Green Valley Village wasn't a city, though some called it that. It was a small settlement of about fifty wooden houses clustered together, home to 250 or 300 people. Tall bamboo groves and jagged mountains rose around it, casting shadows that dimmed the morning light. The air carried the scent of damp soil and rice paddies, mixed with the clatter of chickens and the distant shouts of villagers starting their work.
In the house, built of dark wood with a slanted roof, Zhang Wei opened his eyes. He rubbed them, groaning, and sat up in his wide bed, large enough for three. He glanced beside him. The straw mat was crumpled, the thin blanket shoved aside. Someone had slept there. A faint grin tugged at his lips as he slid out of bed and shuffled to the washroom, splashing cold water from a clay basin onto his face.
"I slept too long again," Zhang Wei muttered, wiping his face with a rough cloth. He pulled a loose black tunic and trousers from a wooden chest and put them on. In the cracked mirror, he saw his skinny frame--too skinny. His arms were like twigs, and his chest barely stretched the fabric. Born weak, his body had always betrayed him. The village healer said he wouldn't live past 25. Now, at 20, he had maybe a few years left. He wanted them to be good ones.
He ran a hand through his hair, scowling. "Why does it grow so damn fast? It's draining me." The black strands hung past his chin in front and draped over his ears. Every month, he shaved it nearly bald with a blade, but it shot back like wild grass. In the mirror, his plain face stared back--dark eyes, a sharp jaw, and pale skin that made him look half-dead. "No girl's ever going to want me," he grumbled.
The door creaked open. He turned. A woman stepped in, and his pulse quickened. Her name was Li Mei, his mother--not by blood, but by choice. She was 37, wife to the village master, Zhang Jian. Her long black hair flowed down her back like silk, brushing the swell of her hips. Her dark eyes gleamed with warmth, faint lines framing them from years of quiet strength.
She wore a tight red robe that clung to her slim waist and flared over her wide hips. The fabric stretched over her full, heavy breasts, the neckline dipping to reveal smooth, pale skin that begged to be touched. Her plump pink lips shone as she smiled, and her thick thighs pressed against the robe with each step, hinting at the softness underneath.
"Wei'er, breakfast is ready. Come downstairs," Li Mei said, her voice low and steady. She tilted her head, watching him.
Zhang Wei swallowed, his eyes flicking to her chest before darting up. "Yes, Mother. I'll be there," he said, managing a smile.
"Good. Your sister's already complaining about the food," she said with a small laugh. She turned, her hips swaying as she walked out, the robe hugging her backside in a way that made his throat dry.
Zhang Wei followed, his heart pounding. He loved Li Mei--not just as a mother, but as a woman. His real mother, one of Zhang Jian's wives, had died giving birth to him. Li Mei, who'd been a casual fling for the village master, took him in.
Zhang Jian had fucked her a few times, got her pregnant, and then tossed her aside when she bore him a daughter instead of a warrior son. After that, he lost all interest, banishing her to this small house at the village's edge with Zhang Wei and the baby girl, Zhang Xiu. His father's harem was bursting with wives and dozens of children--strong sons and daughters he could marry off. Zhang Wei, weak and useless, didn't matter to him.
"Mother, did Father send anything today?" Zhang Wei asked as they reached the bottom of the creaky stairs. The main room smelled of steamed rice and dried fish.
Li Mei shook her head, setting a bamboo tray on the low table. "No, Wei'er. He's too busy with his wives and the harvest. We're nothing to him now." Her voice was flat, but her lips pressed tight.
Zhang Wei nodded. So since they were abandoned by father, then it wouldn't be problem if he did something to his mother.
After settling on a cushion beside his sister. Zhang Xiu, 18 now, scowled at her bowl. "This porridge is thin as water! Can't we get something better?" she snapped, flicking her long black braid over her shoulder.
