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墨書 Inktalez
Linhai City, the central city of Huaguo, is the most renowned economic metropolis, where every inch of soil seems capable of yielding gold. It is the dream habitat of the people of Huaguo.
Yet beneath the sunlight, darkness inevitably lurks; no matter how prosperous a city may be, there are corners filled with poverty.
On the outskirts of the city lies an old residential area that has stood for forty years. The peeling walls of the buildings tell tales of the passage of time.
In the early morning, a young boy stepped out from Room 305 of Building 12. He had a youthful and delicate face, bright eyes, and appeared to be around twelve years old.
The boy struggled to pull shut the large iron gate, which had long been in disrepair. His face tightened with effort, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead.
Taking a deep breath, he casually wiped his forehead with his hand, ensuring that the disproportionately heavy iron gate was securely closed before he turned to leave.
In this dilapidated residential area, aside from rats and stray cats and dogs, theft was never a concern. However, ever since he had gained enough strength to close the iron gate, every time he left home, he had to exert considerable effort to shut it tight, only to spend even more energy pushing it open upon his return.
The reason was simple: inside was his only family member.
Being the only one made that person incredibly important. The boy feared that if that person were to disappear, he would be left all alone.
Such a world would be too cruel.
He descended the crumbling stairs, picking up any plastic bags and flyers he could find along the way before tossing them into the trash bin at the corner of the building.
Fortunately, basic property management was decent; garbage was collected every morning, preventing it from piling up like a mountain.
After disposing of the trash, he passed by two buildings and turned right at the side entrance of the district. Walking two hundred meters further brought him to a vegetable market.
The boy had been coming here to buy groceries for three or four years, as if it were a daily routine.
He picked up some fresh Amaranth, selected two medium-sized tomatoes, weighed out two pounds of eggs, and exchanged a few casual words with the familiar Vegetable Aunt politely before heading home with his vegetables.
After gently placing the groceries down, he exerted considerable effort to open the heavy iron gate, took out his keys, and unlocked the door to his home.
The room was dimly lit; the curtains were drawn even during the day, blocking out the sunlight. The living room was not very spacious, but it was tidy and almost spotless. Not even a speck of dust could be found on the two-meter-high cabinet. The boy carefully climbed up on two stools to clean it.
He placed the food in the kitchen and glanced at the Clock hanging on the wall. Feeling that there was still plenty of time, he walked into the bedroom to check on his only relative.
As he pushed open the bedroom door, it felt like stepping into the night. The light inside was even dimmer than in the living room. Double-layered curtains hung by the window, preventing any sunlight from invading.
The boy disliked returning here because it was filled with a sense of despair.
Yes, despair. He confirmed that this word he had read in books perfectly described the scene in the bedroom. He couldn't understand why, while the sunlight outside was so bright and warm, his only relative chose to avoid it.
His delicate brows furrowed slightly at that moment.
"Yesterday we had Claypot Chicken; today we should eat something lighter like vegetables. It's my birthday after all; it's customary to have Vegetable Noodle Soup."
He walked over to the window and looked at the disheveled figure lying on the bed with closed eyes, a wave of sadness washing over him.
Other people's fathers were neat and tidy, often playing with their children in community parks. But his father seemed to have never washed his face in his memory; he rarely left this bed, let alone stepped outside to accompany him to play in the park.
Habitually, he spoke a few words to his father, even though he almost never received a response and rarely spoke at all.
The boy disliked the silence that filled the room, despite his name being Yin Mo.
He picked up a copy of the Tao Te Ching from the bookshelf and settled into a chair that had long been placed by the window. Casually, he lifted a corner of the curtain, allowing a beam of sunlight to stream in, infusing the dreary bedroom with a hint of freshness.
Stealing a glance over his shoulder, he saw that his father had not yet awakened, which gave him the peace of mind to begin his daily task—reading.
His daily tasks were numerous. Since he could remember, the first Chinese characters he learned were related to homework. The books lined up on the shelf had been etched in his memory; from learning to read until now, he had gone through the classics of Confucianism, the strategies of Warfare, the principles of Mohism, and the laws of Legalism. He had also skimmed through Ghost Valley as per his father's request and was now starting to read the Daoist masterpiece.
To be honest, for the boy, reading these obscure and difficult texts was quite challenging. Even if he managed to read through them, it didn't mean he truly understood them. How could someone with only eight years of life experience grasp the profound meanings hidden between the lines?
However, since his father asked him to read, he obediently complied without ever slacking off, even though he had many other things to accomplish each day.
Beside him lay a hefty Newly Compiled Dictionary that he had bought at his father's insistence. Back then, picking up this heavy book was quite a struggle for him; now it was nearly worn out from his frequent use.
After reading a page filled with about two hundred characters, he rubbed his eyes and marked his place before returning the book to its spot. He then jumped down from the chair, glanced once more at his father who was still with closed eyes, and turned to head out to prepare breakfast.
It was simple: using leftover rice from yesterday mixed with some fresh grains to make porridge, which included two eggs. In a corner of the kitchen stood an old jar containing Special Pickled Mustard Roots passed down from the neighbor's grandmother. He took a clean white plate and scooped some out before carrying a large bowl of porridge and a peeled egg to his father in the bedroom.
After placing everything down, he habitually called out, "Dad, it's time to eat," before turning around and leaving the room.
His father disliked being watched while eating—a rule he had figured out on his own. Whenever he was in the bedroom, his father would remain still. But when he left and returned later, all the food he had prepared would be gone without a trace.
During these moments, the boy felt happy because it reassured him that his father still cared about him; he wasn't being ignored completely. He was not alone after all.
After finishing his meal in the kitchen, the boy returned to the bedroom to wash the dishes clean and tidy up a bit before diving back into his studies.
Standing in front of a blank wall in the living room, the boy placed his hands on the ground and then swung his legs against the wall for leverage. Once his body stabilized, he slowly released one hand, spread his legs apart, and used one hand to maintain balance, holding this position for five minutes.
He had only started trying this with one hand two months ago, so he couldn't hold it for too long. In fact, if he pushed himself a bit more, he could manage ten or even fifteen minutes, but that would leave him unable to continue with normal activities afterward.
He was worried about his father and concerned that he might go hungry, so after trying it once, he didn't dare to continue.
After five minutes, the boy switched back to using both hands, then changed to the other hand to continue the same training.
Once he finished, he returned to a normal position. Although he was slightly out of breath, it wasn't too severe.
Without resting, the boy continued with eighty quick push-ups, followed by fifty squats, then another fifty push-ups, and finished with another fifty squats.
Only after completing this set of exercises did he truly feel the soreness and fatigue. However, after a brief rest, he could recover to an active state.
After exercising, the boy walked into his bedroom and resumed reading from the morning. Once he finished a page, he closed the book and went back to the living room to continue his previous training.
Handstands, push-ups, squats.
The cycle repeated itself.
Before long, it was lunchtime. The boy used a rice cooker to prepare rice and then stir-fried some amaranth. After making a mushu shitzi dish, he began eating.
Just like in the morning, he brought food to his father in the bedroom and finished his meal in the kitchen before cleaning up.
The afternoon held a set training schedule for him as well, but before that, there was one more task he needed to complete.
The old man in Building Five enjoyed playing chess with him. Whenever he had the time, he would always accompany him for a few games.
So, he locked the door according to the procedure and left his home.
At the moment the heavy iron gate closed, the Slovenly Man lying in the bedroom suddenly opened his eyes.
What a pair of eyes they were, as if they had traversed through a thousand years, filled with stories.
After a while, he closed them again, as if they had never been opened at all.
(To be continued)
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