In the twenty-seventh year of Wanli, in Kuaiji County, Shaoxing Prefecture, there was a side house on the back street of the county government.
Shen Qingshan was lying on the table, the oil lamp was almost at its bottom, and the flames were shrinking, as if he was about to die at any moment. He had stayed up all night writing a letter to the shopkeeper of Silk Village Sun, his eyes were as red as rabbits, and his wrists were so sore that he couldn't lift them up. Shopkeeper Sun promised him two cents of silver, but he still owed one and a half cents. At dawn, when he was finishing writing the paper, he felt a sudden cramp in his chest, as if someone was grabbing his heart from the inside. He wanted to shout, but only a mouthful of fishy-smelling blood foam rolled out of his throat. His vision went black, and he fell down with his chair, hitting his forehead on the edge of the inkstone, and ink splashed half of his face.
His last thought was still: Shopkeeper Sun hadn't given him all the money yet.
