Beiping, winter, 18th year of the Republic of China.
The long bench was kicked away and hit the water-polished blue bricks, splattering sawdust all over the floor.
"Sing!"
Long Sanye spat out the melon seed rinds in his mouth, and the thick leather soles of his shoes ran over the half-cut tobacco pouch on the ground.
"For today's funeral, you have to sing "Eighteen Touches" to me. I feel so good after singing. I will reward your half-dead master with a mouthful of old ginseng soup. If you don't want to sing? Mingfengshe will have to fill in the Haihe River today."
Shen Jingchan stood still.
The coarse cloth gown was washed out and faded, and the cuffs were frayed.
The junior fellow student next to him was trembling with fear and holding on to the corner of Shen Jingchan's clothes.
"Brother, don't... They will kill people."
Shen Jingchan patted the back of his junior brother's hand with his backhand.
The force is very light, but it has a soothing meaning.
