Falling Dreams Of Fang Hua

Chapter 1: A Single Rancid Mantou

A temple.

A dilapidated temple.

A dilapidated temple without the scent of incense, nor the sign of worshippers.

The lighting in the temple was heavy and hazy, its interior completely wrecked. The body of the Buddha statue in the center was completely covered in dust and shattered, though it still looked dignified. A dilapidated temple like this couldn't shield from the wind or rain, but destitute people frequently used it as a place to hide.

There was no fire burning within the temple, so it was a bit chilly.

On the side, a few people dressed in rags who resembled beggars hugged rolls of dry grass, claiming the warmest, driest places for themselves. As for me, I used my sleeve to wipe my face and spat once.

I scanned each corner of the area while undoing my waistband, squatting in the forest in front of the temple. Pretending to go to the bathroom, I waited until no one was looking before digging in the dirt...

It was risky doing something during this time of day, so I had to be quick and precise. The old, long robe I was wearing didn't fit my body at all. I knew this outfit made me look ridiculous. The ash-green clothes were even stolen off a dead body.

I didn't know my name.

An old beggar at the temple said I was delivered here by my mother on a windy, snowy day. She was a woman with a teardrop birthmark at the corner of her eye, a peerless youth whose beauty was unlike a mortal's. Whenever the old smelly beggar got to this point, he'd look at me with a turbid eye and shake his head hopelessly. And then I knew he'd say, you're not even equal to one-tenth of your mother's looks.

Pah!

This old beggar was already at death's door, but still so lecherous.

Though I say this, he was my only protector within the rundown temple. Even when hunger struck, he never forgot to leave a mouthful of soup for me.

"During the chaotic years of war, soldiers mutinied and troops rebelled. Families were torn apart and numerous starving corpses were displayed." These were the last words the old man left me before he died. I thought they were the most educated things he ever said because I couldn't understand a thing.

But as a little beggar, I didn't need things like inner meanings and polished conduct. No matter how many words I learned, it wouldn't find my food. For me to live on this crappy piece of land for five years without starving to death was nothing short of a miracle.

I once had a major illness whose fever muddled my head, so I had no idea how old I was. At first glance, I appeared to be seven or eight as a child, but I don't think I was only that old, because I understood a lot of things. Maybe I just didn't grow up enough.

Up until he died, the old beggar firmly believed I still had unsettled things. He said back then the temple wasn't so rundown and I wore very good clothes as if I was the child of a rich family. He told me I had a mother, and she'd definitely come back to pick me up.

But, none of what he said to me left a lasting impression... ...

This old beggar used to be a storyteller, so who knew if all the things he used to say were just wild tales. This was a place where a man-eat-man creed was forced to exist. As for me, the only thing to do was to figure out how to keep living.

In the present, reality had the only person who was good to me in the temple dead. My future prospects were bleak, but luckily the old beggar left me some food before he passed away.

My tedious, long sleeves were covered in dust from being dragged through the ground. Filthy dirt lined my fingernails. After digging through the moist earth, I unearthed an oil-paper package containing the remnants of half a mantou[1]. This year, there was very little food. There were even people willing to eat white clay[2], so stealing, hiding, looting were all common techniques for survival. Only by doing this could one keep living in these turbulent times.