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“Go tell Father, but keep your voice down.” Eldest Zhao kicked the woman beside him. How could she be so thoughtless? Couldn’t she see he was sleeping?
Madam Wang seethed with anger. They had to go home—immediately. As soon as they got the silver, they were leaving!
“My chickens! My pigs!” The old woman wailed in grief.
Second Zhao went to the backyard and was equally shocked. How could there be thieves in Laomuzhu Village? And why would they target their family?!
Old Master Zhao steadied himself. “Second Zhao’s Wife, go prepare breakfast first. Eldest Zhao mustn’t go hungry. Second Zhao, come with me to see the Village Chief. We must catch these thieves.”
“Aye!”
But when Madam Li entered the kitchen, she was stunned all over again. The rice jar was empty, the large iron pot on the stove was gone, and not only were the oil and salt jars missing—why was there not even a single stick of firewood left?
Meanwhile, as the father and son walked through the courtyard, they too sensed something amiss in the house, though they couldn’t quite put their finger on it.
“Ah—!”
“What’s wrong with your wife now, making such a fuss? It’s just cooking!”
Old Master Zhao turned back, ready to scold her, when he saw his eldest son standing in the open doorway.
“Did we wake you? The house was robbed, but your mother and your sister-in-law just can’t handle the shock.”
Eldest Zhao was about to ask what exactly had been stolen that warranted all this noise early in the morning—
“Father, the kitchen’s been emptied! Even the firewood is gone!”
“What?!”
The group hurried toward the kitchen, with Eldest Zhao and his family trailing behind.
Staring at the now-bare kitchen—nothing left but the stove—Old Master Zhao questioned reality itself.
“What kind of thief steals firewood along with everything else?!”
Then it hit him—
“Oh no!”
Old Master Zhao grabbed his second son in a panic, his voice trembling. “Second Son, hurry—check the cellar!”
Second Zhao: “…”
Everyone rushed to the cellar, even Eldest Zhao and Madam Wang quickening their steps, their urgency palpable.
Inside that cellar lay more than half a year’s worth of food for the entire family—including the portion meant for Eldest Zhao. Most importantly, some of the grain had been set aside to sell, just to fund Eldest Zhao’s travel expenses.
But now, aside from half a jar of pickled vegetables, everything was gone.
The cellar was completely empty—no need to search, as everything could be seen at a single glance.
Why hadn’t Xiaoyu (Xiao means Little while Yu form Zhenyu) taken the half-jar of pickled vegetables? Because, in her memory, those pickles had been personally made by her grandmother for Zhao Dawen. The method was crude and simple—stomped into the brine with bare feet. The old woman claimed this made the tastiest pickles. But pickles infused with the stench of unwashed feet and dead skin? Zhenyu had no desire to partake in such a “delicacy.” The old woman, after all, only washed her feet once every ten days or so. Better to leave them for Zhao Dawen to savor—each bite a testament to his mother’s profound love!
As if misfortunes never came singly, the family was in desperate need of silver—and now this theft.
Old Master Zhao leaned against the wall, his vision darkening. Overnight, their home had been stripped bare. If this wasn’t a premeditated robbery, what was?
But who would hold such a grudge against their family? Thanks to Eldest Zhao’s status as a scholar, the Zhao family commanded considerable respect in the village—no one would dare cross them lightly. Recently, the only one they’d clashed with was Third Zhao—who lived right next door, separated only by a single wall.
Could the thief really be him?
Beware of thieves, but none so treacherous as those within your own home!
Who else would know exactly where everything was kept and manage to clean them out so thoroughly?
The more Old Master Zhao thought about it, the more convinced he became—this had to be Third Zhao’s doing. That scoundrel had always been shameless—was there anything he wouldn’t stoop to?
The more he dwelled on it, the angrier he grew. His own son, robbing his own family! If this were true, his reputation would be ruined.
The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to beat Zhao Dashu to death!
Fine, stealing chickens, pigs, and grain—he could understand that. But why steal firewood?! Was the man out of his mind?
“Father, let’s go find the Village Chief!” Second Zhao’s first instinct in any crisis was to seek the Village Chief’s help.
“If the Village Chief won’t handle this, Father, we’ll report it to the magistrate’s office. I refuse to believe anyone would dare have the audacity to rob a scholar’s household!” Eldest Zhao declared firmly, his tone dripping with indignation. He truly felt these peasants had disrespected him—was it because he’d been too lenient with them before?
“Lao’er (Old Second), come with me to see the Village Chief. Old Woman, you and the daughters-in-law take stock of what’s missing so we have proof when we speak.”
“Alright!”
Early in the morning, the commotion at the Zhao household was so loud that it drew neighbors to their gate, eager to gawk. When word spread that their home had been robbed, the crowd outside grew larger and larger. Before long, the entire village knew: the scholar Zhao’s family had been robbed overnight, and everything—down to the firewood—had been stolen.
The thief had no shame—who in their right mind would even steal firewood?
I mean, firewood could be gathered freely from the mountains. Why go through the trouble of hauling it from someone else’s house? Was other people’s stuff really that much better?
“Village Chief! Village Chief!”
By the time Old Master Zhao arrived, the Village Chief had already heard the news. He was furious. Laomuzhu Village had always been known for its honest and simple folk—petty theft had never been an issue here. Yet now, someone had dared to rob the Zhao family? And the most ridiculous part—the thief had even taken the firewood?!
“This has to be nonsense—what kind of thief would bother hauling firewood? Wouldn’t they be in a hurry to escape before getting caught?”
“Village Chief!”
“Uncle Zhao, don’t panic. I’ll head over to your place right now to see for myself.”
“Let’s go, let’s go!”
Hearsay couldn’t be trusted—and this old man wasn’t exactly the most reliable either. The Village Chief had to see with his own eyes whether the Zhao family’s firewood shed had truly been emptied.
“Village Chief, you have no idea—that heartless thief took everything! Even the firewood and the broom by the door! Whoever managed to haul off so much stuff in one night must live right here in our village, and close to my house too. Otherwise, the noise would’ve been impossible to miss!”
Village Chief: “…”
‘So what you’re really saying is—your neighbor robbed you.’
Damn it, this old coot is implying Shunzi stole from him!
No way. The Village Chief had watched Shunzi grow up—that boy would never stoop to thievery.
“Let me take a look first, Uncle. Don’t worry!”
Old Master Zhao’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. ‘Easy for the Village Chief to say—who wouldn’t panic after being robbed? Especially when his eldest son urgently needed the silver!’
“Village Chief, look.”
Second Zhao pushed open the courtyard gate, and a sea of curious onlookers craned their necks to peer inside.
“All our farming tools in the yard are gone. Even that broken broom by the gate—vanished!”
The Village Chief’s lips twitched involuntarily. ‘Farming tools were valuable—stealing those made sense. But that broom?’ He’d seen it during the family division—just a few bamboo sticks barely clinging together. What use was that to anyone?
Stepping further inside, he opened the kitchen door and—good heavens! Aside from the earthen stove, everything was gone.
The villagers who followed gasped in disbelief. They’d thought the Zhaos were exaggerating when they heard the rumors at the gate, but now? Nope—no exaggeration here. The place had been stripped cleaner than their own homes during New Year’s scrubbing!
What kind of thief operates like this?! Truly, this was a first!