madam’s illness, intended to smooth his entry into the General’s residence when needed.

Now, it served to intimidate these desperate folk willing to do anything for a morsel.

At the sight of the token, those beggars who had hoped to benefit from Jia Ping’an halted.

Most were illiterate, but in Ningguta, the Hu token was familiar. Some recognized it immediately and stopped in their tracks; others, seeing their fellows stop, wisely stayed put.

Begging allowed laziness, but not a lack of discernment—otherwise, survival would be impossible.

All remained still except the youth Jia Ping’an had singled out, who stepped forward cautiously.

“Master, are you looking for me?”

“Come with me.” Jia Ping’an studied the boy again, noting that aside from his tattered clothes, he was surprisingly clean, unlike other beggars whose approach brought a foul stench.

“Yes.” The boy nodded repeatedly, trailing carefully behind Jia Ping’an as they left the tavern and headed toward the city center.

The other beggars, losing their chance, slunk back to sheltered spots near the tavern, some quarreling or even fighting over the best place to sit.

Jia Ping’an paid them no mind. Those who give up cannot expect heaven’s aid.

After walking a hundred paces, farther from the tavern, Jia Ping’an finally spoke.

“Do you know where a man named Master Tong lives in this city?”

“Master Tong? I know, I know. I do,” the boy replied eagerly.

“Lead the way.” Jia Ping’an nodded lightly. Indeed, beggars were often familiar with their local terrain, more so than he was, making the search easier.

Aware of Jia Ping’an’s purpose, the youth led the way at a steady pace—neither too fast nor slow—showing good judgment.

The Tong residence.

Far inferior to Jia’s, it consisted of two dilapidated huts, leaking drafts everywhere. One could imagine that warmth was a luxury, comfort a rare occurrence.

In the small courtyard stood a man in his early thirties, hands clasped behind his back, passionately pleading with two city guards.

Jia Ping’an stopped outside, his keen hearing catching every word despite the distance. Tong was accusing someone of theft and requesting a loan from the authorities to pay for medical treatment for his old servant, Tong Gui.

The guards shook their heads in refusal.

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“We are aware of the matter. We will investigate the thieves. As for your request to borrow money, do not mention it again,” the guards said flatly. To them, such cases were routine; sympathy was long drowned out by survival.

Ordinary officers lived modestly and had no means to help others.

After noting the stolen items, ignoring Tong’s desperate pleas, the guards turned and left, leaving him standing, sighing deeply.

Jia Ping’an’s sharp eyes caught a subtle detail—Tong’s knees had buckled slightly, hinting at an attempt to kneel.

It is said that beneath a man’s knees lies gold, especially for scholars who value honor greatly.

Yet, to save his servant, Tong was willing to yield his pride and kneel—such desperation spoke of a compassionate heart.

Having observed everything, Jia Ping’an stepped boldly into the courtyard once the guards departed.

Engrossed in sorrow, Tong did not notice until footsteps on the snow startled him. He looked up to find a young man clad in a sheepskin cloak standing before him.

The youth’s rosy lips, white teeth, and spotless face radiated a soothing presence. Most striking was his demeanor—like a sturdy pine standing tall amidst the snow, exuding an inexplicable sense of security.

“Who are you...?” Tong asked, suspicion mingling with curiosity as this stranger entered his domain.

“I am a doctor,” Jia Ping’an replied simply. “I heard there was a patient here and happened to be passing by, so I came to take a look.”

“A doctor?” Tong scrutinized him up and down, surprised at his youth. Normally, he might have refused help, for physicians were esteemed by age.

But now, robbed and penniless, desperate and without recourse, Tong clutched at any straw.

He wished to try Jia Ping’an’s aid, though he hesitated.

“I have no money to pay for treatment,” he said reluctantly.

“No matter. Fate has brought us together. You may settle the bill later. Surely you won’t refuse to pay?”

“Of course not.” The promise of credit eased his worries. He was merely short of funds after the theft but literate enough to earn by writing letters. “Please, doctor.”

Snapping back to reality, Tong stepped aside to let Jia Ping’an enter.

Without hesitation, Jia Ping’an strode into the hut facing the gate.

The room was small. Inside, a wooden bed held a man with a flushed face—undoubtedly the old servant, Tong Gui.