Since ancient times, Yangzhou City has been a vital hub in the Huaiyang region and a place of great wealth. During the Ming Dynasty, merchants from the northwest gathered in Xiaguan, Yangzhou, to trade salt and amassed fortunes, dominating the region.
Later, salt merchants from Huizhou flocked to Yangzhou in large numbers to run the salt trade, so that countless people in the city grew rich from salt. Yet during the Chongguang era of the previous dynasty, a ten-day massacre turned this land of immense wealth into ruins, with over eight hundred thousand scholars, commoners, and wealthy merchants slaughtered.
However, since everyone under heaven needs salt, and salt brings wealth, Yangzhou City—located closest to the Lianghuai salt fields—revived after a century of development. Then came the reign of His Majesty Emperor Qianlong in our current dynasty, who loved touring Jiangnan. To win his favor, the Lianghuai salt merchants of Yangzhou pooled their funds to build palaces, galleries, temples, long bridges, and countless pavilions, making Yangzhou—which a century ago had been utterly destroyed by the fires of war—unequaled in the world once again.
Delighted by the magnificent scenery, Emperor Qianlong composed over two hundred poems for Yangzhou, showing how deeply fond His Majesty was of its beauty.
The year was the fifty-fifth year of Qianlong's reign, and six years had passed since his last visit to Yangzhou. In those six years, the Great Qing Dynasty had experienced no major events, save for sending troops across the sea to Taiwan to suppress the rebellion of Lin Shuangwen, a bandit of the Heaven and Earth Society, and fighting a war against Annam last year.
Although the imperial Qing troops had been ambushed and utterly annihilated by the Annamite rebels in that conflict, Annam was, after all, a small nation and inherently terrified of our Great Qing. Overcome with fear, they sent envoys to make amends and beg for surrender. Our Emperor Qianlong, magnanimous and seeing the sincerity in the hearts of the Annamites, granted their request, and the two sides laid down their arms.
With neither internal nor external wars, the realm was at peace, and Yangzhou City enjoyed an even greater prosperity.
As it was the evening mealtime, nearly every tavern and restaurant in the city, large or small, was packed to capacity, and even the bathhouses were overflowing with customers, leaving the foot-rubbing and back-scrubbing attendants rushed off their feet.
There was no help for it; the people of Yangzhou simply had this fondness: in the morning, skin wraps water; in the afternoon, water wraps skin.
Skin wraps water meant drinking tea; water wraps skin meant soaking in the bath.
Add in the three knives, and truly, being a person of Yangzhou was remarkably comfortable.
The only prerequisite was having copper coins in one's pocket.
What did those without copper coins do?
The Four Seas Restaurant was currently teaching people a lesson.
A man of around fifty sat hunched over a stool with his hands clasped behind his head, letting five or six restaurant waiters punch and kick him. Although he had long known what his fate would be and was prepared for the beating, the fists and kicks of the five or six young fellows still made the old man yelp, causing the surrounding diners to sigh with emotion. Then they went right back to eating and drinking, occasionally turning their heads to watch the excitement with an expression of utter familiarity.
The manager, busy clicking away on the abacus behind the counter, did not even raise his head.
Yet there are still good people in this world. A young fellow gnawing on a pig's trotters could no longer bear to watch. He slammed his hand down hard on the table and shouted at the beating waiters: "Stop hitting him! Keep going and you'll kill him!"
Hearing this, the lead waiter quickly offered an apologetic smile and said: "My good patron, I advise you not to meddle. This is the rule. Every trade has its rules. He understands the rules, so we must uphold them. If we break the rules, how can our establishment do business in the future?"
"What rules?"
The young fellow looked less than clear on the matter.
"The rule is that free meals can be eaten, but once eaten, you have to take a beating, or you won't get out."
Seeing that the customer was young and his accent did not sound local, the lead waiter could not be bothered to explain further. He turned his body slightly, preparing to deliver a kick to that freeloading old wretch.
Such a shameless, old scoundrel was utterly infuriating. If you have no money, why come running to eat something? Did he really think he was the Old Ancestor?
Before his foot could even rise, the young fellow's bold voice rang in his ears: "Stop hitting him! Put this man's tab on my bill!"
Eh?
The lead waiter froze for a moment, then immediately waved his hand to signal the others to stop. Next, beaming all over his face, he said to the young fellow: "Very well, sir! You have a kind heart, and you will surely be blessed in the future."
The young fellow shook his head impatiently. "Why talk so much? Bring me two more meat dishes, and a pot of wine besides."
"Right away, right away! Just a moment, sir, and I'll tell the kitchen right now."
With that, the lead waiter glared fiercely at the half-beaten old man. "A kind soul is paying your bill for you, so get lost!"
"Ah, yes, yes!"
As if granted a pardon, the old man clutched his head and scurried outside, not even offering a word of thanks to the young fellow who had paid for him—he had the look of an incorrigible scoundrel.
Seeing this, the young fellow did not mind. He merely shook his head and continued to enjoy the first grand feast of his second life.
The young fellow was named Zhao An, a name given by his illiterate, dead-beat father. His hometown was Xinghua, just next door to Yangzhou. Because his family was poor, he had only attended private school for two years. Later, after hearing a storyteller recount the tale of Wu Song slaying the tiger, he wanted to become a hero like Wu Song, so he apprenticed himself to an old village soldier who had fought in the Ili region in his early years, learning martial arts for several years. He had some fist-and-foot combat skills under his belt, and his physique had grown sturdy.
The only problem was poverty.
Four bare walls, wretched, destitute poverty.
Originally, he had set out to rely on his fists and feet to join a escort agency and earn a living, but an unexpected sudden illness had melted away his old self and reshaped his bones. The newcomer Zhao An, upon reflection, decided that guarding escorts for others had no future. Remembering his dead-beat father saying that he had a cousin working as an official in a yamen in Yangzhou, he brazenly came to seek out this uncle he had never met, hoping to find a way to make a living in the yamen.
Eating official rice surely had to beat working for others.
The old ghost Qianlong was not yet dead, so he could not rush off to Hubei to join the White Lotus Sect uprising. Besides, the White Lotus Sect emphasized seniority based on age and was merely a rabble, failing to spark any interest in Zhao An.
Being human meant prioritizing pragmatism and safety above all.
And most crucially, prioritizing the stomach.
Upon entering Yangzhou City, his stomach rumbled with hunger, so Zhao An had found a tavern to fill his belly first. He had not expected to run into someone eating a free meal, and seeing the old man's advanced age, his heart softened and he had paid the tab.
The food and wine were quickly served. The earlier scene with the departure of the freeloading old man was as if it had never happened; the restaurant remained bustling, and sounds of urging drinks and finger-guessing games drifted constantly from the private rooms upstairs.
Not until his stomach was stuffed to the brim did Zhao An finally, with a feeling of deep satisfaction, set down his bowl and chopsticks. Belching from the wine, he called out: "Waiter, bill!"
"Coming right up!"
At this, a waiter with a white towel slung over his shoulder trotted over. Handing Zhao An a hot, damp face towel with practiced ease while swiftly tallying the bill, he said: "Sir, that comes to eighty-seven wen in total, thirty wen of which is for that freeloader just now. Would the patron like to see his check?"
"No need,"
Zhao An interrupted the waiter, nodding as he said: "I said put it all on my tab."
"Very well!"
The waiter smiled and nodded, thinking to himself that this kid truly had more money than sense.
Without lingering, Zhao An stood up and said: "Then settle the bill."
With those words, he picked up the still-smoking face towel and wiped his face fiercely. Then he plopped down onto the stool, mimicked the old man's posture by clasping his hands behind his head, and remained completely motionless.
After two or three breaths, deciding it was unsafe, he adjusted his posture and squeezed his legs together tightly to ensure his most precious parts would not suffer any external blows.
"..."
The waiter stared in utter astonishment for a good long moment, before spitting out a "Peh!" and shouting toward the counter: "Manager! This kid's a freeloader too!"
"By the rules, beat him!"
The manager's voice was crisp and decisive, without the slightest hesitation.