"Jun, what are you doing?"


    A young boy''s voice rang through the afternoon air, full of energy.


    Under a lone tree, Jun sat cross-legged, completely absorbed in an old, worn-out book. His long black hair draped over his shoulders, his dark eyes scanning the faded words with unwavering focus. His skin was slightly pale, his features sharp for his age, giving him an air of quiet refinement.


    But his clothes told a different story. A faded tunic, its fabric thinned from years of wear. Frayed pants, barely reaching his ankles. Sandals so worn-out they seemed one misstep away from falling apart. A farmer''s son. A boy born into a remote village, where wealth wasn''t counted in coins, but in the harvest and the health of one''s family.


    "Jun!" the boy shouted again, louder this time.


    The call carried over the fields where farmers toiled under the sun, but Jun didn''t stir. His fingers casually turned the next page, his mind lost in words.


    The boy, clearly unimpressed by the lack of reaction, marched toward him. He stopped right in front of Jun and, without hesitation, waved his hand between Jun''s face and the book.


    "Hey, Jun, did you finally go deaf?"


    Jun finally blinked, slowly raising his gaze. The boy now stood beside him, arms crossed, small fists clenched against his waist like an elder scolding a stubborn child.


    "Chen, when did you get here?" Jun asked, closing the book with an audible thud.


    Chen narrowed his eyes. "You''re reading that torn-up thing again?" He wrinkled his nose, his lips pressing together as if he were staring at a relic from a forgotten era.


    Jun didn''t answer. He barely parted his lips before—


    Chen snatched the book right from his hands.


    Jun''s eyes widened slightly at the sudden movement, but he didn''t resist. He simply stood there, watching as Chen flipped through the pages.


    "Honestly, Jun, every time I see this book, I swear it''s falling apart even more." Chen held it up, squinting at the fragile pages. "At this point, are you even reading words or just staring at empty spaces?"


    Jun tilted his head slightly. "Chen, what are you doing?"


    Chen ignored him, lifting the book higher as if inspecting a priceless artifact. His expression turned comically serious, one eye narrowing as he checked every corner.


    Then, suddenly, he nodded. "Yes."


    Jun frowned. "Yes… what?"


    Chen coughed dramatically—once, twice—clearing his throat. Then, clasping his hands behind his back, he straightened his posture and started walking toward the fields with the exaggerated dignity of a great scholar.


    Jun followed, watching with mild curiosity.


    Chen spoke in a grand, knowing tone, his nose slightly raised. "From my scholarly eyes and vast intellect, I have deduced that…" He paused, shooting Jun a glance to make sure he was still listening.


    Then, he smirked. "This book is older than the oldest aunty in our village—who''s still searching for a husband even in her late thirties."


    Jun''s curiosity vanished. His expression turned blank.


    Then, without a word, he stepped forward—


    And shoved Chen down the small hill.


    Chen yelped as he tumbled, arms flailing. He landed face-first into the muddy farmland below.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    A loud crack echoed through the air.


    "J—Jun…" Chen groaned, his voice muffled by the wet soil. His arms twitched weakly.


    Jun landed gracefully beside him, watching as his friend barely managed to lift his head.


    Chen whimpered at the sound of Jun''s footsteps. His words slurred, his tone pathetically pitiful.


    "Juuun… Iii''mm… sorrrieee…" he drawled, his face still half-buried in the mud. His arms twitched weakly.


    Jun crossed his arms. "Hmph. You should''ve thought about that beforehand."


    Chen''s fingers wiggled in protest, the mud muffling his next words. "Joon pleasiee… forgevee… merrr…"


    "Hmph."


    Chen continued to murmur unintelligibly, still too stuck in the mud to properly lift himself up.


    Fortunately for him, the ground had been soft enough to break his fall. The crack they heard? Just the sound of his dignity shattering into pieces.


    "What''s going on here?"


    A loud voice cut through the moment.


    A woman approached, her sturdy frame moving with surprising speed. She was on the plumper side, her round face red from the afternoon heat, her strong arms showing years of farm work.


    She walked straight to Jun and immediately grabbed his shoulders with her muddy hands.


    "Jun''er," she said, her eyes scanning him up and down. "You didn''t get hurt anywhere, did you?"


    Jun shook his head, his expression as neutral as ever. "No. But Chen fell."


    She sighed in relief, lifting her arm—careful to avoid the mud on her hands—and brushed away the strands of hair that had fallen over her face when she rushed forward. "Huff! Hopefully, you''re fine."


    Jun pointed toward the half-buried boy.


    She glanced at Chen, shook her head, and waved dismissively. "Oh, don''t worry about him. This happens at least once a week. If I worried every time, I''d have gray hair by now."


    Jun glanced at Chen.


    It definitely looked like a matter of worry, he thought.


    His friend was still twitching, face plastered to the mud, his voice reduced to weak gibberish.


    Then, another voice joined in.


    "Jun''er! Chen''s mother! What happened?"


    A man approached, his deep voice carrying easily over the fields. He held a cloth bag in one hand, its weight dragging slightly with the farming tools inside. His loose tunic was rough, tucked into his tied cloth belt, and his straw sandals were caked with dirt from hours of work.


    His face was strong and weathered, his sharp features softened by the warmth in his eyes. Streaks of gray ran through his dark hair, a quiet sign of middle age and the years spent working under the sun.


    Jun''s gaze softened. "Father."


    Chen''s mother waved both hands quickly, her movements full of energy. "Oh, it''s nothing! The boys were just playing, and—well, you know Chen—he found his way into the mud again."


    Jun''s father frowned slightly. His eyes moved from her to Chen—who was, at this point, nothing more than a human lump in the mud.


    His brows furrowed, his expression shifting between shock and confusion. "Are you sure they were just playing?"


    "Yes, yes, he''ll be fine!" She waved a hand briskly, as if swatting away the concern itself.


    Jun''s father gave a small nod—and an awkward smile, as if unsure whether to be reassured or deeply concerned.


    Then, turning to Jun, he smiled warmly. "Jun''er, it''s time for lunch. Let''s go home together today."


    He extended his hand toward his son.


    Jun didn''t smile. He hesitated for a moment—


    Then stepped forward, walking directly over Chen''s back. His sandal pressed down onto Chen''s shoulder, forcing a muffled groan from the buried boy.


    Chen, still face-down, let out a broken whimper.


    Neither of them looked back.


    As they made their way home, they passed through the village, where everyone knew each other well. The people here were close-knit, bound by shared work and familiar faces.


    The village itself was small, but its people had never struggled with hunger. Farming and fishing weren''t just livelihoods; they were traditions, perfected through generations. Each family had learned the ways of the land and water, passing down knowledge so refined that their survival was never in doubt.


    Even if a field became infertile, there were always others to plow. Even if a river''s fish seemed fewer one year, the waters ran deep, teeming with life that no generation had ever managed to deplete. Food was never a concern. They worked hard, ate well, and lived without fear of scarcity.


    And once a year, they celebrated this work. That celebration was tomorrow night.


    The harvest festival—a time of simple joys and quiet gratitude. A time when the village would gather under the soft glow of oil lamps, sharing food, stories, and laughter. When they would drink rice wine that had fermented for a full year, eat venison and boar, meat rarely hunted, and savor fish that could only be caught in this season.


    The air already carried a sense of anticipation, reflected in the way villagers greeted Jun''s father more than usual. Some paused to chat, others gave him knowing smiles, their voices light with excitement.


    Many stopped to acknowledge Jun as well. Some reached out to pinch his cheeks, chuckling in quiet amusement at his indifferent reaction. Unlike most children who would squirm or complain, Jun barely reacted—whether from patience or simply not caring.


    Jun and his father walked in silence, the sound of their footsteps blending with the distant murmur of villagers preparing for the festival.


    Then, as they reached home, Jun''s father slowed his steps.


    Their house stood at the edge of the village—a small hut, its wooden walls weathered but sturdy. Sunlight cast long shadows across the uneven dirt path leading to the entrance.


    From the open window, the soft crackle of burning wood could be heard. Smoke drifted from the mud stove where Jun''s mother was cooking, the scent of steaming rice and fresh vegetables mixing with the warm afternoon air.