Shen Hu looked at the egg in his hand, then at the four eager faces before him, and turned to glance at the brothers crouched on the ground, eating steamed buns with tears in their eyes. His chest felt as if something were blocking it, a mixture of bitterness and tightness.

He remained silent for a long time before finally saying, “Alright.”

He finally spoke. His voice was soft, yet it resonated deeply in everyone’s ears. “I, Shen Hu, will trust you this once. Go back and tell the people at the mine that I’m taking the brothers to sign up. But there’s one condition—”

He paused, his gaze slowly sweeping over the group, and said, enunciating each word clearly, “Once we’re at the mine, even though we’re prisoners, we can’t be treated like beasts of burden. We must be fed our fill, and the work must be reasonable. If it’s unfair, I, Shen Hu, will be the first to object.”

Shouhou was so excited he nearly jumped up; Wang Dazhuang nodded repeatedly; Li Daban grinned widely; and Zhao Mutou’s face broke into a simple, honest smile as he said in a deep, resonant voice, “Don’t worry, Big Brother. The mine is really great.”

Then they took the remaining mixed-grain buns and salted duck eggs back up the mountain, dividing them equally among the group. Passed down along with the food was the news of their acceptance of the amnesty.

When the news spread, the reaction wasn’t as intense as Shen Hu had imagined. Out of more than thirty people, not a single one spoke up in opposition.

This made Shen Hu feel a pang of sadness. His brothers were so hungry they didn’t even have the strength to object—or perhaps their hunger had worn away their last shred of pride.

Only a few young men gathered around Li Daban, asking him all sorts of questions: “Brother Daban, can we really eat our fill at the mine?”

“Brother Daban, is the work hard?”

“Brother Daban, do we really get half a salted duck egg every day?”

Li Daban was getting annoyed by the barrage of questions and waved his hand dismissively. “How many times have I told you? Yes, yes, yes! When has your Big Brother Daban ever lied to you? Once you get to the mine, you’ll see—life there is much more comfortable than up here on the mountain!”

Shouhou, meanwhile, stayed close to Shen Hu’s side, explaining the mine’s rules and everything he’d heard over the past few days in meticulous detail. He covered every little thing—the daily tasks, the new county magistrate, the prince who’d made a donation, and how mining was meant to reclaim the saline-alkali land—leaving no stone unturned.

As Shen Hu listened, he suddenly asked in a low voice, “Shouhou, how have they treated you at the mine?”

Shouhou paused for a moment, then smiled. There was something indefinable in that smile—part wistful, part relieved: “Big Brother…”

“In my whole life, my parents and sisters died young, and I grew up eating handouts from strangers. Later, when I went into the mountains to join a bandit group, I still went hungry more often than not. But when I got to the mine, even though I had to work, at least I had enough to eat and warm clothes, and someone was looking out for me—it actually made me feel at ease. Big Brother, don’t laugh at me for saying this, but in all my years, this is the first time I’ve ever felt like a real person.”

Shen Hu remained silent for a long time, simply crushing the shell of the salted duck egg in his hand. The fragments trickled through his fingers and were scattered by the wind.

Early the next morning, Shen Hu led the men from the village as they packed their belongings and headed down the mountain.

They said they were packing up, but there wasn’t much to pack: a few broken kitchen knives, hoes, and shovels; two chipped cauldrons; and a sack of coarse salt—that was all they owned.

Thirty or forty men staggered down the mountain path, looking like a column of defeated stragglers. But the four men at the front—Shouhou and his companions—walked with a spring in their step, occasionally turning back to urge the men behind them to keep up.

By the time we reached the mining area, it was already noon. The sound of clanging hammers echoed from the distance, and the air was thick with the smell of dust and ore. Yet, a scent of steamed rice drifted in on the breeze—a rich, heady aroma so potent it made it hard to keep walking.

From a good distance away, officials in uniform came to meet them. They jotted down each man’s name in a notebook, then searched them, confiscating all weapons.

A few people instinctively flinched, but Li Daban immediately leaned in and whispered, “Don’t worry, that’s just how it goes. Once they take your knife, you don’t have to worry about a thing. As long as you get something to eat, that’s all that matters.”

“Meal time! Meal time!” a shout rang out from the distance.

Shouhou and his three companions turned around almost simultaneously, their faces lit with identical smiles and the same sense of urgency, shouting to their still-hesitant comrades:

“Hurry up! Let’s go eat salted duck eggs!”

More than thirty men surged toward the food distribution area, Shen Hu brought up the rear, watching the brothers—once gaunt and emaciated—jostle to receive their bowls. He saw the dreamlike expressions on their faces as they cradled the heavy, coarse earthenware bowls; he watched Li Daban hold a bowl for a brother whose hands were shaking with hunger; he saw Wang Dazhuang pointing out where to fetch water; and he watched Zhao Mutou scoop salted green beans from his own bowl to share with a young boy standing beside him.

Shouhou walked over, holding a bowl of rice, and shoved it into Shen Hu’s hands. It was a bowl heaped high with rice, topped with half a salted duck egg dripping with oil. Golden droplets of oil fell onto the brown rice, coating the coarse grains in a glossy sheen.

He took a bite, and tears welled up in his eyes.

In front of the shacks in the distance, the brothers who had followed them down from the mountains were squatting in small groups, each holding a bowl of rice topped with half a salted duck egg.

Someone choked from eating too quickly, and Li Daban’s booming voice immediately rang out: “Slow down, slow down! No one’s going to take it from you! Do you think we won’t have our own food? Would your big brother Li Daban ever do anything to hurt you?”

The man who’d choked down a couple of gulps of water caught his breath and grinned. “Big Brother, you’re right—life here is way better than up on the mountain.” Shen Hu scraped the last grain of rice from his bowl and let out a long sigh.

“Shouhou.”

“Mm.”

“It’s… definitely better here than up on the mountain.”

Shouhou smiled but didn’t respond. Instead, he poured half a bowl of hot water into Shen Hu’s bowl, letting him swish the oil droplets at the bottom around before swallowing them. He muttered, “If I’d known being a convict meant getting to eat salted duck eggs, I would’ve joined you guys on that heist a month ago.”

The people around them burst into laughter, the laughter growing louder and louder, echoing over the mining area for a long time.

Shen Hu laughed along with them, but as he laughed, he felt a tickling sensation on his face. He reached up to touch it and realized that, at some point, tears had begun to stream down his cheeks again. This time, he didn’t wipe them away; he let them flow freely.

Rice in his bowl, an egg in his hand, brothers by his side.

So what if he was a convict? Even convicts are divided into those who starve to death and those who eat their fill.

And for the first time in his life, he felt that having a full stomach was more substantial than any title of “big brother” or “boss.”

When news reached the group on the mountain that they had been granted amnesty, Duan Jin was still out in the saline-alkali land. He had instructed Xiang Changqing to take a few men up the mountain to confirm that no one had slipped through the net, and once that was done, he felt half at ease.

For the past few days, he had spent almost every moment in the saline-alkali land, personally supervising the laborers as they turned and harrowed the soil, thoroughly mixing the gypsum with the earth. At first, the villagers merely watched from a distance, but later, the bolder ones drew closer to take a look, whispering and speculating among themselves.

“I heard this gypsum was dug up west of town. The soil there is all white—can we really grow crops by mixing it with our soil?”

“Who knows? This land’s been barren for years anyway. As they say, you’ve got to try everything.”

“I doubt it. It’s saline-alkali soil—our ancestors couldn’t fix it, so what can a young county magistrate possibly do?” 

“Well, it’s not costing us anything, so let him try whatever he wants. How much worse could it get?”

Duan Jin paid no heed to these comments.

He crouched on the ground, scooped up a handful of soil mixed with gypsum, held it to his nose to smell it, then crushed it between his fingers, carefully sensing the changes in the soil’s texture.

Feng Xin stood nearby, holding a ledger in his hands, meticulously recording each entry: On such-and-such a day of such-and-such a month, so many mu of land were plowed, a certain amount of gypsum was used, a certain number of laborers were employed, and a certain amount of silver was spent.

“Sir, we’ve used up all the gypsum,” Feng Xin said, closing the ledger. “Three hundred and twenty acres—we’ve applied the gypsum exactly as you instructed, and the plowing is now ongoing. Should we proceed with sowing now?”

Duan Jin pulled a cloth bundle from his robe and opened it. Inside were tiny seeds—dark brown, short and cylindrical, with a faint sheen on their surface.

He had asked Xie Sanlang in the county seat to purchase these seeds from the south. Based on the books he’d read in his previous life and the local flora, he’d decided to plant sesbania as the first crop.

It was said that this crop was highly tolerant of saline-alkali soil, and its root system could fix nitrogen to enrich the soil; after just one growing season, soil fertility could be restored by thirty to forty percent.

Moreover, it has a short growth cycle and is highly resilient. If the sesbania grows normally, it can be plowed back into the soil once mature, providing ample green manure for the next crop.

“We’ll sow the seeds tomorrow,” he said. “Send word to the village heads of the nearby villages to bring their people to collect the seeds, distributing six jin per mu.”

The next day was sunny. As dawn broke, the field ridges were already crowded with people. Some had come to collect seeds, some to watch the commotion, and others simply out of boredom, drawn by the novelty of the event.

By the time Duan Jin arrived, the field was surrounded by layers upon layers of people, and the buzzing chatter was like a pot boiling over.

“Make way, everyone, make way!” A few constables cleared a path at the front, finally managing to squeeze a passage through the crowd.

Duan Jin was dressed in casual attire today—a short blue cotton tunic, straw sandals, and leg bindings—with a conical hat on his head. He looked no different from a common farmer.

He carried a bamboo basket filled with seeds, followed by several young constables—some shouldering iron plows, while most carried bamboo baskets brimming with seeds.

Suddenly, a sarcastic laugh rang out from the crowd: “Oh, is Magistrate Duan really going to work the fields himself? A plow isn’t like a brush—can you manage it?”

The speaker was Sun Tian, a man notorious for his stubbornness, who had always been skeptical of Duan Jin’s teachings. Not only did he refuse to compost himself, but he also spread false claims to dissuade his neighbors from doing so—and a few households actually believed him.

Now he stood at the very front of the crowd with his arms crossed, his face a picture of disdain.

“That’s right,” chimed a like-minded companion beside him, “This land’s been barren for years—whatever we plant just dies. You’re spending all that silver on gypsum and seeds, only to end up with nothing to show for it.”

“Exactly. Young officials just don’t understand farming—they’re full of wild, unrealistic ideas…”

Sun Tian sneered, “He just wants to build up his track record so he can get promoted. Who cares about the lives of us common folk?”