The Golden Scar
Act I In the terraced scrubland of the Sichuan basin, the air tasted of iron and wet ash. Qiang Zheng stood at the edge of the kiln quarter, the ledger with its two distinct handwritings clutched in his sweating palm, the numbers blurring under the late frost that had killed the spring buds before they could open. He was forty-five, a border warden whose duty was to stamp the paper of those who...
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