Chapter 3
When he returned to the three-story building he had helped construct, the old neighborhood streets were already filled with the smell of rice cooking. Elderly people, having finished selling vegetables, pedaled their tricycles home, the wheels turning steadily.
“The little landlord is back? Come, have a piece of watermelon—local melons.” Sister Liu, the fruit vendor downstairs, greeted him.
“Thanks, Sister Liu, but I’m good. You keep it.”
He had rented out the first floor of the small building to fruit vendors, earning eighty thousand a year to help with living expenses. He lived on the second and third floors himself, and there was still an attic left empty.
A building like this—over a hundred square meters of land, with a fifty-square-meter backyard, and close to the market—would never have ended up in their hands if it hadn’t been located in the southwest old district where demolition and reconstruction were prohibited, and if not for the fire that had happened there years ago, which even claimed lives.
He parked his electric scooter in the backyard. Carrying his things, he headed upstairs. He had barely climbed a few steps when a needle-like pain suddenly pierced through his chest.
Jiang Jitang clutched his chest, grabbed the wall, and sat down, struggling to breathe. His life was hanging by a thread—neither living well nor dying.
What a terrible, frail state.
Once he regained his strength, he held onto the stair rail and slowly walked up to the second floor. Sunlight filtered through the balcony and living room, reflecting to the entryway.
Looking up at the home he had personally furnished, all his fatigue dissipated, strength returned to him, and he displayed a faint smile.
Everything was ready, but Jiang Jitang wasn’t in a hurry to submit the tasks.
There was still more than an hour before the countdown for the Cowherd task ended. He went to the kitchen, grabbed a handful of rice, soaked it in water, then took the bag of pigments and painting tools to the balcony.
Jiang Jitang put on a mask and rubber gloves and began cleaning the recycled materials.
Among the discarded supplies in the painting studio were many absorbent cloths and sponges. He selected two of the newer cloths.
He scrubbed them with detergent, and soon, under running water, they returned to their original clean white. He wrung them dry and placed them in the drying basket outside.
Next were the discarded sheets of xuan paper. There were both shu-xuan paper [1] suitable for meticulous gongbi painting [2] and sheng-xuan paper suitable for freehand xieyi style [3]. He sorted them into two piles. Most were brand new; some had paint stains or small flaws along the edges. In total, one hundred eighty-seven sheets.
He pressed them flat, rolled them separately, and placed them at the bottom layer of the painting box.
There were also brush washers, brush rests, and palettes. He picked several white porcelain ones and arranged them together.
That set alone was sufficient.
He placed the clean, polished porcelain set on the second layer, then added the salvaged ink stick and round inkstone.
The ink stick was made from oil soot, commonly used for painting. The round inkstone had a lid and a deep well capable of holding more ink, also suitable for painting.
He kept only one set of miscellaneous items but kept all the brushes—sixteen in total: goat fur, wolf fur, and mixed fur brushes, usable for various styles, mostly still in good condition.
He cleaned and dried the brushes, rolled them in a brush wrap, and placed them next to the porcelain painting tools.
Layer by layer, item by item—everything neatly organized and pleasing to the eye.
Three hours and thirty-eight minutes had passed since accepting the commission.
He stood and went to the kitchen. He put the soaked rice into a small white porcelain pot, chopped a small piece of lean meat into mince, added it to the rice, started the porridge-cooking mode, and then returned to the balcony to retrieve the pigment storage box which he took from the teacher he saw in the classroom.
Inside the box were thirty-six solid colors, but the pigments were almost gone—only the compartments remained.
The detachable storage cells, with magnetic strips attached to their bottoms, were removed, quickly scrubbed clean, and placed in the small sterilizing cabinet in the living room to disinfect and dry.
He went back to the balcony and sorted the remaining paint tubes by color.
Watercolor and traditional Chinese painting pigments both solidify and are activated by water—so when on a budget, one can buy refills. Jiang Jitang fetched a toothpaste squeezer from the bathroom and squeezed the residual paint from the tubes.
Each storage cell could hold 2ml of pigment—about the amount extracted from several nearly empty tubes. But a few cells were only half full, looking uneven and mismatched.
“Forget it, that’ll do.” Jiang Jitang forced himself to look away, ignoring the unevenness.
He placed the metal pigment box on the top layer of the painting case, put the half-dry absorbent cloth on top, closed the lid, locked it, and lifted the handle.
Everything was ready.
But he still didn’t submit the task.
The porridge was nearly done, the thick porridge oil bubbling on the surface. He chopped a green vegetable, sprinkled it into the pot, covered it, and set another small stove to boil an egg.
Finally, the porridge was ready. He seasoned it with salt and scallions. The egg was done too—round, white, and steaming.
“The plastic container is from a takeaway; the bag and spoon together cost less than one cent. The rice is locally produced—1.6 yuan per jin. The mince is less than half a liang, from discounted leftover hindquarter pork in the afternoon—14.5 yuan per jin. The actual material cost of this porridge is under one yuan. The egg is the smallest type—feed-grade, no more than fifty cents. So this food portion costs less than 1.6 yuan in total.”
After calculating silently, Jiang Jitang placed the porridge and egg on the painting case.
[Submit task.]
The scene shifted before his eyes, accompanied by a burst of white mist.
He and his items appeared before an abandoned, dilapidated temple.
A shaft of slanted sunlight broke through the low, leaky roof and draped gently over him. A child curled up in the corner opened his eyes with difficulty and looked toward the light.
[Please complete the transaction within thirty minutes.]
A floating text box appeared at the right moment.
“Who are you?”
The words written on paper were only ‘Beaten’, but in reality, it was feverish pain. The child in the corner could barely breathe—like a candle flickering in the wind, about to go out.
“Cough, cough… who are you?” Seeing the figure remain still, the child coughed weakly, sounding pitiful.
Jiang Jitang walked over slowly, half crouched down, set the painting case beside him, took out the porridge and egg, and helped the boy—whose head displayed the words [Cowherd]—sit up against a pillar.
“I’m someone you hired for eight copper coins,” he said while stirring the porridge to cool it down.
The Cowherd didn’t believe him, but he was too weak to resist the stranger’s help. He couldn’t even reject the warm rice porridge by his lips. He hadn’t eaten for two days.
His father and mother had driven him to the town after learning he had run away from the dye workshop without permission. They told him that only when they were forgiven could he go home—after kneeling in the backyard of his employer.
A dye workshop was too big of an entity for a farming family to offend. But he couldn’t kneel in hatred, so he limped to the temple instead and soon developed a fever.
He no longer had a home—only the eight copper coins he’d saved.
“Good sir, when I die… please cover me with a straw mat. The eight copper coins are in my inner pocket.” His tears had dried, his voice hoarse from fever. Perhaps death was close.
“You won’t die. Open your mouth.”
He opened his mouth involuntarily. The thick porridge oil fell like spring rain on dry land.
The porridge smelled so good—there was even meat. He must be dying, dreaming of eating fine grain rice and meat before death.
The Cowherd felt so sad he wanted to cry. Rice was so delicious, meat was so delicious—he truly didn’t want to die.
If only this dream could last longer.
The bowl was scraped clean. The frail child fell asleep soon after eating his fill. His brows were still furrowed in pain.
“You’ll get better.” Jiang Jitang placed his palm on the boy’s burning forehead.
The system had chosen him—there must be some luck in it.
“Live well, and remember to give a good rating.”
The boy didn’t hear him; he was already asleep. Jiang Jitang watched for a moment, then tucked the boiled egg into the child’s arms and pulled down the temple’s tattered curtain to cover his curled-up body.
He left the painting case beside him, also covered with cloth.
A brief encounter—he would have to walk the rest of the road alone.
Leaving the temple and stepping into the orange afterglow, the warmth on his expression faded into calm.
[Requesting settlement.]
[Task of purchasing painting tools and pigments for Cowherd completed. Settlement in progress.]
—
Jiang Jitang returned home.
He looked at the projected wall clock.
Half an hour had passed in the other world, but only five minutes here. Time flowed differently in each.
Strike while the iron is hot—he should submit the remaining two tasks as well.
The first task had been at dusk. Now it was night, and even the season had changed—from autumn and winter to summer.
Under sparse moonlight, he stood before a farmhouse halfway up a mountain. The house was built with stacked stones, with a stone slab roof. Spring water trickled into a jar. Wild vegetables grew unchecked in the yard.
There was moonlight outside, but inside was pitch dark. He heard an elderly woman say she had been cheated out of sixty copper coins. Her voice broke as she spoke, almost choking.
An old man comforted her, saying that losing money was shielding from misfortune. Tomorrow he would search the mountain—perhaps something had fallen into a trap—they still had time.
Cheated?
Jiang Jitang lowered his head and met the beady eyes of a hen. The hen on the right clucked, and the one on the left followed suit. Both chickens clucked loudly.
Hearing movement, someone inside called out, “Who’s there?”
Before he could answer, he heard hurried movements inside, someone getting dressed.
Half a minute later, the wooden door creaked open. A small elderly couple, dressed plainly with wooden hairpins, stepped out. The words [Elderly woman] flashed above the wife’s head.
“Good evening, this is…” He lifted his arms. Startled, the hens flapped wildly, feathers flying.
“Ah!” The elderly couple screamed.
They couldn’t see clearly in the dark—only a tall figure lit by moonlight holding something terrifying.
“These are your…” Jiang Jitang took another step forward.
“Please, good sir, don’t come closer!” The couple trembled violently.
“Who?!” A deep voice boomed from the adjacent room. A strong middle-aged man—like a bull—rushed out wielding a hoe.
“…the chickens you bought for sixty copper coins.” Seeing the man about to charge forward, he quickly finished his sentence.
Though nearly injured on the job, he managed to complete the task without incident in the end.
To the old couple’s repeated apologies, Jiang Jitang left the moonlit house, bidding farewell to a star-filled sky.
—
The final task was delivering an abacus to an innkeeper’s assistant. It happened in front of an inn, during bright daytime.
He appeared in an empty alley. A trail of red light unseen by others led him to the inn assistant.
This was the county town. The inn assistant was busy welcoming guests in the main hall. Just after wiping a table, Jiang Jitang called out to him.
“The abacus you wanted.”
With his unusual clothing, short hair, and striking looks, Jiang Jitang drew many gazes. But he remained composed—nervousness was for the assistant.
“Thank you, sir.” The assistant accepted the second-hand abacus wrapped in kraft paper, hands trembling.
Jiang Jitang nodded, about to leave, when the stabbing pain hit again. He felt a sweetness in his throat, something warm flowing from the corner of his mouth.
The assistant looked alarmed. “Are you all right?!”
He wiped his mouth—it was dark red blood.
“I’m fine, just coughed up a little blood.” Jiang Jitang said seriously, “Remember to leave a good review.”
“…”
Afterward, with a forced “blood-spitting debuff” applied, he returned home. He sat on the sofa, deep in thought.
All three tasks had been completed, taking a total of fifteen minutes. Settlement was in progress, and he now had a brief moment of freedom. So he pondered.
“What should I eat for lunch?”
Footnotes:
[1] Sheng Xuan (raw) paper is highly absorbent, causing ink to spread, while Shuxuan (ripe) paper is treated with sizing (like alum) to reduce ink absorption, making it more suitable for detailed, precise work.
[2] Gongbi is a traditional Chinese painting style characterized by meticulous, realistic, and highly detailed brushwork.
[3] Xieyi style is a traditional Chinese painting method that prioritizes capturing the spirit and essence of a subject through expressive, spontaneous, and minimal brushstrokes rather than realistic detail.
Extremadamente escaso… Yo que solo le pongo queso o salsa a los fideos de arroz ?
Gracias por la traducción.