A Mortal’s Immortal Gourd
Chapter 5: Sanchazi Town

The fifteenth day of the first lunar month—Lantern Festival.

Crackle pop...

The fire pit gave off sharp crackling sounds as the rice grains inside popped into white, fluffy puffs.

Ergouzi squatted by the fire, quickly poking the popped rice out of the ashes with a stick.

He blew on them and stuffed them into his mouth.

Crunch crunch...

So good!

After half a month of hard work, he had built a small thatched hut over five feet wide using firewood and straw—it could block wind and rain.

He had already planted half a mu of rice in the snowy land.

By watering them with the gourd every day, they matured and could be harvested in just ten days. The first few batches had already yielded a bountiful harvest.

Now, he could finally splurge and fill his belly for once.

Roasting and eating at the same time, before he knew it, he had eaten over sixty ears of rice.

Afterward, he drank some water. The popped rice expanded in his belly, and he finally felt full.

But after eating, he started to regret it—it felt too indulgent.

He swore never to be this wasteful again. Eating pure grain like this every meal—even a rich landowner wouldn’t dare waste food like that.

Uncle’s family had dozens of mu of land, and aside from the cousin who trained in martial arts and needed dry meals, the rest of them usually had porridge with some shredded pickles.

Right now, Ergouzi wasn’t even a tenant farmer—how could he eat dry grain every meal?

He’d have to stick to eating wild vegetables more often and trick his belly into feeling full.

The stomach couldn’t be too spoiled—eating bran and veggies was enough to survive.

Full and satisfied, he stepped out of the thatched hut to stretch his limbs.

After ten days of rest, all his injuries had healed. He felt like he’d even grown a bit taller and stronger.

Maybe he was just born to be beaten—the more beatings he took, the more he grew?

He shook his head. No way. He’d been beaten plenty over the years.

When Uncle was drinking and entertaining outside, Aunt would beat Ergouzi just to vent.

When the older cousin was bullied at the martial arts school, he’d beat Ergouzi to feel better.

When the younger cousin cried, the older cousin would use Ergouzi as a punching bag in all sorts of fancy ways just to make him laugh...

He was the family’s little jester, brightening the mood and easing family tension with his endless suffering—a contribution that could never be erased.

And yet, after all those beatings, he hadn’t grown at all.

He guessed it was probably because he was finally eating well and sleeping soundly.

Standing in the snow, he stretched with a big yawn and walked toward the rice field.

Since the planting had been staggered, some crops were already golden and ripe, while others hadn’t even headed yet.

The stubs from yesterday’s harvest had already sprouted fresh green shoots by today.

He discovered that after being watered with the gourd’s water, the stubs could sprout well even without reseeding.

He pulled out the gourd and gave the rice seedlings another round of water.

Beside the paddy, there was also a clump of green wild vegetables.

These vegetables had green fronts and white backs, covered in fine fuzz.

Their roots were as thick as fingers, crisp and sweet when eaten raw—tasty and filling.

Because the roots looked a bit like chicken drumsticks, everyone called this wild veggie “Little Chicken Leg.”

He had found a single one while clearing land for rice some time ago, and couldn’t bear to eat it. Instead, he replanted it and watered it daily.

After days of growth, it had already flowered and seeded. The seeds fell into the soil and sprouted, growing into a whole patch of young shoots.

After watering, he returned to the hut and hauled out a straw-woven sack—inside was over half a bag of rice.

Today was the Lantern Festival. After today, everyone would start preparing for spring plowing.

He planned to sell this rice and go rent a piece of land from Huang Laocai.

Time waited for no one. If he was late, all the land would be taken.

He couldn’t stay on this mountain much longer. Yesterday, he saw two people collecting firewood on the other side of the mountain, which had left him uneasy for quite a while.

Luckily, his spot was at high elevation, slippery with ice, full of boulders, and had no trees—no one came up here to chop wood.

If anyone discovered that he was growing high-yield rice in the icy, snowy mountains, it wouldn’t end well. No one would let him keep it.

Besides, what looked like barren mountains were actually all claimed—he couldn’t just occupy land as he pleased.

The road down was covered in thick ice and snow. He slipped and fell several times, ending up bruised and swollen, but thankfully, the rice in the sack didn’t spill.

He didn’t return to Shexi Village. Instead, he took a side path around the village, heading toward Sanchazi Town.

Sanchazi Town was twenty li from Shexi Village—the farthest place Ergouzi had ever been.

In his memory, Sanchazi was big and bustling, filled with houses made of blue bricks and tiles, dozens of shops, and a lively marketplace full of people.

Ergouzi carried the sack all the way. After walking for half a day, one of his straw shoes wore out, but he finally reached the town.

With the sack on his back, he looked around curiously at the bustling streets. The constant flow of people made him a little nervous but very excited.

By the roadside was a tailor’s shop, displaying all kinds of fabric.

Everyone going in and out was well-dressed, in clean and properly fitted clothes.

Ergouzi looked down at his own pants—what little was left of them—and felt embarrassed.

They had been torn during his last beating, and the past few days in the mountains had shredded them further on rocks and branches—now they were just dangling strips of cloth.

Feeling ashamed, he lowered his head and hurried past the tailor’s shop.

Past the tailor’s was a butcher shop.

Chunks of pork were laid out on the counter, with slabs of fat two or three fingers thick, glistening with grease.

“Get your meat buns here! Big, round, juicy meat buns!”

“One bite and the juice just bursts out!”

“Candied hawthorns for sale!”

“Hot cakes for sale...”

As he walked, Ergouzi watched. The cries of the street vendors constantly pulled his gaze in every direction.

Especially the meat bun vendor—even from far away, he could smell the delicious aroma.

Meat buns and candied hawthorns—he had eaten those once or twice before he turned five.

The taste was unforgettable—rich, sweet, absolutely heavenly!

Ergouzi swallowed several times and walked firmly into the market.

It was already packed with villagers from nearby, each with their own stall selling miscellaneous goods.

People were selling jars, bamboo baskets, eggs, straw shoes, old clothes, straw mats, children, women...

Ergouzi first asked around about the current grain prices.

Grain prices varied by season—cheapest at harvest time, then rising after the New Year.

During spring plowing, prices often surged.

Some people had eaten their seed grain due to hunger or illness. Now, they could only borrow or buy seed at high prices.

So selling rice now was perfect timing—he could fetch a good price.

He squeezed into a small open spot in the market, dropped his sack, untied it, and revealed the golden rice inside, instantly drawing countless eyes.

Most families had little food left after the New Year and had to scrape by on bran and veggies until autumn’s harvest.

“Young man, how much for your rice?”

“This rice looks great—good for seed!”

“Twenty-five wen per sheng!”

A crowd of unfamiliar old men gathered around, examining and discussing. Ergouzi had never dealt with such a crowd—he blushed and answered nervously.

Most families couldn’t afford a steelyard scale, and it wasn’t convenient anyway. Most grain trades were measured by sheng or dou.

One sheng of rice weighed about sixteen liang; rice was lighter than milled grain, and it varied by type and vessel size.

A few elders scooped up the rice to inspect—plump and full, not a single shriveled grain. Someone immediately wanted to buy some for seed.

Ergouzi didn’t have a proper measuring container, but luckily, they were common. He borrowed one in the market.

They were simple to make—just cut a bamboo tube and measure the capacity.

Grain was a hard currency—easy to sell. And his rice looked especially good.

He counted coins while measuring sheng after sheng, quickly selling almost the entire sack.

His jacket was now stuffed with coins, heavy enough to jingle when he walked.

He memorized every coin that passed through his hands. The total should be 775 wen.

That was a fortune, no matter whose hands it ended up in.

Ergouzi walked out of the market, passed the meat bun vendor again, and was once more tempted by the aroma.

He stood on the street, lips pressed, fingers clutching his coins tightly, struggling with indecision.

Finally, he gritted his teeth, swallowed hard, turned away, and headed into the butcher shop next door.

He asked about prices: pork fat and pork belly cost 80 wen per jin, lean meat 60 wen, and ribs only 40 wen per jin.

Ergouzi steeled himself and spent 80 wen on one jin of pork fat.

The greedy butcher, seeing he was just a kid, threw in a piece of unsellable lean meat.

Then he bought an old hoe for 300 wen.

A hatchet for 250 wen.

Tools like these were expensive, but essential—he needed them for farming.

Besides farming, they could also be used for self-defense. If he ran into a robber, having a hatchet might scare them off.

Aside from these necessities, he didn’t buy a single extra thing—not even pants, though his were torn beyond repair.

The 775 wen he had just earned now shrank to only 145 wen.

Even so, he gritted his teeth and bought a small piece of coarse black salt.

A person could go ten years without meat—but not without salt.

The piece of salt was smaller than an egg, pitch black, and cost him 100 wen.

Now he only had 45 wen left.

As he left Sanchazi Town, Ergouzi had a hatchet strapped to his waist, a hoe over his shoulder, and a string of pork in his hand.