Just How Rich Are You?

The boy stared at me, mouth slightly open, eyes glazed over with confusion. It was the kind of look that screamed, I have no idea what you just said, yet he didn't want to admit it.

I couldn't help but chuckle. It didn't matter whether he understood now. The Tao wasn't something one grasped through a single conversation. It was something that seeped into the heart over time. If he retained even a shred of what I'd said, it was enough.

Yet, even if my words had flown past him like autumn leaves in the wind, he instinctively knew the painting was valuable. He clutched it tightly, holding it as if it were a treasure beyond price.

"Thank you, Big Brother! I'm from the stall across the street. If you need anything, tell me. Goodbye!" His bright voice cut through the quiet air before he spun on his heel and dashed out of my shop, excitement bursting from him like an overflowing river.

"Father! Father! Look! Big Brother gave me this!"

Curious, I stepped to the entrance and watched as a man emerged from a modest stall across the way. His hands, rough from years of labor, gently took the painting from the boy. His expression, at first warm and indulgent, changed the moment his eyes fell upon the artwork.

He went still.

For a long breath, he simply stared, as if trying to drink in every detail. Then, with deliberate steps, he made his way toward me, the painting cradled in his hands like something sacred.

"Little brother," he said, his voice polite but firm, "kids don't always understand the value of things. How much for this painting?"

I shook my head. "I gave it to him. It's just a piece of art. You don't need to pay for it."

His brows furrowed slightly, as though he wanted to argue, but then he exhaled softly and smiled. "You're new here, aren't you? I haven't seen you before."

I nodded, returning his smile.

"Well then, little brother," his grin widened, "if you don't mind, come over for a meal. I've got some homemade dumplings. I promise they're better than anything you'll find in the restaurants."

For a moment, I hesitated. I had lived alone for so long that invitations like this felt distant, almost foreign. But there was something genuine about his offer, something warm. And so, for reasons I didn't fully understand, I nodded.

Inside the small room, the scent of freshly cooked food filled the air. A simple square table sat in the middle of the room, adorned with steaming dishes. When I took my first bite of the dumpling, I was caught off guard—it was delicious, far better than I had expected.

"Told you," the man chuckled, pleased with my reaction.

I ate in silence, savoring each bite, the taste awakening something buried deep in my memory. A feeling. Something distant yet familiar. The quiet warmth of a home-cooked meal. The sound of voices, soft and steady, filling a space that had once felt empty.

As I listened to the father and son talk, laughter bubbling between them, an old, forgotten part of me stirred.

I had once known a home like this.

Long ago.

After the meal, the man spoke of his life. I learned that his wife had died in a beast attack years ago. Despite the hardship of raising a child alone, he had poured every ounce of himself into ensuring his son grew up in an environment full of love and warmth.

It was… strange.

To see a life so simple, yet so full.

That night, as I returned to my shop, I found myself thinking about their small family.

And so, just like that, dumplings became a part of my life. Almost every morning, he would arrive at my shop carrying a small container of dumplings, dropping it onto my table with a grin before watching me paint. He never asked for anything in return.

At first, I thought little of it. But over time, something changed.

I began to anticipate his visits. The quiet of my shop no longer felt as still, as empty, as it once had. His laughter, his unfiltered curiosity—it all became part of my routine, a small but undeniable rhythm woven into my otherwise solitary days.

Time passed like a river flowing endlessly forward. Three years slipped by in the blink of an eye.

During this time, I lost myself in painting, in the quiet joy it brought. My identity as a martial artist, as a transmigrator, faded into the background. I had no urgent battles to fight, no grand ambitions pressing against my back. And yet, in the simplicity of daily life, I found that my understanding of the Tao deepened in ways I had never expected.

Each brushstroke was a step forward.

Each painting was a doorway, leading me closer to something I had yet to grasp.

And then, one afternoon, Ming Chen stormed into my shop carrying a basket brimming with dumplings.

"Big Brother," he sighed, exasperated, "you've got to talk to my dad. He's ruining my life."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

He gestured wildly. "Fishing. Every morning. Every evening. It never ends! I tell him I want to paint like you, and he just drags me to the river and gives me a long speech about how 'a man must learn to catch his own food' and 'understand the ways of nature.'" He let out another exaggerated sigh, shoving the basket toward me. "Here. I brought you dumplings. The price of my suffering."

I chuckled. "Fishing isn't so bad."

He shot me a betrayed look. "Don't tell me you're taking his side."

I smirked, dipping my brush into ink. "I'm saying maybe there's a lesson in it. Fishing requires patience, precision, an understanding of the currents. Not so different from painting."

He frowned, crossing his arms. "That sounds like something my dad would say."

"Then maybe he's right."

Ming Chen grumbled under his breath but said nothing more.

His gaze drifted to the unfinished painting in my hands, and almost instantly, the frustration on his face faded, replaced by quiet fascination.

For the past year, he had been captivated by my work, drawn to it in a way that went beyond simple admiration.

And though he didn't say it, I knew.

He had already begun to understand.

I reached for a dumpling from the basket he had brought, biting into its warm, flavorful filling. The taste was familiar, comforting.

"Your dad only wants what's best for you, Ming'er," I said after a moment, my tone light. "Don't hate him for that."

Ming Chen pouted, arms crossed over his chest, but he didn't argue.

So he sat with me in silence, watching as I worked.

Moments like these had become part of my life—small, fleeting, yet strangely grounding. Time moved like an unseen current, and before I knew it, another year had passed.

Four years.

Four years in the capital of the Great Dao Zhu Dynasty.

Ming Chen had grown taller, his frame lean but strong, no longer the small, energetic child who had once darted into my shop. His laughter had deepened.

The world around us changed as well. New families arrived, filling the streets with fresh voices. Old neighbors left, some moving to distant lands, others disappearing into the silence of history. A shop down the street stood empty now, its owner having passed away in the night, leaving behind only memories that faded with time.

Ming Chen's father, once a man of boundless vigor, bore new lines on his face, the subtle weight of years pressing upon his shoulders. He still smiled, still worked, still poured his heart into his son, but time left no one untouched.

Seasons turned like pages in an unwritten book. Autumn gave way to winter, and the cycle of life continued. I watched it all—the birth of the young, the passing of the old—but my heart remained steady, untouched by the tide of time.

Strength, progress, ambition… these things felt distant now.

Once, I had lived with purpose, with hunger, with a drive to carve my path through the world. But for who know how many years, I had barely practiced martial arts. My hands, spent their days painting, seeking something deeper within each stroke of ink.

And in that pursuit, I found a strange kind of peace.

Despite my detachment, my name had spread. My paintings, infused with something beyond mere craftsmanship, had drawn the attention of merchants and martial artists alike. They came seeking my work, offering silver, gold, even treasures in exchange.

But I cared little for wealth. To me, painting was not a means to an end.

As the New Year approached, the city transformed. Lanterns hung from rooftops, glowing like scattered stars. The streets bustled with vendors selling sweets and trinkets, children ran through the snow, their laughter mingling with the crisp winter air.

I sat outside my shop, a wooden chair beneath me, watching the world celebrate. Snow blanketed the ground, soft and untouched.

Across the street, Ming Chen burst out of his home, a string of fireworks in his hands, his face glowing with excitement. He ran through the snow, leaping and shouting, until his eyes landed on me.

A wide grin spread across his face as he rushed over.

"Big Brother Huzi! Why are you sitting here all alone in the cold?" He stopped in front of me, breathless, shaking the fireworks in his hands. "The whole street is celebrating! Look, I even brought fireworks for you. Let's go light them!"

I looked up at him, a faint smile tugging at my lips.

"Ming'er, you go ahead. Enjoy yourself with your friends." My voice was calm, quiet, almost lost in the wind. "The snow looks better in silence."

Ming Chen's excitement dimmed for a moment. He hesitated, looking between me and the street, as if trying to decide whether to stay or go.

Then, without another word, he placed the fireworks beside me and sat down.

I raised an eyebrow. "Not going to join them?"

He shrugged. "It's warmer here."

Silence settled between us, but it wasn't uncomfortable.

I reached into my robe and pulled out a small pouch, placing it in his hands.

"Take this," I said. "A New Year's gift from your older brother. Buy something nice."

Ming Chen's fingers trembled as he opened the pouch, and a golden gleam spilled into the cold winter air. The light reflected in his wide eyes, momentarily blinding him. When his vision cleared, he sucked in a sharp breath.

Gold coins. Not just a handful, not just a token gesture, but enough to change his life forever. Enough to ensure that he and his father would never have to worry about money again.

His throat tightened. "Big Brother…" His voice was barely above a whisper, shaking with disbelief. "Other people give copper coins for New Year gifts, and you're handing me gold like it's nothing! Just how rich are you?"