The alleys they walked through felt familiar, as if he'd traversed them many times, though he was seeing them for the first time. Unusual buildings or sharp, often unpleasant, smells triggered memories. Here, the previous Zhang Ming had haggled; in that narrow alley, he'd been beaten by locals for stealing; over there, he'd successfully lifted a purse. A kaleidoscope of deeply unpleasant images from the life of the city's dregs washed over the newcomer from another, rich and comfortable world. He felt like he was getting covered in filth all over again.
I've landed in the body of a real piece of trash. This bastard squandered all his money, he raged inwardly on the way, his eyes fixed on the thin figures of the children ahead. How did they even survive? How do these little ones have so much strength?
Soon they reached the river port. In the distance, the wide, navigable river shimmered silver, and dozens of vessels bobbed gently on its surface. Large merchant ships and small fishing boats came here. On the busy dock, goods were being unloaded, stacked onto carts, while others were loaded up, haggling with the overseer over repair costs or guarding their ships.
One look was enough for Zhang Ming to recall the job where he spent most of his days, toiling until exhaustion for a few coins. He remembered the face of the supervisor who managed the porters, along with the barrel-shaped and obsequious dockmaster. Images of unfamiliar people surfaced from the depths of someone else's memory—officials, soldiers, and others whom one should always bow to.
"No need for you to stay. I'll manage from here," he told the children.
After the walk from home to the docks, he felt worse than ever; his face had gone pale, beads of sweat glued to his forehead, and breathing became a laborious task. His head still throbbed, hands trembling from the hangover, and each step took immense willpower. Now, all he cared about was how to earn a few coins to eat and not die. His muddled mind couldn’t concoct any more plans—he simply lacked the strength to worry about anything else. The surrounding world felt unreal, as if shrouded in a haze. He didn't even check if the girls had left; he stumbled down the familiar path to work.
"Hey, old Zhang Ming!" one of the porters greeted him.
"Hi, hi," he replied automatically.
He bowed to the supervisor, received a task, and got to work. Conversations flowed like through a fog; he responded almost unconsciously, and only one thought occupied his mind—Survive, make it to the end of the day. The sun beat down relentlessly, sweat poured down in streams, and he didn't bother counting how much water he’d already drunk. After noon, they were given wooden bowls filled with grain porridge, which tasted spoiled and moldy, yet the newcomer from another world finished it all.
I won't die here! Not like this, he repeated silently.
If it weren't for his miserable condition, he might have noticed that all the ships were sailboats, medieval-style, flimsy little fishing vessels, and there wasn't a modern building or piece of equipment in the port. None of the locals owned anything from his world. Carts and wagons traversed the streets; patrolling soldiers with shields and spears kept watch over the order. His illusion of a distant village on the edge of civilization would have shattered into pieces, and he would have quickly realized that he was in a completely different world.
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As the workers were dismissed for the evening, the day began to draw to a close. The torment was over, and he received a few coins. The pay for porters varied daily; the dockmaster used a method known only to himself to determine the amount. Judging by market prices and converting his wages into modern currency, his earnings barely nudged above the subsistence level; he was making next to nothing. It remained a mystery how the previous owner of the body managed to drink himself into a stupor without dying of hunger.
As he reached the market and saw the faces of the merchants, Zhang Ming quickly recalled the reason. The former owner was deep in debt, borrowing from everyone he could. He owed money to the grocer, butcher, and various traders. Out of pure kindness, they let him take goods on credit, but that kindness had its limits for two little girls. The fruit vendor stopped selling him goods when his debt hit two silver coins; the butcher extended meat until the debt exceeded two and a half, while the rice seller had lent him produce only for one and a half silver coins. Every tavern in the area had him on their debtor's list, yet he still managed to drink to the point of oblivion.
After the grueling workday and the vast amount of water he’d forced down, Zhang Ming felt slightly better. On his way home, he stopped at a shop and bought a cup of raw rice. That amount was usually enough for a couple of days. The shopkeeper didn't even want to see him at first, but upon receiving the money the porter had earned that day, along with a promise to soon repay the rest of the debt, he poured the rice into a small canvas bag and sent the customer off with a perfunctory smile. Zhang Ming's pockets were empty again.
Without lingering anywhere, he returned home, which greatly surprised the children and frightened them even more. Usually, if he came home early, he was in a foul mood and would take it out on them. Afraid of beatings and shouting, they huddled in the farthest corner of the hut. Their hungry eyes were fixed on the bag of rice; from the sound, the girls had guessed its contents. But what scared them most was that he had brought rice instead of a jug of cheap wine. This had never happened before, and they didn't know what to expect. Tossing the meager bag into the corner, he collapsed onto the straw bed to sleep. He had no energy for the children or for food; nausea tightened his throat.
Maybe eating that porridge was a mistake… he thought, drifting off to sleep.
At the sight of the bag of raw rice, the stomachs of the grimy little girls growled. On tiptoe, careful not to make a sound, the older sister crept toward it. Glancing at her father's back and then at the bag, she carefully opened the canvas and checked inside. There lay the rice, slightly grayish but loose-grained and surely very tasty. A trickle of saliva ran down her tiny chin.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she made a terrifying decision. No matter how severely she would be punished later, she would endure it, but today, she and her sister would eat. Signaling to the younger one, she scooped two handfuls of rice into an iron pot, and their thin figures slipped out of the house. Looking around and trembling with both fear and anticipation, they lit a fire in the yard, poured water into the pot, and cooked the rice into a watery porridge, just as the neighbor woman had taught them. Of course, they added some wild greens and a pinch of tree bark to make the meal seem larger.
While the rice cooked, they were terribly anxious, fearing that at the last moment their prize would be taken away, and they glanced around nervously. Only when the first spoonful of porridge burned their tongues and then reached their stomachs did the girls calm down a little. Unfortunately, the food was gone all too quickly. The children licked the pot clean, then carefully washed it, erasing all traces of their crime. Now, all that was left was to wait for the punishment for taking the rice without permission. They were utterly terrified.
