Volume One: The Eternal Stream Chapter Two: The Gatekeeper

"Eight thousand clay buddhas upon the peaks, two hundred years of peace beyond the pass."

The caravan traveled fifty miles before reaching a narrow mountain pass. Flanked by natural, towering cliffs, the path narrowed into a mere sheep’s trail. A gatehouse constructed of mud and stone blocked the way, bearing the inscription: "Ansheng Pass."

The nation was no longer a nation, and families were no longer families. Beyond this pass lay fourteen self-governing small towns, devoid of any official rule. Only in times of dire catastrophe could they beg for aid from the larger sects, yet regardless of whether help was given, they were invariably bled dry by the various factions, leaving the common people to struggle for survival.

Outside the pass, all were branded "barbarians," regardless of their nature. The land beyond the pass was barren and desolate for hundreds of miles, yielding no crops. The barbarians relied on hunting and foraging, perpetually teetering between feast and famine. Within the pass, however, a river nourished the fourteen towns, ensuring a steady food supply. Thus, the lands within were a constant object of barbarian greed. They raided annually, though they never occupied; they would seize wealth and grain before retreating beyond the pass, only to return once the next harvest was ripe—a vicious cycle.

Unable to endure further, the citizens of the fourteen towns joined forces to build "Ansheng Pass," selecting warriors from each town to garrison it. The expenses were shared among the fourteen towns. With the barbarians invading year after year, the guards had little respite, and death was a common occurrence. For every ten men who fell, a clay buddha was crafted from stone and earth and placed upon the treacherous peaks surrounding the pass.

The bald man led the caravan to Ansheng Pass. Behind the gatehouse, a small village had formed, inhabited by the guards and their families.

As the carts stopped, Sun Zikai immediately jumped down to survey his surroundings. Women were laughing and chatting as they washed clothes. One spotted Sun Zikai and called out, "Old Yang, why bring back a child? Whose child is that?"

The bald man replied, "Found him. He’ll be living here from now on."

The woman wiped her hands on her apron, approached Sun Zikai, and exclaimed, "Good heavens, there’s another one on his back! Why does he look like this? Old Yang, did you pick him up from a pile of beggars? Wild child, what’s your name?"

"Sun Zikai."

"And her?"

Sun Zikai looked back at the girl, shook his head, and replied, "She has no name."

"Is she your sister?"

"No. Found her, too."

"Why are you clutching that broken shard? It’s covered in blood—disgusting." The woman slapped the shard from his hand and led them both to a washbasin. "Hurry up and get clean; you reek."

Sun Zikai and the girl were stripped and placed in a tub of hot water—their first bath in a long time. The woman tossed their old clothes onto the ground and shouted, "Use them as rags! Zhao’s wife, bring some cloth and cut them some new clothes."

Sun Zikai washed quickly. Once finished, he sat in the tub, observing the villagers. Everyone here was busy, each with a task, yet they functioned as a single, cohesive whole. Families swapped chores, shared salt and oil; a bolt of fabric might become a shirt for one family and pant cuffs for another. Integration was seamless; everyone readily accepted the two wild children.

That night, the men brought out the food and wine they had bought in the city. Since the men ate their fill in town, the women sat at the table to drink, while the men roasted their own spirits outside.

The girl was taken to the table by the women, while Sun Zikai sat beside the bald man. The man heated a pot of wine and poured a bowl for the boy. "Drink. It’s cold in the pass, and it gets worse in winter. You need to keep this on hand."

Sun Zikai took the bowl and downed it in one go, then set it down calmly. The men stared in amazement. "Kid, that’s strong stuff. That must sting! Breathe it out!"

Only then did Sun Zikai’s expression shift. He opened his mouth, exhaling the stinging vapors, eyes squeezed shut, nearly tipping over. The men burst into laughter. Once Sun Zikai sat upright, his expression returned to its usual stillness.

The bald man said, "Just call me Old Yang. We’re all guards here, and I’m the head of this post."

The men drank and ate with gusto. Sun Zikai asked Old Yang, "Why are there no children here?"

Old Yang replied, "The children are all sent into the city. We live lives dancing on the edge of a blade; the barbarians could break through at any moment. Sending the children away is a way to ensure our lineage survives. Once you’re settled, I’ll find you a place and get you a minor job in the city, so you can at least make a living."

Sun Zikai replied, "No need. I can stay and guard the pass." Being from the city, he had heard the stories of Ansheng Pass; the townspeople held the guards in high esteem, for none who accepted that duty ever walked away unscathed. When one accepted that identity, their fate was sealed.

"You want to be a guard?" a man asked.

"Yes." Sun Zikai nodded.

The men laughed again. One said, "Kid, live a good life in the city. We’ll carry this death-trap of a job."

Sun Zikai lowered his head. He no longer had any desire to return to that city. He looked up and said, "I’ll stay here. I won’t be a burden; I know some medicine, and I can kill barbarians."

"Kid, you can kill? How many people have you killed?" the men joked.

Sun Zikai thought seriously for a moment and replied calmly, "Twenty-three in total. Sixteen small ones, seven big ones."

The men laughed again, but their laughter gradually died down. They realized Sun Zikai was not joking. It reminded them of the scene from that morning—a wolf that even a grown man would fear had been butchered by this five-year-old with a single blade.

Old Yang’s expression turned solemn. He demanded, "Why did you kill them?"

"They deserved it." Sun Zikai’s cold tone sobered the group.

Old Yang asked sharply, "Why did they deserve it?"

Sun Zikai replied, "They beat me. I endured it for four months without fighting back. I fled from the East City to the West City, and they followed me there to keep beating me."

"What did you do to make them want to beat you?"

"I asked them. They said they just liked beating me. There was no reason." Sun Zikai recounted it as if telling a story about someone else. "Life in the city is bitter. The barbarians raided half the city, and more people were displaced. They gathered in groups, but I was alone. What could a drifter do? Seeing I was alone, they probably turned hunting and beating me into their daily entertainment."

Old Yang looked at the five-year-old, feeling as if he were looking at a man of seventeen or eighteen. The boy's tone and mindset had nothing to do with being a child.

A man asked, "So... what did you do?"

Sun Zikai said calmly, "I verified it one last time and realized that reasoning was useless with them. To them, weakness and appeasement were the responses they enjoyed most; they would have continued until I died. So, I ripped open the leader's chest and killed them all, one by one."

"You... you didn't have to kill them," the man said. "What kind of child are you... why is there such malice in you?"

Sun Zikai glanced at the man with a look of deep indifference. "I am five years old, and I only know medicine. I had only one chance to resist: when they thought I was a spineless rabbit and were about to crush me. That was my only chance. I had to kill them. They feared the rabbit had grown fangs, lost their nerve, and could only flee. I had to kill everyone who had beaten me in the shortest time possible. If I hadn't, once they regained their senses, I would never have had another chance to live."

The men were speechless. Even Old Yang was shocked. The boy spoke as if analyzing a stranger's story. In the men's worldview, a child shouldn't kill, but when they imagined themselves in his position, they realized their own fate would have been exactly as the boy described—they would have been bullied until they died, lacking the courage and wit to make such a cold, calculated decision and execute it. He was only five; a ten-year-old would have been enough to overpower him.

Sun Zikai didn't ask if he was right or wrong, because the world's judgment of slaughter was biased, and there was no absolute good or evil. From his perspective, there was only one way to survive, and that way was the right choice.

Silence reigned, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Finally, Old Yang spoke: "Stay. You belong here."

Sun Zikai nodded. "I know some medicine, but I need herbs. Take me with you when you go beyond the pass. I can learn your skills along the way."

"No," Old Yang refused firmly. "The barbarians beyond the pass are not city beggars. They won't just fight back; they will put a blade to your throat. Be a child first, then a guard."

"Fine. But I see you have a training ground here. Tomorrow, I start learning how to kill barbarians." Sun Zikai’s calm demeanor remained unchanged, making the men wonder if he was even a child at all.

He accepted another bowl of wine. A man clinked his bowl against the boy's and laughed, "Welcome, little guard! Just call me Brother Dog. Everyone calls me Doggy."

Sun Zikai called him Brother Dog and asked, "Why did barbarians break into the city the other day?"

The men clenched their fists. Old Yang’s eyes glinted with rage. "Someone helped them cross the treacherous peaks. We knew nothing of it! We were still guarding the pass when the city fell."

Sun Zikai was silent for a moment. "Oh. I thought maybe you had let them in on purpose, so that as long as they kept coming, the guards would continue to receive offerings."

"How could you think that?" the men roared in anger. "We brought our families here! We staked our lives on this wretched place the moment we arrived. No one wants to retreat, and there’s nowhere left to go. People don’t want to come here to see what it's like. How many times have we wanted to abandon this post for the sake of our families? But we can't! If we leave, the barbarians get in, and how many will die? We live with our heads on the block, day after day, hoping to die of old age, but in reality, no one does—we all get hacked to death by barbarians."

Sun Zikai nodded. "I understand. You are all heroes. I wronged you."

The man laughed. "Heroes, my foot. We're just fools."

The men laughed, though Old Yang remained angry, grabbing the wine pot to drink directly from it. Sun Zikai nudged Old Yang’s leg. "It was my fault. I'm sorry."

Old Yang said, "I'm not mad at you." He reached out and patted Sun Zikai’s head. "Sigh. We brothers are here risking our lives, but some people won't let the city folk live. When the people in the city are comfortable, those people are not."

Sun Zikai said, "I understand. Whoever gains the most after the barbarians arrive—they are the ones who helped them cross the peaks."

Old Yang was stunned once more. He turned to look at the boy, unable to hide his shock. "You... you really think that?"

"Yes."

"But what can you do? We have no way to stop it."

Sun Zikai replied, "I'm too small to do anything. Teach me how to kill."

Old Yang froze. After a long time, he replied, "You’ll stay with the Mai family. They’ve cleared a spot for you. Go, take the little girl and get some sleep."

"Good." Sun Zikai rose and left without hesitation. The men realized his calmness might simply be his way of staying guarded and detached.

After he left, a man with a scar on his face said, "Ansheng Pass never keeps children. That’s our rule. He’s just a kid; let him return to the city to live a good life."

Old Yang watched the flames, his gaze growing firm. "That child belongs here."

The scar-faced man said, "No child is born to be a guard, to die. He just wants to live. We cannot seal his fate as a corpse at the age of five."

Old Yang kept his eyes on the fire. Finally, he replied, "No, he won't be killed. Just wait and see. In a few years, when he is grown..." He turned to look the scar-faced man in the eye. "His name will strike terror into the heart of every barbarian beyond the pass!"

The fire at Ansheng Pass never went out. When the men finished their wine and the women finished their meal, they placed the embers in an iron basin and carried it to the top of the wall. The light didn't reach far—a mere star-point in the darkness—but that undying spark declared to the shadows outside that men were here. The guards were here. Eight thousand clay buddhas upon the peaks, two hundred years of peace beyond the pass.