15-Year-old Shen Zhao stood in a village littered with corpses. The mother-in-law who handed him the steamed bun yesterday has now turned into withered bones in the mud. Officials and bandits are like wolves, and refugees are like ants. There is no room for warmth in these troubled times, let alone a young boy.
He once hid in a dilapidated temple and heard scholars talking about Jianghu, and thought that chivalry means wearing bright clothes, angering horses, and taking pleasure in grudges. It wasn't until I witnessed hungry people exchanging their children for food that I realized that the so-called rivers and lakes were just a quagmire of struggling to survive.
Shen Zhao's sword began to be stained with blood. Sometimes it was to protect the fleeing mother and daughter and cut open the swords of bandit soldiers; sometimes it was to cut off the chains of corrupt officials in order to grab disaster relief food. He led a group of orphans to build houses in the ruins, used sword tassels to string up the collected herbs, and dug out grain seeds that could still germinate among the dead.
Some people laughed at him and said: "One man and one sword, how many can be saved?"
Shen Zhao wiped the blood on his sword, and the blade reflected his eyes that were stained with dirt but were astonishingly bright: "If you save one, it counts as one."
"You have to earn a living." He looked at the dancing flames, and his eyes reflected Shen Yi who was incompatible with his age. "They want to destroy ten households, so I will protect one; they want to destroy a hundred villages, so I will protect one."
