What is poverty?

Thirteen or fourteen-year-old Los Moore, or rather Wu Qingchen, had not realized at all that, inadvertently, he had set up a lofty goal in old William’s eyes. Such trivial matters no longer had a place in Wu Qingchen’s mind—he simply lacked the energy to care.

It had been ten days since he entered the medieval world.

Wu Qingchen repeated this quietly to himself. The morning was only half gone, yet this was already his eighth time reciting it today. Clearly, the passage of time here was excruciatingly slow for Wu Qingchen—every day dragged by like a year.

He couldn’t help it. In this dreamlike world, the four essentials of human survival—clothing, food, shelter, and transportation—were each a source of torment for Wu Qingchen.

Let’s talk about clothing first.

Clothing… Or more precisely, the pile of rags draped over his body, which Wu Qingchen still refused to recognize as clothes. Despite countless stern warnings from professors before his journey, and having mentally prepared himself for hardship—knowing full well that medieval garments would be home-sewn by housewives, made of rough fabric, poorly cut, with loose stitches and overlapping patches—Wu Qingchen thought he could tolerate it.

But reality struck him hard.

He had never even heard of fabric that could be worse than a mop used for three years; never imagined fibers tougher than the steel wool used in restaurant kitchens.

Wearing such rags, every day, every movement was a new ordeal for Wu Qingchen. He truly believed that one wrong move, a slightly larger gesture, and the abrasive fabric would slice open his skin, leaving bloody welts.

Worse still, these rags were considered precious property in the average medieval household!

One outer robe, one inner robe, and a pair of wooden shoes—these were all the clothing-related possessions Wu Qingchen owned.

Because of this tragedy, the first time he did laundry in the medieval world, Wu Qingchen had to make a painful choice: wash the outer robe first, or the inner robe? It was a decision between going out “commando” the next day or wearing his underwear inside out.

As for not washing at all…

It was bad enough to be a beggar-like native forced to wear mops, but to wear them unwashed for three years, like the other beggars? The thought turned his stomach.

Yet Wu Qingchen wasn’t worried he might throw up, for in the past ten days, he’d never once eaten his fill.

Every day, every meal, it was the same food: green soup, green bean pods, green mush.

Worse still, these three items looked so unappetizing that just one glance was enough to kill anyone’s appetite.

Especially the green mush. Even now, Wu Qingchen couldn’t figure out how peas, when put in a pot, came out transformed into such a bizarre paste.

Bizarre was the least of it.

After just two days, Wu Qingchen realized that the food in the medieval world was so awful for one simple reason: it was all-natural, healthy, and green.

More specifically, the food here was virtually devoid of any seasoning.

No oil. No peppercorns. No spices. No MSG.

Only after two or three days of this bland fare would the cook, a middle-aged woman, furtively glance out the door to make sure no one was near, scurry to the back of the house, and pull a wooden box from under the bed. With great caution, she’d scrape a bit of black powder from a stone-like lump and add it to the food.

The whole process was reminiscent of a desperate addict concocting their last dose from cold medicine and sedatives.

As for this black powder—it was nothing but the worst quality salt.

With this salt, the food gained a hint of saltiness, but also astringent bitterness, making the already “natural” mush taste even more like leaves.

Even these “leaves” came only twice a day.

Yes, only two meals each day!

Generally, Wu Qingchen’s routine these ten days went like this:

Before dawn, while the world was still pitch black, around four or five in the morning, he would leave home with his father. Walking the broken roads for half an hour to an hour, they’d reach the fields just as the sky began to lighten.

Then, for three or four hours, he’d work hard until his body ached and he could do no more, after which he’d walk back home with his father—another half hour to an hour.

By then, it was around nine or ten in the morning—time for the first meal, breakfast.

After a ten-minute rest, he’d head out again with his father, working continuously, with barely a break, until dusk. Only when darkness fell, after another winding hour-long walk home, would they eat the second meal of the day—dinner.

True “work at sunrise, rest at sunset,” without a single day’s respite.

Long ago, when Wu Qingchen was just an ordinary young man in the twenty-first century, he sometimes wondered, while reading books or watching films about ancient times, what exactly made the lives of peasants so exhausting—what did they actually do, all day long?

Now, he understood a great deal.

In just ten days, following his father and older brother, Wu Qingchen had already traversed the village in all directions and gained a basic understanding of its layout.

This wasn’t for pleasure, nor was it an effort by his father to help him get acclimated.

The reason was simple: the family’s plots weren’t contiguous, but scattered all around the village. By his rough count, in just these ten days, Wu Qingchen had worked in over thirty different places.

Each was at least a half-hour’s walk from their wooden house, so just going to and from the fields consumed a third of each day.

Even more daunting, each field was at least half the size of a football field. Divided among the family’s men, each was responsible for at least five football fields’ worth of land.

Five football fields, with most tools made of wood—this was the intensity of Wu Qingchen’s labor.

Only two meals a day, all vegetarian, not a trace of meat or even oil—this was his level of nourishment.

Given the vast gulf between labor and nutrition, and food so unpalatable, it was no wonder Wu Qingchen had never felt full in ten days.

In short: rags for clothing, leaves for food, straw for bedding, mud for roads—this was Wu Qingchen’s existence in the medieval world.

What is poverty?

After ten days of abject suffering, when even washing his face required scouring the entire house for a scrap of cloth, Wu Qingchen gained a deeper understanding:

Poverty is a spotless trash bin—absolutely nothing extra.

Chapter Fifteen: What is poverty? (Part Two)

“Los… Los… Wake up, time to go.”

It was morning. After yet another unpalatable breakfast, Wu Qingchen was drifting off when he was nudged awake. Grace was standing beside him, already prepared with the day’s farm tools.

By now, Wu Qingchen no longer needed to feign ignorance. He could basically understand the local language and converse without much trouble.

Don’t be mistaken—learning a language in ten days wasn’t due to any rare talent, but because the language itself was extremely simple.

To be precise, it was impoverished—undeveloped.

Sociologists and linguists had taught Wu Qingchen that language is a tool for communication, especially spoken language, whose complexity is closely linked to social development. Without a sophisticated society, there cannot be a sophisticated oral system.

The medieval world followed this rule.

As with most languages, Wu Qingchen’s first exposure was to nouns.

And from the nouns alone, he could tell how primitive this language was.

Do you know what they call the giant ball of fire in the daytime sky? The sun.

Do you know what they call the round disk in the nighttime sky? Also the sun.

Do you know what they call the rushlight sometimes lit at night? Still the sun!

See? That’s the medieval noun system.

Distinguishing between these three “suns” fell to adjectives.

The sun in the daytime? Big sun.

The moon at night? Middle sun.

A lamp? Little sun!

Little sun! Can you believe it? That’s the adjective system.

It got more absurd: the river by the woods was “big water”; the creek by the village was “middle water”; the liquid in the pot was “small water” when still, “jumping water” when boiling; and the liquid in the bowl? “Little little water.”

Little little water! Can you imagine?

At first, Wu Qingchen couldn’t believe his ears.

During his crash training, the advisors had repeatedly stressed the importance of quickly gathering intelligence for future operations.

Wu Qingchen thought that once he mastered the language, this would be easy.

But once he could actually converse, he realized it was far from simple. Even after three or four days of normal communication, conversations with the locals were taxing, requiring extra effort to grasp their meaning.

There was no helping it. Lacking vocabulary and precision, conversations with villagers were always vague—outside the village was far; climbing two mountains was very far; leaving the baron’s land was still very far.

How far, exactly? A day’s distance, two days’ distance, three days’ distance… That was as far as it got.

For the locals, most never left their village from birth to death, and even the market “two days away” was a place half of them had never seen.

So, after three or four days, everything Wu Qingchen learned through conversation was limited to within twenty kilometers, and even then, topics rarely strayed from peas, cabbage, oats, rye, barley, goats, roosters, cows, big cows, medium cows, little cows…

Always the most superficial, visible things.

As for politics, philosophy, art, law…

Forget it! He hadn’t even heard those words.

In such an impoverished language and communication environment, for someone like Wu Qingchen—whose greatest hobby had been chatting online—this was a torment.

Fortunately, today’s activity might bring something new.

Leaving the filthy, dark table, Wu Qingchen followed Grace out, expectant.

Though both still carried farm tools, their destination was no longer a distant field, but the most prominent building in the village center.

The church.

Of course, just as “sun” wasn’t pronounced “taiyang,” “church” was just Wu Qingchen’s understanding of the building’s function, which was similar to churches on Earth.

They left the wooden house, and after about ten minutes and a turn around a corner, the church’s spire came into view.

The bell had already rung twice. By the time Wu Qingchen arrived, many villagers were gathered on the cobblestone path before the church. Wu Qingchen and Grace joined William, and soon a few neighbors and friends joined them.

With nothing to do while waiting, Wu Qingchen had little interest in chatting about Agnes’s new calf and turned his gaze outward.

Up close, he noted the church was sturdier and grander than the village houses, but its low surrounding walls were cracked in places, and tufts of grass sprouted from the corners.

The final bell rang.

Most villagers began filing inside, except for a few who lingered outside in groups.

Inside, Wu Qingchen saw neat rows of benches, but no one sat. Any child who tried was gently scolded by a parent.

The church was seldom used, yet the benches were cleaner than those at home, which saw daily use.

With a little time left before the fortnightly prayers and sermon, the villagers chatted eagerly, some moving about for a better spot.

After about ten minutes, a side door at the rear opened, and a boy about Los Moore’s age entered, dusting the altar and pulpit with a feather duster.

When done, he stood beside the pulpit. A priest in his thirties, robed in white, strode in, and the villagers quickly quieted, with only a few whispers and coughs remaining.

“Ding…”

A clear note sounded as the boy, having stowed his duster, struck a small bell with a wooden mallet.

Was it beginning?

Wu Qingchen instinctively straightened his robe and stood at attention.

With that crisp “ding,” the young priest began to chant in a low, monotonous voice—probably reciting scripture. After a few lines, he switched to a call-and-response chant with the boy.

The ceremony had begun, but Wu Qingchen could make out nothing; most were chants and prayers, sometimes even incoherent mumbling.

Hearing a cadence not unlike his own attempts to fool the family days ago, Wu Qingchen glanced about and realized his tension was unnecessary. Within two or three minutes, many villagers had resumed chatting, some even lounging against the pillars.

So this was allowed?

It was nothing like the solemn religious rituals depicted in films or books.

Still, Wu Qingchen preferred this relaxed atmosphere, and quietly eased his stance.

The priest’s chanting lasted about ten minutes. The boy rang the bell again, and the priest stepped down to the altar. The villagers quieted further. When all was calm, the priest adopted a solemn expression and began speaking in a serious but more natural voice.

This was the sermon.

Wu Qingchen didn’t know this yet—he only knew that now the priest was speaking in words he could understand, so he listened intently.

The sermon was simple: first, he reminded the villagers of previous sermons on repentance, briefly listed the commandments explained that year, then focused on another sin to avoid—laziness. Laziness, he said, makes people ugly, never beautiful again.

Describing the “beautiful,” the priest painted a paradise where one could eat plenty of mush and fill one’s belly by working the fields till dark. In describing “ugly,” he painted a hell where wheat never grew and hunger was eternal.

What a vision of heaven and hell…

Wu Qingchen tried his best to keep a straight face, but couldn’t help the twitch at his lips.

Yet even these simple promises and threats occasionally made villagers’ eyes widen with longing, or draw gasps of fear.

After about an hour, the boy rang the bell again, and the priest returned to the pulpit for another ten minutes of chanting, ending the ceremony.

But this was not the end. There was one more highlight, eagerly anticipated by Grace—and indeed, by the whole village of Ecli: the distribution of holy food.

The priest set down his book, took a tree branch from the altar, dipped it in the bowl before the altar, closed his eyes and muttered a prayer, then waved the branch above two wooden chests. Opening his eyes, he raised the branch high, and the villagers solemnly patted their shoulders, intoning, “Master, be with us.”

Then several middle-aged men approached, opened the chests, and handed out wooden trays of holy food to each villager.

Wu Qingchen soon received his share.

Carefully gripping this precious morsel, his fingers trembled.

He couldn’t help it—he was shaken by the sight of this sacred black bread, covered in mold spots so dense he could barely find two clear places to pinch with his fingers.

Goddammit…

He should have known better than to expect anything of this damned world!

At that moment, whether from anger or something else, the church, altar, priest, and villagers before Wu Qingchen’s eyes all seemed to tremble.

Huh? What was happening?

He froze.

The next tremor struck quickly.

It was the tenth day in the medieval world!

Realization dawned, and the world’s tremors intensified. Everything shook violently.

Suddenly, a white light engulfed Wu Qingchen’s vision, then instant darkness.

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Celestial Event Subject’s Temporary Rest Chamber

His eyelids fluttered, and Wu Qingchen’s eyes snapped open.

“Long time no see…”

The familiar voice reached his ears at once. By the door, Officer Ji leaned against the frame, grinning. “Morning, old friend. Welcome back to Earth. Anything I can get you?”

Ha… I’m back! I’m back!

A surge of energy shot through Wu Qingchen, and a stream of unhesitating demands burst from his lips: “I want steamed buns, I want soy milk, I want noodles, I want fish—anything edible, as long as it’s not that damned mush! And put in oil! And salt!”