The night was thick and heavy, like a vast canvas drenched in ink. The darkness spread boundlessly across the sky, swallowing the horizon until not even the faintest glimmer of stars remained.

Somewhere in that suffocating blackness, a distant wolf’s howl rose and fell — a low, eerie sound that floated on the wind. The howls came closer, then faded, then surged again — always shifting, as though the night itself breathed with menace.

Amid the shadows, a figure moved. Limping, then leaping — it navigated the treetops with surprising speed. The rustle of leaves and the faint sound of branches shifting marked its passage, but the darkness kept it hidden.

As the first light of dawn crept over Banyuepo Village, Ye Sangwan emerged from her space, stretching as she opened the wooden door of her house — only to nearly collide with a dark silhouette.

Her hand flashed instinctively, the cold glint of a silver needle already between her fingers. If not for the familiar scent that reached her nose — the faint, comforting mix of pine and the coolness of the mountain breeze — she might not have stopped herself in time.

“Yun Heng!” she gasped, her heart still pounding. “Do you know people can actually be scared to death?”

Yun Heng took a half-step back, looking genuinely remorseful. “I… didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said, his voice quiet and a little sheepish. “I just wanted to tell you — I found a sweet potato field. It’s between Cangshan and BanyuepoMountain.”

He held up a vine, still tangled with black soil, the long roots bearing plump sweet potatoes. The sight was so unexpected that Ye Sangwan could only gape at him. She stared at the freshly-dug plant, then back at Yun Heng, then back at the sweet potatoes again.

Without a word, she turned around and closed the door with a decisive bang.

Nope. She must still be dreaming. That was the only explanation.

She pressed her back against the door, taking a deep breath. This isn’t possible, she told herself. Sweet potatoes weren’t introduced into their country until the Wanli period of the Ming Dynasty — how could they possibly exist in this fictional timeline?

But when she finally opened the door again, Yun Heng was still there. This time, he was leaning casually against the frame, studying her with quiet amusement — and still holding that infernal sweet potato vine.

Ye Sangwan’s body stiffened. “This… this is a good thing!” she said, forcing her voice into something like enthusiasm. “I was just thinking about transplanting some yesterday, and you found a whole field…”

But Yun Heng’s expression turned serious. “The good comes with the bad,” he said. “That sweet potato field… it’s home to a pack of wild boars. And a group of hungry wolves seem very interested in it, too.”

Ye Sangwan’s eyes went wide. “That’s— that’s dangerous!”

A sudden thunk interrupted them as a date hit Yun Heng’s forehead. He raised an eyebrow, rubbing the spot as he glanced around in confusion.

“What are you thinking?” Ye Sangwan teased, her voice light but her eyes curious. “Wild boars and wolves are both carnivores. Why would they bother fighting over sweet potatoes in a low valley?”

Yun Heng’s lips pressed into a thin line — and then Ye Sangwan’s face lit up with mischief.

“Wait a second — did I just hear you say two whole sentences?” she asked, her tone playful and incredulous. “You cantalk! And here I thought you were committed to your ‘man of few words’ persona.”

Yun Heng looked away, clearly trying to maintain his usual calm.

“Oh no, you’re not getting away with this!” Ye Sangwan grinned, stepping closer. “Do you have some kind of idol burden? Or are you secretly putting on an act? I knew it! You can talk just fine, but most of the time you act like you’re rationing words!”

Yun Heng let out a long-suffering sigh, but the faintest curve of a smile appeared on his otherwise stoic face. “Go wash your face,” he said. “I’m coming over for breakfast.”

And with that, he tossed her a date and walked away, leaving Ye Sangwan standing there — baffled, amused, and holding a basket of sweet potatoes as the morning dew glistened around her feet.

Breakfast was simple but hearty.

Sweet potatoes steamed until tender, their fragrance filling the small house. A pot of thick, white porridge bubbled on the stove. Stir-fried shredded potatoes, crisp and spiced with sour and chili flavors, sizzled in the pan. A handful of pickled cabbage added a sharp, tangy note to the spread.

From her space, she’d brought out a pot of marinated tea eggs, their shells cracked with delicate patterns from the simmering sauce. Ten perfect eggs sat alongside a large pot of freshly made soy milk and a special bowl of sweet red date egg soup for Xu Dani.

Finally, she prepared the birth medicine Xu Dani had picked up from the town the day before, setting everything on the table with a satisfied nod.

But when she turned around, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

Ye Sangyan stood there, eyes red and puffy, staring at her like she was a stranger.

“Ayan?” Ye Sangwan’s voice softened with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“You… you’re not my eldest sister,” Ye Sangyan said, her voice trembling. But there was an eerie calm to her tone that made the words cut even deeper.

Ye Sangwan’s heart twisted. “Of course I am! What are you talking about?”

But Ye Sangyan only shook her head, tears brimming again. “My eldest sister… she couldn’t cook like this. She never knew how to make money. And we’ve shared the same bed since we were kids — I know even the way she snores!”

Ye Sangwan winced. “Ayan… I—”

“And why have you been sleeping with An’er these past few days?” Ye Sangyan demanded, her voice breaking as tears finally spilled over.

Ye Sangwan pulled her into an embrace, whispering softly until the girl’s sobs began to quiet. “Listen to me, Ayan. I am your eldest sister. But something happened that day — when I was attacked. I… I was taken away by a black and white bull, and there was an old man with a long white beard…”

Ye Sangyan sniffled, looking up with wide eyes. “A… a celestial being?”

“He said my time hadn’t come yet — that I had to come back and protect you all. That’s why I’ve changed. He taught me all these things — cooking, medicine, farming.” Ye Sangwan brushed her sister’s hair back gently. “As for sleeping with Chu An… haven’t you noticed? Sometimes, he runs to the yard in the middle of the night crying for our mother. He’s sick, Ayan. I’m just keeping him company.”

The fight drained out of Ye Sangyan in an instant. “So… you only sleep with An’er because he’s sick? And you’ve learned all these things from a fairy grandpa?”

“Exactly,” Ye Sangwan whispered. “But if you tell anyone, the old man might take me away again.”

“No!” Ye Sangyan clung to her waist fiercely. “I won’t tell! Eldest sister, don’t leave us. A Yan knows it’s wrong… A Yanshouldn’t doubt the eldest sister… ”

Listening to Ye Sangyan’s remorseful tone, Ye Sangwan patted her on the back comfortingly, “I don’t blame A Yan. It’s the eldest sister who didn’t tell you in advance. So Lord A Yan has a lot, so don’t be angry, okay?”

Ye Sangyan wiped away her tears and nodded solemnly: As long as the eldest sister is still her eldest sister, it doesn’t matter what she becomes.

After breakfast, Yun Heng didn’t waste a moment. As soon as he set his bowl down, he was already on his feet, heading straight to Zhu Chaozhang’s house to borrow a pair of oxen for plowing the field.

Zhu Chaozhang had been preparing to take his cart to the brick and tile factory in town to check on prices, but when he heard Ye Sangwan was planning to start farming, his curiosity got the better of him. He changed his mind and decided to stay, bringing along his son, Zhu Jizhong, and their neighbor Tian Ruchi to watch the spectacle unfold.

Truthfully, the excitement wasn’t just about the farming — it was the rumors surrounding the so-called “red potato” Yun Heng had spoken of. A strange and unknown crop was bound to attract attention.

Besides, there was also the matter of Yun Heng himself. He had left the village at the age of twelve to join the frontlines, and though he’d returned as a skilled warrior, plowing a field was another matter entirely.

Sure enough, when he took hold of the plow, the struggle was obvious. The oxen were stubborn, the earth was heavy, and the lines he made were anything but straight.

But Yun Heng wasn’t the type to give up. Under Zhu Jizhong’s patient guidance — and after much trial and error — he slowly began to get the hang of it. His strong arms adjusted to the weight of the plow, his stance grew steady, and soon enough, the furrows behind him became neat and even.

Ye Sangwan watched from a distance, her eyes drawn to the determined set of his jaw and the way the sun glinted off his sweat-dampened hair. But her gaze kept flicking to his leg — the one that hadn’t fully healed, the one that still bore the limp he tried so hard to hide.

The more she watched, the more her heart tightened.

I need to find a way to heal him, she thought, the resolve settling deep inside her.

As the plowing neared completion, Ye Sangwan headed toward the back mountain to fetch the trio who had been busy gathering pine needles and straw. They hauled the bundles back to the field, and soon the dry materials were piled high across the freshly tilled earth.

Then came the fire.

Flames crackled and roared, leaping toward the sky and sending thick plumes of smoke billowing upward. The fire spread swiftly over the field, consuming the straw and pine needles in a fierce, controlled burn. The sight was so unexpected that it wasn’t long before the villagers came running with buckets of water, thinking they were witnessing a disaster.

When they realized the fire was intentional, confusion replaced their panic.

“It’s the first time I’ve ever seen anything like this,” one elderly man muttered, squinting through the smoke. “Burning the field right before planting? It goes against everything our ancestors taught us!”

“Exactly!” another woman chimed in. “If they can’t grow anything next year, it’ll be their own fault!”

But not everyone was so quick to criticize.

“I don’t know… I heard that burning can drive away insects and improve the soil,” someone else murmured thoughtfully. “Maybe they’re onto something.”

Zhu Chaozhang stood to the side, his lips twitching with a barely concealed smirk. If only they knew the full truth — that Ye Sangwan wasn’t just experimenting, but creating a fertile land unlike anything the village had ever seen.

Just then, a figure came running from the distance, his breath ragged and his face pale with urgency.

“Village chief!” the man gasped, doubling over. “It… it’s the government! They’ve sent officials again — they’re demanding more head taxes!”

The crowd erupted in fresh waves of dismay.

“More taxes? But we already paid the spring tax! How can they demand more?”

“They’ll bleed us dry! How are we supposed to survive?”

Ye Sangwan’s eyes flicked to Zhu Chaozhang — and she saw it. The way his shoulders slumped just a little more, the lines of exhaustion deepening on his face.

Her heart tightened again, but this time with anger.

“Yun Heng,” she said quietly, her voice steady despite the storm rising inside her. “Let’s go see what’s happening.”

When they arrived at Zhu Chaozhang’s house, a small crowd had already gathered. The officials wore crisp, soap-colored robes and carried themselves with an air of practiced authority. One of them held up a token to prove their identity, while another unfurled a notice written in stark black ink on pale paper.

But it wasn’t the officials that caught Ye Sangwan’s attention. It was the man standing slightly apart from them.

The middle-aged man had a scholarly air about him, his posture straight and his expression polite but detached. An abacus was tucked neatly under his arm, and he held both an account book and a set of ink brushes in his hands — clearly the accountant responsible for collecting the taxes.

Zhu Jizhong quickly brought out two sets of tables and chairs, and the officials seated themselves with the air of men accustomed to being served.

But the villagers weren’t paying attention to the seating arrangements. They were still reeling from the other news the officials had brought.

“General Zhengnan…” one of the older men whispered, his voice heavy with sorrow. “Gone. After all these years of fighting… he was the only hope we had left.”

The words fell like a stone into still water, sending ripples of grief and fear through the crowd.

Ye Sangwan felt it too — that deep ache for a man she had never met but had always admired through stories of his bravery and victories. With his death, the fragile hope for peace seemed to flicker and fade.

But there was no time to mourn. Not when the village’s survival was at stake.

As the officials prepared their ledgers and ink, Ye Sangwan stepped forward — ready to face whatever came next.

The sharp, metallic clang of the gong echoed across the village square, sending uneasy ripples through the gathered crowd. The official holding the gong cleared his throat, his voice loud and commanding as he read the decree.

“This time, the supplementary head tax will be levied on children aged 0 to 11 and the elderly over 50 — fifty coins per person. For those aged 12 to 49, the tax remains fifty coins per person. Payment can also be made in rice, with one dou of rice converted into ten wen. We ask all citizens to cooperate and make their payments in an orderly manner.”

The crowd erupted in outrage almost immediately.

“What? Fifty coins per head? Even for infants and the elderly? You might as well be robbing us!”

“A dou of rice is only worth ten wen? That’s daylight robbery!”

“The generals fighting in the south have been dying for this war for twenty years! And now even the great General Zhengnan is gone — what’s the point of these taxes if we’re doomed anyway?”

“It would be better to be taken over by Ruoshui Country! At least they—”

The man speaking didn’t get a chance to finish.

Shing!

The unmistakable sound of a blade being drawn sliced through the rising voices, and an uneasy silence fell. Heads turned toward the sound, and the air grew thick with fear and caution. No one dared speak out again.

Ye Sangwan stood at the edge of the crowd, her heart heavy. She too mourned the death of General Zhengnan — a powerful, fearless leader whose victories had once brought hope. But the heavy taxes, the endless war, and the desperation of the people were a bitter burden.

Still, this was the way of the world. Complaining wouldn’t change anything, and wasting time on protests wouldn’t solve the immediate problem.

Without a word, she slipped her hand into her sleeve, drawing out a small broken silver ingot from her space. The cool weight of it in her palm was reassuring.

Stepping forward, she spoke clearly. “The head of the household is Ye Chengran.”

The accountant flipped through his worn ledger, his brow furrowing. “There are only two families named Ye in this village, and I don’t see any Ye Chengran listed as a head of household.”

Zhu Chaozhang, ever the voice of reason, leaned in. “Ye Chengran is the eldest son of the Ye family. He separated from the main household last year and became independent. Ye Chengran and his eldest son, Ye Chuang, both sacrificed their lives for the country. Now, only his eighteen-year-old daughter and younger siblings remain.”

The accountant’s eyes softened briefly — but only briefly — as he consulted a second list, likely a record of those who had died in service. Once he confirmed the information, his professional indifference returned.

“If there’s no adult left in the household,” he began, his tone already gearing up for refusal—

“There’s no issue with a female head of household,” Ye Sangwan cut in smoothly. Her voice was calm but firm. “I’m the eldest sister, and I have the ability to raise my younger siblings. If that’s unacceptable, then you can fill in my younger brother’s name.”

The accountant blinked, clearly surprised by her unwavering composure and confidence. Still, after a brief hesitation, he nodded and wrote Ye Chu’an’s name into the record as the new head of household.

“Two hundred and twelve coins,” the accountant announced briskly. “That’s one hundred and fifty coins for the three people over twelve, thirty-five coins for the child under eleven, and twenty-five coins for the unborn child in your sister-in-law’s belly. Plus, a two-coin fee for opening a new household account. Please verify the total.”

The crowd exploded again.

“An unborn child? How can you tax a baby that hasn’t even been born yet?”

“Are we paying for people or for shadows? This is madness!”

But the accountant only rolled his eyes, his patience clearly at its limit. “Babies eat too, don’t they? Whether they’re born or not — they still require resources. The tax stands.”

Ye Sangwan’s hands curled into fists at her sides. The injustice of it burned, but she forced herself to stay calm. The last thing they needed was more trouble.

The accountant counted out her change with exaggerated slowness, placing eight copper coins into her hand with a sneer. “Here’s your change. Take it and move along — you’re blocking the line.”

It took every ounce of restraint she had not to unleash the Ye family’s shadowless needles on him right then and there. Instead, she bit her tongue and shoved the coins into her purse with a sharp breath.

Before she could turn away, a familiar face emerged from the group of officials. The man approached her with a cautious glance around and lowered his voice.

“Miss Ye,” he whispered urgently. “A word, if you please.”