Chapter 9
Chapter 9: On the Road
The driver’s only real joy was the water the young Daoist gave him—salt water, and not the bitter cheap kind either, but clean blue salt dissolved into it.
Sometimes she even handed him a piece of candy-sweet pastry.
At night, when they stopped, the young Daoist would crouch nearby and gather wild greens, then roast them on a flat stone with salt.
The three of them ate together.
There was no meat, but salt and sugar went a long way.
The driver felt strength return to his limbs.
Five days later they reached Xu Chang.
The driver hesitated, then tried to persuade them one last time.
Grandpa Ling thanked him with a smile.
“This old Daoist has a reason I must go. If you truly pity me, little brother, why not take a little less for the remaining payment?”
The driver’s face changed instantly.
He tucked the silver away, turned the cart around, and left without another word.
Ling Jin Sui stared after him, half amused, half speechless.
Reality was sharp as a knife.
Still, compared to the people she’d met before, the driver counted as decent.
Grandpa Ling knew his granddaughter’s heart was soft.
He warned her again and again, low and urgent.
“Don’t hand out food and water casually. The moment you give to one, the rest will swarm.”
He looked her straight in the eyes.
“We have to find your mother and brother. There are too many suffering people in the world. We can’t save them all.”
Ling Jin Sui lowered her gaze.
“Don’t worry, Grandpa. I understand.”
That night, when their fire rose, children drifted near—beggar children with hollow cheeks and watchful eyes.
Farther off, strong young men stood in the dark with the look of wolves.
Ling Jin Sui and Grandpa Ling exchanged a glance.
They didn’t dare take out their cakes.
They only drank clear water.
Ling Jin Sui slipped Grandpa Ling an energy bar in silence.
He chewed slowly, careful not to make a sound.
Grandpa Ling told her to sleep while he kept watch.
Ling Jin Sui couldn’t.
She lay wrapped in a blanket, listening to the night, feeling eyes on her skin.
So she stayed awake beside Grandpa Ling, both of them scanning the dark.
When the young men finally decided the two poor Daoists had nothing worth taking, they melted away.
The beggar children didn’t leave.
As the night deepened and the cold sharpened, they crept closer to the fire to steal warmth.
In daylight they could dig wild greens, sip stream water, beg scraps.
At night, the cold gnawed through bone.
They didn’t dare go near crowds.
People chased them off.
Worse—some beat them, some tied them up to sell as slaves.
Maybe they thought Daoists and monks were kinder.
Maybe that thin hope was all they had.
So they edged close enough to feel the fire.
Grandpa Ling’s voice was grim when he spoke.
“This is still the mild part. When it gets truly bad… you’ll see people trading children to eat. These beggar children won’t have a chance.”
Ling Jin Sui looked at them—children who, in another world, would still be worrying about homework, sneaking a parent’s phone, complaining about snacks.
A little girl, maybe five, whispered to the boy holding her.
“Second Brother… I’m hungry.”
The boy tightened his arms around his sister and rubbed her flat belly.
“Endure a little. Eldest Brother will bring food back soon.”
Another child, voice trembling, whispered, “Eldest Brother hasn’t come back for two days. What if wolves ate him?”
Second Brother hissed, “Don’t talk nonsense. Be quiet. Eldest Brother will come back.”
Ling Jin Sui’s stomach clenched.
The thought came uninvited, ugly and real—some people didn’t see these children as children.
They saw them as reserve food.
She forced herself to breathe.
She looked down at the energy bar in her hand, then up at the dozen children.
Then she glanced at Grandpa Ling.
He sat still, but his thoughts were a storm.
At last, he sighed, defeated.
“Quietly. Don’t let those young men see.”
Relief hit Ling Jin Sui so hard she almost laughed.
She wanted to hug him and couldn’t.
She only nodded fast.
“Don’t worry, Grandpa. I’ll do it without anyone noticing.”
She pressed her palm.
Heat flared.
Light shimmered—and when it faded, she had what she needed.
She stripped the packaging from the energy bars she’d hoarded, shoved them into a plastic bag, and crammed it into her sleeve.
She grabbed a few bags of glucose water too.
Then she turned on the boy the little girl had called Second Brother, her voice harsh on purpose.
“Hey. You want to warm yourselves for free? Go gather firewood.”
The older beggar child scrambled at once, terrified she’d drive them off.
The little girl looked at Ling Jin Sui with an expression that made Ling Jin Sui’s throat tighten—an emptiness she’d only ever seen in abused stray animals.
When the children came back with wood, Ling Jin Sui shoved the bag into Second Brother’s hands in one quick motion.
“Don’t make a sound,” she whispered. “Hide and eat.”
“Thank you! Li Lin Feng will never forget Daoist Master’s great kindness as long as he lives.”
Ling Jin Sui’s chest ached.
She pressed a fire starter into his hand too, then met his eyes.
“Stay alive.”
Something lit in the boy’s gaze.
He ducked his head hard, as if to hide tears, and hurried back into the cluster.
Ling Jin Sui watched as Li Lin Feng crouched in the shadows behind the fire and snapped the bars in half, sharing them silently.
The children ate without a sound, as if chewing too loudly might get them killed.
Their eyes—dead and empty—gained a thin thread of light.
How long would that bag last?
Two days?
Three?
Ling Jin Sui prayed their Eldest Brother came back.
The night dragged on.
Ling Jin Sui slept only in thin, broken fragments.
Before the sky fully lightened, Grandpa Ling stamped out the fire and tugged Ling Jin Sui to her feet.
“Move.”
Ling Jin Sui looked at Li Lin Feng.
“We’re going to Luo City. We can’t take you.”
They walked far before Ling Jin Sui looked back.
The beggar children still stood there, watching their backs.
They didn’t dare thank her in front of Grandpa Ling.
Maybe they feared it would bring punishment down on the young Daoist who’d fed them.
So they said nothing—only watched, as if their silence could carry the weight of their gratitude.