The northern wind cut like a knife across Lin Ruqian’s fair face.

She huddled in the corner of the carriage, clutching her red jacket tightly with both hands, her vacant gaze fixed on the desolate mountain path outside. The wheels creaked over the gravel, accompanied by the driver’s shouts, as the small group of a dozen people trudged northward.

She had struggled, screamed, and cried, but her younger brother Lin Rusong grabbed her hair and cursed her for being “unfilial.” Her mother, Lin Shi, watched coldly, her words dripping with self-righteous logic:

“I raised you all these years—how can you not repay me?”

“Let me tell you straight, I’ve taken the dowry. You’re marrying whether you want to or not!”

Her mother’s words pierced her heart like a thorn. Bound hand and foot with coarse rope, Lin Ruqian was hoisted into the carriage, destined to follow her groom-to-be, Luo Laosan, north to his hometown for the wedding. As the curtain fell, she looked at the sky outside—gray like a filthy rag, pressing down on her until she could hardly breathe.

The convoy stopped to rest beside a dilapidated temple on the mountain path. Luo Laosan leapt off the cart, his small eyes squinting toward Lin Ruqian’s carriage. In his forties, he was short and stout, his face full of coarse flesh, scruffy beard framing sunken eyes and crow’s feet. A grass stalk dangled from his greasy, smirking lips. A merchant who’d made a modest fortune running trade routes, he was well-practiced in sleazy dealings.

The driver handed him a jug of wine. He took a swig, wiped his mouth, and yanked open the curtain, beckoning to Lin Ruqian: “Little lady, I’ll loosen your ropes. Come down and stretch—don’t want you getting stiff.”

Lin Ruqian clenched her teeth and muttered, “No need. I’m not feeling well.”

Luo Laosan chuckled, leaning closer to the door, his wine-soaked breath overwhelming. “Not feeling well? I’ve got ways to make you feel better.”

He reached to grab her arm, but she shrank back into the corner, the ropes digging painfully into her wrists.

When the convoy first left Yuxi Village, she’d slipped the ropes loose at night and leapt from the carriage, dashing into the fields. But the driver spotted her and dragged her back. Luo Laosan had slapped her twice across the face, snarling, “You little wretch, run again and I’ll break your legs!” The second time was at a river crossing. Pretending to relieve herself, she slipped away and jumped into the shallows, hoping to escape downstream. But the water was freezing, and she shivered uncontrollably. She didn’t get far before Luo Laosan’s men caught her. That time, he was merciless, kicking her in the waist so hard she couldn’t stand for three days. From then on, the ropes stayed tight, numbing her hands and feet, blood seeping into her red jacket.

Seeing her resist, Luo Laosan spat contemptuously on the ground. “Two more days and we’re at my place. You’d better figure it out, little wench, or don’t blame me for getting rough.” With that, he ignored her and swaggered off to joke with the convoy crew.

Lin Ruqian closed her eyes, tears sliding down her cheeks. Her heart felt hollow, leaving only ashes. She thought, *Maybe this is my fate.*

As night deepened, the convoy camped at the temple. The men gathered around a fire, drinking and swapping crude jokes. Luo Laosan, a little drunk, stumbled back to the carriage. His fat hand clamped onto Lin Ruqian’s shoulder as he slurred, “Thirty bucks for this prize—tonight’s the night to break you in!”

Her heart stopped. The ropes pinned her in place; she could only twist her head away. He tore at her jacket’s collar, his rancid breath hitting her face, churning her stomach with revulsion.

She screamed desperately, but it only drew louder jeers and filthy remarks from outside. Despair swallowed her like a tide. Just then, a sharp whinny cut through the air, followed by panicked shouts from the fire: “Bandits! Bandits!”

Outside the temple, footsteps clattered chaotically, steel clashed, and the firelight scattered as cries of violence ripped through the night.

Luo Laosan swore, releasing her, and lurched out, yelling, “Who dares rob my goods?!” He stumbled toward the fire, slurring back a threat: “You wait, wench—I’ll deal with these dogs and then finish with you!”

Lin Ruqian gasped for air, collapsing against the carriage floor. Her torn collar let cold wind rush in, and she trembled like a fallen leaf.

Chaos erupted outside. Firelight glinted off blades as the driver and Luo Laosan’s men scrambled to fight. Through the torn curtain, Lin Ruqian glimpsed masked bandits slashing forward. Luo Laosan yanked a pistol from his waist, firing a shot into the air, bellowing, “Protect the goods! Don’t let them take a thing!”

The gunshot rattled her ears. The men by the fire rallied in a panic, but the bandits pressed on fearlessly. One of Luo’s men took a blade to the shoulder, blood splattering the temple wall.

Her heart pounded, but a thought flickered through her mind—*Chaos. Good chaos.* She glanced at the ropes binding her hands and feet, raw and bloody from the strain. She tugged, but they held fast. Clenching her teeth, she bent down, biting at the knots. The metallic taste of blood mingled with the rope’s bitterness as she gnawed, her gums bleeding, until the wrist ropes loosened slightly.

The fighting outside grew fiercer. Luo Laosan fired again, hitting a bandit in the leg. The man collapsed with a scream, but others surged forward, a blade flashing as another of Luo’s men fell, clutching his gut. Luo roared in fury, “Circle up! Don’t let a single one escape!”

Lin Ruqian, still biting at the ropes, caught sight of the driver sneaking toward the horses. He slashed the reins in a panic, muttering, “I’m done—my life’s worth more!” He cut the carriage’s tether, leapt onto a horse, and galloped off.

The untethered carriage jolted, tipping off balance and crashing down the slope beside the temple. With a thunderous *boom*, it tumbled, splintering apart. Lin Ruqian was thrown about, her head slamming against the wall, vision blurring. She shielded her head with her arms as the carriage rolled. The ropes snagged on a jagged plank and snapped free. Her limbs released, she was flung out, tumbling into the grass below.

Dizzy and reeling, Lin Ruqian forced herself to look up. The temple’s firelight danced with shadows as Luo Laosan fired at a bandit, the bullet grazing a tree, sparking briefly. The melee raged on, unnoticed by the figure below the slope. Ignoring the searing pain coursing through her, she clenched her teeth, oriented herself by moonlight, and staggered to her feet, plunging into the dense forest.

She didn’t know how long she ran—darkness turned to gray, then back to dark. Her only sounds were her ragged breaths and the wind. No food, no water—her lips cracked like dry bark, her tongue stuck to her mouth, every swallow like a needle. Her stomach cramped with hunger. She chewed a few rotten leaves she found in the woods, their bitterness making her gag, but she had nothing left to retch. Her wounds festered; the spot on her waist where Luo Laosan had kicked her throbbed like a dull knife carving her flesh. Her feet felt detached, numb like rotting wood, each step driven by sheer will, pain shooting through her like blades. She fell countless times, scraping her palms raw, her hair a tangled mess of mud and leaves. She moved like a living corpse, stumbling through the trees, half-convinced she was already dead.

The forest thinned, and faint voices reached her ears. Squinting, she saw a group of refugees—ragged, dragging families along. She stumbled into their ranks, pulling her red jacket tight to hide her filthy face. The crowd wailed with the cries of the old and young, lugging tattered bundles southward at a snail’s pace.

After half a day, she caught the faint scent of roasted bread. Following it, she edged toward a frail old woman tending a charred flatbread over a stick. The woman glanced up, scowling, “What’re you staring at? There’s none to spare!”

Lin Ruqian swallowed hard, her voice hoarse: “I’ll trade for it.”

Trembling, she shed her red jacket—dirty but still thick cotton, far sturdier than the refugees’ rags. “Just a bite of food, a sip of water, and a dirty shirt.”

The old woman eyed it, snatched the jacket, and tossed her a grimy gray cloth shirt, half a bread, and a cracked bowl with a few drops of murky water.

Dressed in the gray shirt, Lin Ruqian devoured the bread. It was hard as stone, grinding against her teeth, and the water was bitter with mud, but she didn’t care, gulping it down. With her stomach slightly eased, she sat to rest, overhearing murmurs:

“Southport’s still half a month away—so far.”

“Will that Luo Yan’s promise hold up?”

Her heart jolted at the name. She looked up as a gaunt man cradling a child muttered, “Heard the warlord Luo Yan broadcast on the radio—said Southport’s taking refugees, offering work and wages for food.”

An old man chimed in, “Luo Yan rules Southport. It’s got everything—surely he wouldn’t lie to us.”

A woman sighed, “Keep going. Get there, and we’re free.”

The refugees’ voices were low, heavy with exhaustion and numbness. Dozens shuffled along—old, young, dragging worn sacks—each step a burden. Some coughed, some wept, but most were silent, like walking dead, their eyes hollow. Half a month loomed like a mountain on their shoulders; no one dared dwell on it, fearing they’d collapse if they stopped.

Lin Ruqian pulled the gray shirt tighter, blending into the crowd like a shadow. She didn’t speak, just listened. Luo Yan’s name echoed in her mind, a thin thread holding her ashen heart together.

Food was precious to everyone on this journey. Lin Ruqian survived on roadside weeds and berries, and by the time she reached Southport, she was skin and bones, the gray shirt hanging like a sack, her face filthy, eyes sunken—worse off than the city’s beggars.

The group halted at Southport’s gates, where a tall entrance bore a military flag. Soldiers in gray-green uniforms stood guard, rifles in hand, scanning the crowd coldly. One barked, “Anyone entering registers first—no registration, no entry!”

The weary refugees pressed forward. Lin Ruqian followed silently, and after a long wait, she received a temporary identity paper.

Southport glowed with lights. Streets were lined with European-style houses—red brick, white walls, pointed windows gleaming under electric lamps. Bulbs hung from poles, dazzlingly bright. Vendors hawked pancakes and wontons, their aroma piercing her nose, twisting her already sour, starving stomach. Despite the pain, she grinned—she wanted to live, to live well in this city.

The refugee camp sat at the city’s edge in an old warehouse, a canopy at the entrance where women in coarse clothes ladled out porridge. The crowd jostled, and after a long wait, Lin Ruqian’s turn came. A stout woman handed her a steaming bowl of rice porridge flecked with vegetable scraps, the heat hitting her face. Her hands shook as she took it, whispering, “Thank you.”

The woman waved it off, her voice booming, “No need—drink up before it cools!”

Lin Ruqian cradled the bowl, squatting in a corner. She sipped despite the burn, the warm rice scent sliding down her throat, soothing her stomach after half a month of hunger. She drank too fast, choked, and tears mingled with the porridge’s taste as they fell. Yet she laughed through it, a mix of sobs and giggles that drew sidelong glances.

As the women finished serving, they chatted. A thin one wiped sweat from her brow, smiling, “This camp’s thanks to Mrs. Luo. Without her gathering grain, we’d never get this hot meal.”

The stout one nodded, “Right—she’s beautiful and kind-hearted. Everyone in the city praises her. Heard she donated cloth the other day for winter clothes for us refugees.”

The thin one added, “Mr. Luo and Mrs. Luo are so close—always together. Folks here envy her luck, marrying a man who dotes on her.”

The stout one sighed, “Mr. Luo runs Southport, and Mrs. Luo manages the household—a perfect match.”

The refugees murmured thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Luo. Lin Ruqian stared at her bowl, the women’s laughter ringing in her ears, but her heart stung as if pricked by a needle. Luo Yan was married. Of course he was—how could a man like him not have a wife? She imagined Mrs. Luo as a refined, kind beauty from a noble family, the only sort worthy of him. Still, her chest tightened. That flicker of longing she’d nursed for three years wavered like a candle in the wind and went out. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and buried that girlish dream deep inside. She told herself she came to Southport to live, not for him. Opening her eyes, she lifted the bowl and drained the rest, the heat searing her throat, but she didn’t stop—she had to live, and live well.