The ox cart creaked. Loudly. The ox groaned like a dying beast under the weight of..well, everything.
It sounded like it was about to fall apart with every inch it moved down the dusty path. If carts could scream, this one was wailing. The ox already mooed at least three times—each one more judgmental than the last.
Blankets flapped in the breeze. Clay pots clinked with every bump. A pair of wooden stools bounced dangerously near the edge, right next to a battered folding chair and a wicker basket full of dried radishes.
A stack of straw mats was strapped awkwardly on top of a wooden crate labeled "Tofu: Extremely Fragile (Do Not Tip)". One corner was leaking. No one knew that.
Tied next to it were two brooms, a bamboo scroll rack, and a rusted wok so large it could double as a helmet in an emergency.
A basket of chicken eggs teetered beside a barrel of vinegar, a worn—out teapot, and what looked suspiciously like a bag of old shoes. Not pairs. Just shoes.
Somewhere in the middle of this chaos, a bundle of firewood, several jars of pickled vegetables, a broken abacus, and a sack of suspiciously jingling coins were buried under a bamboo umbrella, a chamber pot, and three bundles of toilet sticks.
Ma Cheng.
Straw hat pulled low. Paper fan in hand. One leg dangling off the side like he'd done this a thousand times.
Loyal servant. Mildly over-prepared. Currently riding the top of the load like a man trying to conquer gravity with sheer faith and a roll of twine.
"We're almost there…" he muttered, adjusting his straw hat, flapping wildly in the wind. "Hang in there, old boy."
The old ox didn't answer. He just groaned and dragged himself forward like he'd seen every mistake this boy was about to make.
Beside him, the driver—a wrinkled old man with exactly one eyebrow and zero sense of optimism—spat a sunflower seed at the dirt.
"That village you're heading to." He said, voice dry. "Ain't got money. Barely got clothes. You won't sell a single turnip."
Ma Cheng grinned.
Not a normal grin. A dangerous, I have to find someone.
"I'm not here to sell."
The driver squinted. "…Then why you load the cart so much?"
Ma Cheng tapped the side twice like a proud general showing off a war horse
"I'm here to serve. Little master just arrived yesterday. I got to bring him everything."
The cart hit a rock. A long rolled—up something—look like chopstick, smelled like poop—bounced off the edge and flopped onto the ground behind them with a soft thud.
Neither of them looked back. Whatever it was, it wasn't worth turning around for.
The room was dim—just a silver of early morning light cutting through the cracks in the wall.
Jinhai's eyes fluttered open.
Something was wrong.
The air was too still. The silence too sharp.
And then—
A face loomed inches from his.
Pale. Smiling.
Chen Lingling.
Her lips curled into a sweet, dead—eyed grin, like a porcelain doll that had seen too much war. Her eyes sparkled with innocent menace.
In her hands?
Something jagged. A pitchfork—like weapon with two rusted hooks at the end, still wet with something dark.
Her voice was soft.
Too soft.
"Don't move," she whispered. "I'll finish it fast and clean this time."
Jinhai froze.
She tilted her head. The grin widened.
"You look so plump after last night's feast…All charged up and ready for harvest...like a fat peach before picking."
"AHHHHHHHHHH—!!"
He thrashed like a fish dumped on dry land.
"DON'T EAT ME! I'M MOSTLY BONES AND BAD DECISION! I HAVE…A SKIN DISEASE!"
The pitchfork came down.
Jinhai braced for death.
THUMP.
…
"Why are you screaming?" Lingling pouted, yanking the pitchfork up with a slim, glistening snake impaled on the end.
A fat green gecko dangled from its mouth.
"This guy tried to eat our leftovers. I just saved the food ration!"
She shook the pitchfork casually, sending a few drops of blood splattering onto the floor.
"You're really lucky, Big Brother. Ever since you came, we've had meat back-to-back. Before that? We were eating dried radish and bark dumplings."
Jinhai wheezed into the pillow, clutching his heart.
The door slammed open behind them
Outside…
The ox cart finally rumbled to a stop at the village edge.
Ma Cheng leapt down, scanning the surroundings.
His clothes were half-dusted with straw, tofu juice, and egg yolk. His face was pure determination.
He flagged down an old woman with three missing teeth and a rag on her head.
"Excuse me! My master arrived yesterday—thin guy, gloomy eyes talks like he's dying. Have you seen him?"
She pointed casually toward a run-down hut.
"There. Blood trail and everything."
Ma Cheng paled.
"Blood—?!"
He sprinted.
As he neared the hut, he could hear—
A scream.
Jinhai's scream.
He burst through the door, heart in his throat.
Ma Chen stood frozen in the frame, eyes wide in horror, staring at the scene
And saw—
Lingling holding her bloody weapon, pitchfork mid—thrust. Jinhai mid—scream and drenched in sweat.
Jinhai on the bed, pale, frozen, gasping.
Ma Cheng's soul left his body.
His knees wobbled.
His face turned pale.
"I'm too late…"
He stumbled forward, eyes blurry with panic—
Then he overheard the conversation.
He blinked.
He looked again.
Snake. Gecko. Not Jinhai.
The breath caught in his chest loosened.
He scratched his head, let out a weak laugh, and tried to wipe his teary eyes before noticed.
"…Oh hey," Jinhai said weakly, raising one shaky hand.
"...Little master."
Lingling turned, lifting the pitchfork with a big grin.
"One thrust, two dishes! Your mouth better be ready, Big Brother — it's feast time!"
The ox cart finally groaned to a stop just outside the broken hut.
Ma Chen leapt down with the energy of a soldier returning from war, even though his face was already streaked with dust, sweat, and what might've been tofu juice.
He cracked his knuckles. "Alright. Time to unload the good."
He grabbed the first item—a wicker basket overflowing with cracked radishes—and kicked open the crooked hut door.
Inside, Jinhai sat on the bed like a ghost trying to pretend he wasn't traumatized.
Ma Cheng set the basket down carefully, then ran back to the cart.
Ten seconds later—
Clunk.
He returned with two brooms, a rolled-up mat, and a chamber pot held like a holy relic.
Ten more seconds—
Clang!
A folding chair. A scroll rack. A bundle of firewood that dropped three splinters as he dragged it inside.
The hut began to transform—from barren ruin to a mildly haunted storage closet.
Jinhai watched silently as his once-empty corner became filled with eggs, vinegar jars, mismatched shoes, and a hanging rack for scrolls he hadn't owned yet.
At one point, Ma Cheng slid in a full barrel labeled "Do Not Spill" with a grin and wiped his brow.
"Little master, I packed light."
"…This is light?"
Ma Cheng nodded with the pride of a man who'd just moved an entire dynasty.
"You never know what you'll need out here in the wild. Tofu? Yes. Extra chamber pot? Absolutely. A second abacus, even if the first one's broken? Of course."
Jinhai glanced at the growing mountain in the corner. "Why do I feel like I'm being buried alive in household goods?"
"It's not clutter," Ma Cheng said, arranging a teapot and a pair of shoes (not matching) on a mat.
"It's preparedness."
He rolled up his sleeves and marched out again. There were still more bundles to carry.
Somewhere out there, the ox groaned again.
Probably in protest.
The door creaked.
Jinhai stepped into the sunlight, blinking like a man who hadn't seen civilization in weeks.
Ma Cheng stood beside him proudly, hands on his hips like a tour guide. "Welcome to your new village, Little Master."
Jinhai inhaled deeply—
And instantly gagged.
"…Did something die?"
The wind answered with a pungent blend of animal droppings, ash, and something pickled but unholy straight into his nose.
He covered his face with his sleeve.
"It smells like…if a public toilet got into a fight with compost pit and both lost."
Ma Cheng didn't even flinch.
"Pretty fresh today, actually."
The "village." Looked less like a village and more like a few tired huts playing dead in the dirt.
Poop everywhere. Some piles looked human, some animal.
One particularly fresh pile steamed suspiciously near his foot.
Jinhai's nose twitched again.
He turned—slowly—and saw a man squatting openly in the weeds,
humming a tune, pant around his ankles.
Not even a hint of worry. Not a speck of shame.
Jinhai stared in horror.
The man looked up and waved.
"Morning!"
Ma Chen waved back.
Jinhai turned to his loyal servant, wide— eyed and trembling.
"Why are people pooping in open?!"
"They always do," Ma Cheng replied. "You poop where the grass grows tall. Then you mark it with a stick then walk away. Simple and efficient."
"Efficient?" Jinhai choked.
"Oh! Ma Chen suddenly pulled something out of his basket—a long thin bamboo stick carved at one end.
"Toilet cleaning stick. I brought three bundles for you, Little Master.
He said with a proud smile."
Jinhai's face went pale. His soul temporarily left his body.
They walked on.
Flied buzzed past his ear. Something rustled in a nearby tree—a fat gecko scurried along a branch with a bone in its mouth.
Lao Chen stood near a tree, sweeping leaves with a hand broom made of tied reeds.
He looked up and nodded in greeting, raising two fingers together before holding his hands behind his back.
Jinhai copied it stiffly. "Morning, Elder Chen…"
"Up and walking? Good. Lingling told me you didn't faint today.
Good progress."
He turned and pointed at a large clay pot hanging over a low fire.
"I'm preparing the snake Lingling caught in your hut. Lean meat. It taste like chicken meat if you cook it the right way."
He gestured to a second, smaller pot where a fat green gecko soaked in cheap wine.
"That one's for medicine. Gecko win strengthens the lungs, keeps the spirit steady."
Jinhai opened his mouth. Closed it again.
Lao Chen nodded approvingly. "Drink it on an empty stomach and you'll see the effect immediately."
"…oh". Jinhai replied.
Before he could process that, Lao Chen pointed toward the forested path in the distance.
"Lingling went to fetch water. Valley spring. Fifty li from here."
"Fifty?! That's almost 20 kilometers!"
"Two buckets for water. And she gathering some wood too."
"She's carrying both?!"
"She's stronger than she looks," Lao Chen said casually. "And the last person who tried to help came back limping."
He whispered to himself I must change this.
Jinhai just turned slowly and stared at the poop stick in Ma Cheng's hand.
"…I need a real toilet. No, we need it for everybody here."
Ma Cheng tilted his head, noticing the haunted look on Jinhai's face.
"You alright, Little Master?"
"…How do people clean themselves after…" Jinhai hesitated. "You know. After pooping."
"Oh! Easy," Ma Cheng said, cheerful as ever.
"They use these!"
He held up the bamboo toilet stick again like it was a prized heirloom.
Jinhai stared at it like it was cursed.
"If not sticks," Ma Cheng continued helpfully, "then coarse paper, if they have some. Monks or respected folk sometimes use water."
He tapped his chin. "But around here? Grass, dirt, sand straw, leaves… Sometimes even old cloth."
"…Old cloth?"
"Mm-hmm. We call that rag rotation. Very good to use and carry wit."
Jinhai didn't reply.
One of his eyebrows twitched violently. Then the other.
He looked like a man who had just heard the death toll for civilization itself.
"I see," he said softly.
But the way he said it made Ma Cheng step back a little.
Jinhai blinked, trying to hold it together.
Then his eyes wandered—just briefly.
A woman walked past carrying a basket of dry root. Her tunic flapped as she moved, revealing a dark smudge near the hem of her trousers.
Another man sat sharpening a knife, pants stained in a way that looked far too…familiar.
Even a child chasing a chicken had something suspicious smeared near the back of his shirt.
Jinhai's eye twitched again
That's not mud.
He stared into the distance.
A fly buzzed past.
The air smelled like betrayal.
Jinhai turned toward the hut like a general planning his final campaign.
" if this was cultivation world, then hygiene would be my Dao."
Inside the hut — Moments Later
The room was dim and musty, but Jinhai didn't care anymore.
He grabbed a charred piece of coal from last night's bonfire, walked to the rough wooden wall, and pressed it like a brush to a canvas.
Black streaks followed.
His thoughts poured out in scribbled characters:
PLAN: SURVIVAL
Find cleaner and near water source
Build proper toilet ( with a big star sign )
Soap? (Do they even know what that is?)
Bathing system??
Fix food problem (ration = sadness)
Check: Use waster for fertilizer (ask grandpa for old methods)
Get people to stop pooping everywhere!!!
He stepped back, arm crossed.
The wall looked like the ravings of a madman — or a man who'd just smelled a child with poop on his sleeve.
Ma Cheng peeked in behind him, holding another bundle of "toilet stick" proudly.
"Little Master, I organized them by smoothness level."
Jinhai didn't even turn.
"…Burn the sharp ones."
Behind the hut — A Short While Later
The sound of clumsy hammering echoed through the yard.
Jinhai stood nearby, arms folded, eyebrows twitching as he watched Ma Cheng build what might generously be called a "toilet."
The "construction site" was just two steps behind the hut. Close. Too close.
Ma Cheng dug a hole elbow-deep, then placed two uneven planks over it like a proud carpenter revealing a throne.
He surrounded it with a bunch of broken wood plank and nailed together a shaky wooden box to form a crude wall—no roof, just a ragged cloth flap acting as a door.
"There." Ma Cheng stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow. "Quick, simple, sturdy."
The wind blew. The structure creaked.
The cloth flap fell off.
Ma Cheng caught it mid-air and laughed. "Minor problem."
Jinhai walked over slowly, stared at the squat box like it might lunge at him.
He crouched down beside the hole and examined the planks. Then he stood, nodded thoughtfully, and patted Ma Cheng's shoulder.
"Not bad," he said.
Ma Cheng beamed. "Does that mean you like it?"
"…No."
Jinhai turned, stroking his chin like a scholar reviewing battlefield diagrams.
"I'll redesign it. Bigger pit. Smarter placement. Roof. Airflow."
He pointed a coal-stained finger skyward..
"And it will not—absolutely not—be built two steps behind my pillow."
Ma Cheng blinked. "But it's convenient—"
Later That Day—Behind the Hut
A crowd had gathered.
Villagers peeked around the corner of the hut, eyes squinting suspiciously at the strange wooden box Ma Cheng had built. Whispers buzzed like flied on a carcass.
"What's that?"
"Chicken coop?"
"No, no, too short. Pig pen?"
Jinhai stepped forward, back straight, voice smooth—like a merchant trying to sell rotten fish as perfume.
"This." he said, gesturing with both hands, "is called a toilet."
Gasps.
He smiled benevolently. "A noble invention. Common in large cities, inns, brothels, and even government stables."
He gestured proudly to the squat box with two wooden planks across the pit.
"It keeps things tidy. Prevents.. splash damage. And give your feet dignity."
A brave, wiry old man stepped forward. Barefoot. Suspicious.
"Can…I try it?"
"Please," Jinhai said, gesturing like he was inviting him to taste imperial wine.
The villager entered. The crowd leaned in.
From inside the box came his voice, loud and impressed:
"There's even a sign! A little wooden arrow showing where to aim!"
The crowd nodded, murmuring approval.
"And the foot planks keep your poop off your feet! What luxury!"
More nodding.
Then—
"Oi, Ma Cheng! What's this stick for?"
Ma Cheng called back. "To clean your butt!"
A beat.
"It doesn't touch your hand?"
"Nope!"
A pause.
Then the man emerged beaming, holding a thumb up with the joy of a man who just saw civilization for the first time.
"I see now…what kind of luxury the nobles enjoy…"
He bowed—yes, bowed—to the box.
The crowd clapped.
Jinhai turned around without a word and walked back to the hut in silence, hands behind his back like a retired general refusing to comment on the state of war.
Some Time Later…
Ma Cheng jogged up, looking a little sweaty and a little too cheerful.
"Little Master! Just wanted to report—"
He leaned in.
"The pit's full."
Jinhai blinked. "Already?!"
"Brim level,"Ma Cheng confirmed. "Turn out folks really had a lot of … backlogged business."
Jinhai stared at the horizon. "…What do they do in inns when it fills up?"
"Oh, they hire someone to scoop it out right after. So it never piles up."
Jinhai's opened his mouth—then gave up. Words would only make things worse.
Ma Cheng gave a thumbs-up. "Don't worry. I'll handle it. Just thought I'd report in."
He winked.
Jinhai didn't speak.
He just quietly turned and walked into the hut, closing the door slowly…carefully…like a man who had seen too much for one day.