In the spring of the fourth year of Qingli, the humidity in Kyoto was a bit heavy. The moss in the cracks of the bluestone slabs has grown and scraped, resembling the old dirt that cannot be removed in this court room.
This year, a young man named Chen Ping walked into Lao Xu Noodle House in Willow Lane carrying a worn-out oil-paper umbrella. He is a very serious person. Carefully pick up the crumbs from the knife and eat them, because they are food. Seriously write down the grand theory of "enough food and soldiers" on the examination paper into an account book of daily necessities, because that is life. Tell the emperor seriously that the weight of the world is just the extra straw on the woodcutter's shoulder.
In the eyes of those wealthy and well-off people, he was rustic, stingy, and inflexible, like a smelly and hard pebble. But in Chen Ping's view, the truth never lies in the clouds, but in the soil.
He is not here to be an official, he is here to settle accounts. Calculate how many buckets of rice are left to transport to the border. Calculate whether the river-suppressing iron bull is submerged up to its neck or shoulders. Calculate how many fleas are hidden under this glorious brocade robe.
This is a story about tinkering. Repair umbrellas, repair shoes, repair embankments. By the way, please repair this leaky worldly way.
"My name is Chen Ping, and I am a calm Ping. All I want in this life is to hold my umbrella up so that I and the people around me don't get wet in the rain.
