Zhang Mingyuan curled up on the squeaking bullock cart, looking at the snowfields on both sides of the official road in a daze. The leaden sky fell heavily, and heavy snow covered the sky. There was no smoke from the villages in the distance, and only a few blackened beams pointed to the sky - those were left behind when the Tatars invaded last month.
"Mr. Ningjin County is just ahead." The old man driving the car called back, his voice breaking in the wind and snow.
Zhang Mingyuan responded and shrank his hands into his sleeves. The coarse linen clothes can't block the cold air at all, and they can be seen through when the wind blows. He looked down at the pair of holey straw sandals on his feet - the big toe on his right foot had turned purple from the cold, and every bump caused excruciating pain.
The seven copper coins in his arms were pressing against his chest. That was all his possessions.
When he set out from Baoding Prefecture three days ago, he still carried two pieces of silver in his pocket. But along the way, I had to pay for a stop at the inn, pay for crossing the river at the ferry, and even a penny for a bowl of hot water. When they reached the border of Zhaozhou, all their money was spent. During the last thirty miles, he exchanged the respectable Confucian shirt he was wearing for the old driver. The old man refused at first, but when he saw that his lips were purple from the cold, he reluctantly nodded.
"Scholar..." The old man sighed, "this world is like this."
