Rebirth: Not Being a Waste - Chapter 38

After the fortune teller calculates their horoscopes, he declares that Zhang Shu and Li Mujin are a perfect match, making the adults of both families smile from ear to ear.

Zhang Shu, however, isn’t entirely convinced. In his previous life, his horoscope had been matched with that woman’s, and they were also said to be a match made in heaven. And yet, look how that turned out.

Still, as long as the elders are happy, it doesn’t matter.

With the horoscopes matched, Matchmaker Lin selects an auspicious date—September 27th—for the betrothal gifts to be presented. No one objects, as the autumn harvest is just around the corner.

As the rice fields turn golden, heavy with grain, the villagers’ excitement grows. All their hard work throughout the year has led to this moment.

On a clear, cloudless day, everyone straps sickles to their waists and heads to the fields.

The water has been drained from the paddies a few days earlier, so they’re firm enough to walk on without sinking. The dried stalks, however, are rough and prickly, their sharp edges cutting into bare hands.

Grandma Zhang, worried for Zhang Shu, prepares cloth strips for them to wrap around their palms. This way, they won’t get injured while harvesting.

Zhang Shu swings his sickle, methodically cutting row after row. Sweat beads on his forehead, dripping to the ground and evaporating instantly under the scorching sun.

The field is a vast sea of golden rice, dotted with workers in coarse brown shirts, all bent over their tasks. As the day wears on, the sun climbs higher, and the heat becomes unbearable. There’s no shade in sight, not a single tree to offer respite.

Zhang Shu’s clothes are soaked through. If he wrings them out, water would surely drip. His throat is parched, yet he keeps going. If he cuts more, Grandpa will have to cut less.

“Zhang Shu! Zhang Shu!” Li Mujin runs toward him, carrying a kettle.

The water has just been drawn from the well, cold and refreshing. Unlike the workers’ water, left out in the sun, his is still cool.

“Jin’er?” Zhang Shu looks up, wiping his face on his arm before standing.

“Come drink!” Li Mujin pours some water into a bamboo cup and holds it up to Zhang Shu’s lips.

Zhang Shu’s hands are covered in grass debris, but he doesn’t wipe them—he simply drinks from Li Mujin’s hand.

Li Mujin stands on tiptoe, eyes locked on Zhang Shu’s throat as it moves with each gulp. Without thinking, he reaches out and touches it.

Startled, Zhang Shu takes a step back. “Jin’er, what are you doing?”

“Just wanted to touch it. What’s wrong, Zhang Shu?”

Zhang Shu blinks. Something feels off. “…Why aren’t you calling me Brother Ah’shu anymore?” He’s been called that for years.

“Because you’re not my brother anymore.” Li Mujin lowers his head, his voice barely audible.

Not his brother anymore? Zhang Shu frowns in confusion, but if this is what Jin’er wants, he won’t argue.

“Then don’t call me Zhang Shu—it sounds too formal.”

“What should I call you, then?” Li Mujin is at a loss. Just calling him by name feels odd.

“Call me like the others do. Ah’shu.”

“…Alright.” Li Mujin isn’t entirely satisfied, but he can’t think of a better alternative.

Zhang Shu takes a few more sips, then turns toward his grandfather and calls out, “Grandpa, do you need some water?”

Receiving a ‘no’ in response, he pats Li Mujin’s shoulder. “Go home. The sun’s too harsh here.”

“I don’t mind the sun!”

Unlike the Zhang family, the Li family doesn’t own rice fields, only a small vegetable plot. The autumn harvest has little to do with them.

“Be good and go back. You’ll get tanned.” Zhang Shu frowns, genuinely worried.

“Would you not like me if I got tanned?” Li Mujin blurts out before realizing what he’s said. His face instantly turns red.

Zhang Shu chuckles, warmth flickering in his gaze. “I’d like you no matter what. But I’d still feel bad for you.”

Saying it aloud makes his ears burn.

Li Mujin huffs but relents, reluctantly heading home. As he walks, he keeps glancing back.

Next year, he decides, he won’t let Zhang Shu work alone. He’s old enough to help in the fields too. If they work together, there’ll be no need for Grandpa Zhang to tire himself out.

Meanwhile, Zhang Shu continues harvesting, though his thoughts are elsewhere.

He needs to change jobs.

Working the fields in the off-season and laboring in the city can sustain him for now, but it’s not a long-term solution. While their rented-out farmland provides enough food, it isn’t respectable for a young man in his twenties to live solely off collecting rent.

In his past life, his wife caused trouble over rental disputes, leading to several plots of land lying fallow. Apart from him and his eldest son, no one in the family was willing to work the fields.

If, for some reason, he loses the ability to rent out the land, what would they do? He can’t let Mujin suffer like in their previous life.

A stable job—one that provides security no matter the season—is essential.

The harvested rice stalks are carted home and spread out on the threshing ground. The elders turn them over periodically to ensure they dry evenly. Once dried, they’ll be threshed with a stone mortar.

Zhang Shu’s family doesn’t have much farmland, and within two days, he and Grandpa Zhang finish bringing in the harvest.

After two more days of drying, the grains are ready.

Zhang Shu grabs a bundle, bends his arm, and slams it into the stone mortar. The golden grains rain down instantly. After just a few strikes, the bundle is stripped bare.

When he was fourteen or fifteen, his grandparents still threshed by hand, rubbing the grains off stalk by stalk. Every time they finished, their hands were covered in blisters that take days to heal. His so-called “good second uncle,” however, conveniently ran off to help his in-laws every harvest season, only returning after ten or so days to enjoy the finished work. Because their family had split households, they had to pay two sets of taxes, which his grandparents always handled.

Remembering this, Zhang Shu feels a surge of anger. Fueled by frustration, he strikes the rice harder. The angrier he gets, the harder he swings the bundles.

Golden grains tumble into the mortar like rain. Grandma Zhang scoops them out with a ladle, watching proudly.

Her grandson is truly strong.