Sold immediately after wearing it? I took my family and fled the famine.

The crowd gradually dispersed.

Zhang stood beside the oxcart, one hand holding the edge and the other clutching her clothes. She looked as if she had aged several years overnight. Jiang Xing walked over and stood next to her, unsure of what to say. She wasn't good at comforting people.

Little Niu peeked out from behind Zhang and tugged at her clothes, saying, "Grandma."

Zhang lowered her head and looked at the calf. The calf's eyes were bright, and its mouth was tightly pursed.

"Grandma, don't cry," said the little cow.

Zhang's eyes finally reddened. She squatted down, hugged the calf in her arms, and soft sobs could be heard.

Jiang Xing stood to the side, watching them, his hand on the hilt of his knife, his fingers tapping lightly twice.

Mr. Qian's grain stall hasn't been closed yet.

When Yang Cuihua returned to her shed, He Daliang had already counted the five hundred coins three times.

After counting, he took out one hundred coins, held them in his hand, and stuffed the remaining four hundred coins into the money pouch in his pocket, tying a tight knot.

"Go buy grain." He stuffed the hundred copper coins into Yang Cuihua's hand: "Buy coarse rice, pick the cheapest kind."

Clutching the copper coin, Yang Cuihua walked to the Qian family's carriage. The steward, who was packing up his stall, stopped when he saw her.

"Buy grain." Yang Cuihua handed over the copper coins.

"How much do you want to buy?"

"How many can you buy?"

The steward glanced at the copper coins, then at her, and quoted a price: "One hundred copper coins per pound."

Yang Cuihua's eyes widened: "What? Wasn't it ten copper coins a pound? Those people just now all bought it for ten copper coins!"

The butler glanced at her, his face expressionless: "The price has gone up now. If your family wants to buy it, it'll be one hundred copper coins per pound. Take it or leave it."

Yang Cuihua's face turned red.

She wanted to curse, but her mouth opened and closed again. There was no food left in the house, and if they didn't eat soon, they would probably starve to death. She gritted her teeth and handed over all one hundred copper coins: "Buy one pound."

The housekeeper weighed out a pound of brown rice and poured it into the tattered cloth bag she had brought.

Yang Cuihua clutched the cloth bag; one jin (500 grams) was only enough for one meal, and He Daliang would beat her to death.

On her way back, Master Qian's voice came from the carriage, not too loud, not too soft, just loud enough for her to hear: "Giving this kind of slut a hundred copper coins a pound would be a waste of food."

Yang Cuihua paused for a moment, then quickened her pace. When she returned to the shed, He Daliang saw the pound of brown rice, and the expression on his face made Yang Cuihua shrink back.

Fists rained down on her, causing Yang Cuihua to curl up on the ground in pain, not daring to utter a sound. Yang Cuihua dared not cry, and could only tightly protect the coarse rice in her arms.

Yesterday, I bought a pound of brown rice for 100 coins, and it was gone after only two meals.

Five people cooked two bowls of thin porridge with wild vegetables, but the rice was gone before it even turned a few times in the pot.

He Daliang picked up the bowl and glanced at it. The bowl was a deep green color, full of wild vegetables, with the grains of rice countable. He slammed the bowl down on the ground, and the vegetable soup splashed out and hit the fire with a hiss.

"A pound of rice gone? Everyone else pays ten copper coins a pound, why does it cost a hundred coins in our house?" He Daliang's face was as black as the bottom of a pot.

Yang Cuihua shrank her neck and whispered, her voice barely audible, "Master Qian said... he said others are others, but we are us..."

He Daliang stood up abruptly, kicked over the broken bowl in front of him, and strode towards the front of the line.

The Qian family's carriage was parked at the front of the procession. Master Qian was sitting on the edge of the carriage, drinking tea from a teacup, with two burly servants standing beside him.

He Daliang rushed over, his voice so loud the whole line could hear: "Master Qian! What right do you have to target my family? Others buy grain for ten copper coins a pound, but I get a hundred! Isn't this blatant bullying?"

Mr. Qian paused, holding his teacup, and glanced down at him.

His gaze wasn't that of someone looking at a person, but rather like that of a stray dog ​​blocking his path. He took a sip of tea, slowly handed the teacup to the maid beside him, and then spoke: "Others are others, and your family is your family. I can sell my grain however I want, do you have a problem with that?"

"You! We're all refugees fleeing famine. My family was already poor. What you're doing is forcing us to die. You're so vicious!"

Upon hearing this, Master Qian's face hardened: "I wouldn't feed you my grain even if I had to feed it to a dog."

He Daliang's face turned a deep purplish-red, his lips trembled, and he wanted to curse back, but before he could utter a word, Master Qian had already gestured with his chin toward the servant beside him.

Two servants approached from the left and right, and He Daliang took a step back: "What do you want to do...?"

A punch landed on his stomach, causing He Daliang to bend over and vomit up all the wild vegetable soup in his stomach. Then the punch landed on his back, causing him to fall face-first into the mud, his nose hitting a rock and blood gushing out.

The servants followed up with kicks, striking his ribs, lower back, and thighs, one after another, each kick producing a dull thud.

He Daliang rolled in the mud, clutching his head, howling like a pig being slaughtered: "Stop hitting me! Stop hitting me! Master Qian, Master Qian, I was wrong! I was wrong! I shouldn't have come, please forgive me..."

The screams carried far enough that half the column could hear them.

Ma Dadan, riding his horse, was less than twenty paces from the Qian family's carriage when he heard the first scream. He tightened his grip on the reins. The constable beside him glanced at him, but Ma Dadan didn't move. This He Daliang family was like they weren't thinking straight, always provoking this and that. They really couldn't stop for a moment. It was so annoying.

Yang Cuihua stumbled over from behind and saw He Daliang curled up on the ground, his face covered in blood and mud, while the servants continued to kick him.

She lunged forward to shield He Daliang, but was kicked in the arm by a servant and fell to the side.

She scrambled to her feet and lunged forward again, trembling all over, her voice hoarse: "Stop hitting me! Stop hitting me, please stop!"

Master Qian waved his hand, and the servants stopped and retreated to the side of the carriage.

He Daliang lay on the muddy ground, covered in injuries, blood still dripping from his nose, mumbling "Thank you, Master Qian" incoherently. He repeated it twice before Yang Cuihua helped him sit up.

Yang Cuihua held onto He Daliang's arm. Jiang Xing's oxcart was parked in an open space, its tarpaulin shed completely closed. Yang Cuihua looked away, helped He Daliang up, and walked back step by step. Her face was covered in tears and mud, but the thorn in her heart was getting deeper and deeper. It was all Jiang Xing's fault, it was all that damned girl's fault.

He Daliang didn't think as much as she did. He returned to the entrance of his dilapidated shed and plopped down on the ground, his face covered in blood and mud, his lip cut, and his ribs aching so badly he was gasping for breath.

He peered through the gaps in the crowd at the oilcloth bundle on the oxcart in the distance, his eyes fixed on it.

He behaved himself, at least on the surface, and dared not cause any more trouble.