I am not Ximen Qing.

The large iron pot was filled with steaming pollack soup, and a group of ragged women and children were gathered around it. They looked like they had been hiding in the woods for a month or so, their faces pale and thin, without any luster.

"Drink up, you must be starving." The uncle shook his head, looking helpless. What does dignity matter in the face of hunger? In the blink of an eye, a large pot of fish soup disappeared.

"Second Uncle, what shall we eat?" The nephew's hopes of finally getting to try something new were dashed.

"Child, refugee... Saving a life is more meritorious than building a seven-story pagoda."

"I don't care, I just want to drink fish soup. I've been craving it all winter."

"Let's hurry! Let's get going!"

"Second Uncle, I've done you a good deed and you haven't even said thank you."

"I wouldn't dare. It's better not to say anything to avoid getting upset."

"Then why not eat it yourself and leave it for others? That's really stupid."

The refugees disappeared into the distance, bowing and scraping. The uncle and nephew remained silent for a long time. The child couldn't understand—he'd encountered a group of mute people! He was angry with his uncle. What was the uncle thinking? The bloody heads? Perhaps he himself couldn't understand what he had done, only wanting the refugees to disappear from his sight. He didn't know the noble idiom of repaying evil with kindness. An honest man enslaved his entire life, he had even lost the spirit of hatred. He didn't realize he was already numb, only knowing to exert his strength, to have food to eat, and to take care of his nephew who had fled with him. His only memory was the family genealogy in the ancestral hall, but unfortunately, he was illiterate, a complete novice. He dared not think of Laiyang Prefecture in Shandong Province; it was all tears, burying his last relatives. The uncle and nephew, relying on each other for survival, had escaped death and starved to death, finding a way to live. Everything else had long since dried up in his mind. The other clan brothers who had fled with him had also survived. Some, more fortunate, were now married with children. He dared not dream of such a luxurious life, only wishing for his elder brother and sister-in-law to rest in peace. All hope for the family's revival rested on his nephew, Zhang Sirui; he had no time to think of anything else. Seeing his nephew's cleverness, he was content with nothing more. He resolved to become an ascetic, though he had no idea what that meant. His days were always the same: leaving early and returning late, rain or shine. Sometimes, he would hear the voices of wealthy gentry's children reading in a private school. He would then help his nephew herd the cattle, letting him eavesdrop by the window. His memory was exceptionally good, a trait he inherited from his father. His uncle often lamented that if his brother were alive and he were dead, their fates could have been reversed, and he could have taught the bright child a few words. But he was powerless to change his nephew's destiny. The nephew heard the old scholar's patriotic musings for the first time, but sadly, the children in the school were all drowsy.

Mencius said, “When the world declines and the Way weakens, heresies and violent acts arise. Ministers murdering their rulers and sons murdering their fathers have happened before. Confucius, fearing this, wrote the *Spring and Autumn Annals*. The *Spring and Autumn Annals* concerns the affairs of the Son of Heaven; therefore, Confucius said, ‘Those who understand me will only know me through the *Spring and Autumn Annals*! Those who condemn me will only know me through the *Spring and Autumn Annals*!’” The nephew, not understanding the meaning, memorized the old scholar's words. On his way to work, he recited these words to his uncle. Lu was Confucius's hometown. Upon hearing the words “Spring and Autumn Annals” and “Confucius,” the uncle felt a tremor in his heart. He also recounted the *Romance of the Three Kingdoms* told by storytellers when he was a child. He even imitated the storyteller's tone, telling the story of Guan Yu reciting the *Spring and Autumn Annals*.