Chapter Three: Coming to Terms

At fifteen years old, Jia Ping’an carried within him the soul of a man in his forties, seasoned and worldly, bolstered further by the aid of a mysterious space—this was the source of his greatest confidence.

“First, understand the surrounding environment and find an entry point. No matter what, since I’m still alive and have come this far, I must live brilliantly.” With this tentative goal set in his heart, Jia Ping’an formulated a rough plan: to adapt first, then seek opportunities for growth.

Ren Qinghu, politely addressed as a Hundred Householder, was in truth only a trial Hundred Householder. Though the difference in rank seemed slight, without the right chance, many spent their entire lives unable to cross this threshold.

When night fell and the carriage halted once more, a campfire lit, Jia Ping’an deliberately drew near Ren Qinghu, striking up conversation in the hope of gleaning more about Ningguta from him.

Clad in armor, Ren Qinghu bore the typical stature of a northern Han warrior—just over five feet three inches, roughly one meter seventy-eight in modern terms. Unlike later eras where men often grew taller, in this time the average height barely surpassed one meter sixty; his size alone marked him as formidable.

Though only in his twenties, years of military life had etched a frostiness onto his face, making him easily pass for thirty-five. As the leader of the escort party, Ren Qinghu was well acquainted with the four prisoners.

Jia Fanghao hailed from the Jia clan of Changdu in the Kingdom of Xuan. Following his father’s profession, he had served in the Imperial Medical Bureau and was known for his kindness and good relations. Even now, despite the offense he had committed, many still spoke in his defense. Upon arriving from Ningguta to Changdu, numerous imperial doctors had visited Ren Qinghu, presenting substantial gifts with a clear message: take good care of Doctor Jia on the journey.

Money taken, disaster averted.

Ren Qinghu, having accepted these bribes, naturally paid extra attention. Providing two carriages for the four prisoners was proof of this care.

As for Jia Yushi and Jia Rongrong, two women of the household, they were dismissed entirely by Ren Qinghu. In an era steeped in male preference, women as mere appendages to men held little regard in the eyes of a man like him.

Jia Ping’an’s name was said to embody the hope for peace and safety. This was likely due to his family’s history of nine generations without a male heir, and it was said he had been well cared for.

But the truth was otherwise.

Having lost his birth mother at an early age, Jia Ping’an was raised by his aunt Jia Yushi from the age of three. After a severe illness that same year, he remained frail and sickly. In an age where medicine was rudimentary, surviving to this point was nothing short of a miracle, largely owed to his father’s status as an imperial doctor.

It had seemed that growing up with hardships was no great matter; at least with a father in the medical profession, Jia Ping’an could inherit the role, ensuring a lifetime free from material worries.

Yet fate dealt cruelly. Misfortune followed him, implicating his father and leading to their exile to Ningguta.

Already physically weak and now thrust into a harsh environment, Ren Qinghu genuinely feared the young master might perish en route.

This was Ren Qinghu’s impression of the family of four—a rough exterior masking keen observation.

He assumed they would be like many exiled officials, condemned to remain in Ningguta until death. But then Jia Ping’an seemed to transform, initiating conversation with him. This made Ren Qinghu question his judgment.

At first, Ren Qinghu had hoped to cozy up to the doctor’s son; after all, everyone falls ill, and knowing a good physician could be advantageous.

However, with Jia Ping’an’s frailty and reticence, two attempts at conversation failed, and Ren Qinghu gave up. So it surprised him when the boy now approached him willingly, inquiring about Ningguta.

Had he resigned himself to his fate? Surely, he must have accepted that return to Changdu was unlikely and had simply made peace with it.

Convinced of this, Ren Qinghu welcomed Jia Ping’an’s friendship—it cost him nothing but words, and perhaps might prove useful in the future. Better to prepare now than regret later.

One willing to speak and one eager to listen, Jia Ping’an gleaned much about Ningguta from Ren Qinghu. Armed with this knowledge, he began to map out his future course.

Jia Ping’an grew noticeably more outgoing, even initiating contact with the soldiers. When his father and aunt in the other carriage saw this, they were initially shocked.

After fifteen years, how could a father not know his child’s nature?

His son had always been quiet and restless, revering Confucian scholars while looking down on warriors as simple-minded brutes. He had always avoided them, much less befriended them—yet now he spoke closely with a soldier.

Surprisingly, Jia Fanghao did not feel anger but rather relief. His son was growing up, learning the ways of the world. When the time came for him to depart this life, he would not have to worry about his son’s survival.

Their branch of the Jia family, with nine generations of single male heirs, was pitiful indeed.

For this reason, Jia Fanghao had turned to medicine from officialdom, entering the Imperial Medical Bureau around age fifty. Jia Ping’an had smoothly taken up the mantle, joining the bureau after his father’s passing, ensuring he could receive proper care and continue the family line.

Yet even as an imperial doctor, their line remained unbroken, with Ping’an the sole male heir. Seeing his own age advance and his wife Luo Li still childless, Jia Fanghao entrusted the future of the Jia family to his son.

But his son seemed unpromising—frail from birth and poor at socializing, he showed some interest in study, but mere bookishness would not suffice. How could a son emerge from such limitations?

Perhaps the greater the hope, the deeper the disappointment.

At fifteen, Jia Ping’an’s nature remained unchanged, and Jia Fanghao nearly gave up. But then, unexpectedly, Jia Ping’an shifted. This rekindled a flicker of hope.

Since drinking the miraculous spring water, Jia Ping’an’s senses had sharpened. He noticed the probing glances of his father and aunt but paid them no mind. To survive meant change—and his transformation was surely what his father desired. If so, why worry?

Freed from restraint, Jia Ping’an’s questions grew more numerous, targeted, and logical. Twelve days before reaching Ningguta—still three days distant—he had already pieced together a clear picture of the place and how to survive there.

Ningguta, historical records say, was a land of bitter cold, much like the Ningguta of this era.

Half the year snow blanketed the region. Its harsh climate stifled development, and poor transportation made export and import difficult, leading to a lower quality of life for its inhabitants.

Yet the surrounding mountains and forests were abundant. Following the principle of living off the land, the locals thrived on wild ginseng and sable pelts—commodities highly prized not only in Changdu but across the five kingdoms.

Those exiled to Ningguta, branded as criminals awaiting punishment, were tasked mainly with gathering wild ginseng. Their survival depended directly on whether they could harvest it and the quality thereof.

Was he to become a ginseng gatherer?

The thought steeled Jia Ping’an’s confidence—not because of prior experience, for he had none in this realm, but because of the advantage his mysterious space offered.

Within that space lay twenty acres of fertile black soil. He sensed that if he transplanted the wild ginseng into this soil, it would flourish rapidly.

If his hypothesis proved correct, gathering ginseng—difficult for others—would be as effortless as an old woman blowing her nose.

After learning much about Ningguta, Jia Ping’an returned to his carriage. The closer they drew to their destination, the more cautious he became in his words and actions. He could no longer approach Ren Qinghu so freely; as a convicted official, such behavior would only invite trouble.

His prudence pleased Ren Qinghu.

A humble youth with a medical father and keen insight—if not for his father’s downfall, Ren Qinghu believed Jia Ping’an’s future would be bright.

To treat others kindly was to benefit oneself. As an officer escorting prisoners, Ren Qinghu had witnessed many fall from glory and some rise again. Fate was a strange thing, unpredictable.

Thus, Ren Qinghu was careful not to offend anyone lightly. But when the opportunity arose to do a little favor, he was willing—even if it meant stoking a cold fire for a moment’s warmth.