Shedding the Cicada Shell, Ending Mortal Ties

When a clear path lay stretched before him, Chen Ping An had never been one to hesitate.

Over the next month, business at the Chu Ji Pawnshop remained as usual, and the sun and moon rose and set over Yanwei City as they always did. Only Chen Ping An knew that he was setting up the most exquisite and crucial move of his life's chessboard to bring the game to a close.

The first step of this game was to completely settle the Chu Ji Pawnshop, the "family estate" he had run for half his life, which had now become his greatest shackle.

He sent someone with a letter to summon his distant nephew from the countryside, Chen Shouyi, to the city.

Chen Shouyi was a farmer in his early thirties, honest and dutiful, but plagued by misfortune. Last year, his family's fields had been swept away by a flood, making his life rather difficult.

In the back hall of the pawnshop, Chen Ping An personally brewed a pot of hot tea and pushed it in front of his somewhat awkward and anxious nephew.

"Shouyi," he began slowly, his tone carrying a hint of weariness. "I am fifty-three this year. I have welcomed and seen off customers at this pawnshop for thirty years, and I am tired of it."

Chen Shouyi hastily replied, "What are you saying, Third Great-Uncle? Your body is still robust!"

"It is no longer robust." Chen Ping An waved his hand and coughed softly twice. "I never sleep peacefully at night. This waist and these legs ache terribly whenever the rainy season arrives.

Lately, I always dream of my childhood in the village, catching fish and stealing bird eggs...

When one grows old, it is easy to become homesick. I have been thinking that it is time to return to my hometown, find a quiet place, and live out my remaining years."

These words were half-truth, half-lie. The physical decline was real, but the homesickness was false. Yet combined, they sounded perfectly genuine and natural to Chen Shouyi's ears.

"Third Great-Uncle, this..."

"Do not be in a hurry, let me finish."

Chen Ping An took a sip of tea and continued, "I have no children of my own, and this pawnshop must have a successor. I watched you grow up, and you have a steady temperament; I trust you. My intention is to hand this shop over to you. Give me three hundred taels of silver as a token to fulfill my wish of purchasing some land back home, and to save you from being accused of taking your uncle's estate for nothing in the future. What do you think?"

Three hundred taels for a pawnshop in a decent area with stable business was practically giving it away. Chen Shouyi stood up in shock, stammering and unable to speak, his face filled with disbelief, joy, and gratitude.

This was exactly the effect Chen Ping An wanted. He was not "vanishing" but "passing on the torch" and "guiding the younger generation." In this way, his motive for leaving appeared perfectly reasonable, even carrying a touch of nobility.

Over the following days, he began to methodically weave an impeccable background for his "retirement to his hometown."

While chatting with neighbors, he would intentionally or unintentionally complain that his body was no longer what it used to be, mentioning the philosophy of "falling leaves returning to their roots."

In teahouses, he would casually inquire with merchant caravans traveling north and south about the routes back to his long-nonexistent "hometown."

He even wrote two letters home, filled with longing for his ancestral land, and spent a few dozen copper coins to solemnly entrust them to a traveling merchant, asking him to "definitely" deliver them.

Under his deliberate orchestration, the entire Yanwei City soon came to know that Pawnmaster Chen of the Chu Ji Pawnshop, after a lifetime of hard work, was retiring and preparing to return home. Most people reacted with sighs of emotion and blessings; no one felt anything was amiss.

Having settled these external matters, Chen Ping An began to clear his personal belongings.

The rare and precious books he had treasured for half his life were his greatest joy, but also his biggest hidden danger. He did not leave them to his nephew. Instead, over half a month, he sold them in batches to various bookstores and literate acquaintances in the city. He only sold a few at a time, at reasonable prices, never showing greed.

Bit by bit, his study emptied out.

On the final night of the month, he went to the secret herb garden in Liping Alley.

In the herb garden, under his meticulous care for the past two years, the herbs had grown remarkably well. Without a shred of reluctance, he uprooted every single mature plant. Roots, stems, leaves, and fruits—he processed, dried, and ground them according to the methods in the *Qing Nang Za Ji*, finally turning them into ten convenient oil-paper packets of medicine.

Having done all this, he raised his self-made hoe and thoroughly turned over the soil of the entire herb garden. He then moved a large amount of weeds from the corners of the walls to erase all traces of cultivation, leaving nothing behind.

When he left, the place returned to its original desolate state, as if the figure who had labored diligently here during those late nights over the past two years had never existed. He dismantled his modified tools and sank them to the bottom of the Hu Cheng River outside the city.

He packed his bundle, which was simple to the point of stinginess. Two sets of coarse cloth clothes for changing, some dry rations, a water skin, and the three hundred taels of silver his nephew had given him. Those ten packets of medicine were carefully tucked into the double lining of his bundle.

The only thing related to his lifelong secret was the half-volume of the *Qing Nang Za Ji*, wrapped tightly in oilcloth and hidden deep within his clothes.

It was time for the golden cicada to shed its skin.

It was an early morning shrouded in thin mist.

The sky was dim, and all was silent. Chen Ping An locked the courtyard door as usual. Only this time, he placed the keyring he had used for decades behind a loose brick above the door frame—the agreed-upon spot with his nephew, Chen Shouyi.

Carrying his bundle, he took one last look at the bluestone road he had walked for half his life, then turned decisively, walking step by step toward the wide-open eastern city gate.

At the gate, the guard on duty, Zhang San, was yawning. Seeing him, he smiled and greeted, "Pawnmaster Chen, why are you leaving the city so early today?"

"Going home."

Chen Ping An's reply was simple, his voice calm, carrying no hint of joy or sorrow.

"Ah, right, going home!" Zhang San slapped his forehead, remembering the rumors on the streets. A simple smile appeared on his face. "That is wonderful! I wish you a smooth journey. Go back to your hometown and enjoy your retirement!"

"Many thanks."

Chen Ping An bowed slightly, saying no more. He stepped forward, passing through the tall city gate that separated Yanwei City from the outside world.

Behind him, the shouting, barking of dogs, and crowing of roosters gradually faded, finally swallowed by the early morning mist.

He did not look back.

As the first ray of morning light pierced the clouds and shone on his slightly thin back, the "Pawnmaster Chen" of Yanwei City, who had spent thirty years in the Chu Ji Pawnshop, was gone. He was like an ancient cicada shell left behind forever in the city where he had resided for over fifty years.

With the long road ahead, he was now an anonymous traveler, without a past, and without any shackles.