Kang He, as usual, wandered idly around the county town, partly to familiarize himself with the streets and partly because the bustling town offered a better chance to gauge the local life and customs.
The more you inquire and observe, the less likely you are to go wrong.
He compared prices at three shops before buying a packet of candied winter melon at a pastry shop and a slab of fatty pork at the meat market.
It was from Sister Wu, the same vendor he’d bought bones from before.
She had a good memory, recognized him, and threw in a piece of pork skin to sweeten the deal.
Leaving the meat market, he headed to the Ge family’s dry goods store in Cat Alley to pick up a few ingredients for cooking.
“This starch powder is nice and white, but the price is a bit steep. I’m a regular—can you knock off a couple of coins?”
Kang He was about to pay when he overheard a woman haggling with the shopkeeper at the counter.
He waited patiently behind her, noticing she was trying to buy a packet of starch.
“Ma’am, you’re a regular here, so a discount is only fair. But you’ve got a sharp eye, picking out the new high-quality stock. I paid a high price for it myself—I’m not making much off you, just covering the shop’s rent.”
The shopkeeper pinched a bit of starch, crushing it into powder with his thumb to show her.
“Look at this—pure white, like snow, no sand or cheap fillers mixed in.”
The woman could see the quality but wasn’t satisfied with the price.
“This half-pound packet for thirty coins is too much.”
“My good lady, that’s fern starch—it’s not easy to come by. If the price is too high, how about kudzu starch? Twenty-two coins a packet, and I’ll knock off two for you.”
The woman replied, “It’s just that my man came back from out of town with a jug of good vinegar, and he’s been craving a bowl of sour fern starch. He’s been working hard out there, or I wouldn’t bother buying something this pricey.”
The shopkeeper said, “I’d say no one’s luckier than Brother Liu, having a virtuous wife like you. How about I throw in half a packet of dried cabbage?”
The woman’s face lit up.
“You always give me something extra—you’re too kind.”
“Who can resist when you keep my business thriving?”
After a while, the shopkeeper finally saw the woman off.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, young brother.”
“No trouble,” Kang He replied.
He’d listened to the exchange with interest, not impatience.
He asked, “Do you buy fern starch here?”
“We do—fern starch, kudzu starch, bean starch, we take it all. But we don’t accept low-grade stuff. Fern starch is fern starch, kudzu is kudzu. If someone tries to pass off bean starch as fern starch, I won’t take it, and they won’t be welcome back.”
The shopkeeper added, “The purer the powder, the better the quality, and we pay a fair price for it.”
Kang He listened carefully.
“What’s your buying price?”
The shopkeeper lowered his voice slightly.
“Fern starch is forty-five coins per pound, kudzu starch is twenty-five.”
Kang He nodded thoughtfully and asked, “Do you have noodles here?”
“Of course.”
The shopkeeper, ever patient, grabbed a ladder, climbed a few steps up the shelf, and brought down a box.
Inside were about ten pounds of dried noodles, neatly bundled—some tied with hemp rope, others with red, likely to distinguish types.
“Top-notch stuff. Toss a handful into chicken soup and simmer—it’s smooth and chewy. Or boil it, add a spoonful of vinegar sauce, sprinkle some finely chopped green onion, garlic, and ginger—crisp and delicious. The second young master of the Xue family loves it, and Master Wang’s kitchen buys three to five pounds every few days.”
Seeing how neatly the noodles were packed, Kang He figured they were good quality.
The shopkeeper’s praise suggested it was a delicacy for wealthy households.
“What’s the selling price?”
The shopkeeper held up his index finger and thumb, signaling eight.
“Kudzu noodles are this price; fern starch noodles are twenty coins more. Good stuff never goes unsold. It’s not easy to make, but the taste is worth it—great for yourself or as a gift, and it keeps well.”
Kang He nodded, noting that a half-pound bundle of noodles fetched such a price—about one or two hundred coins per pound.
He didn’t ask the buying price for noodles; with such a high selling price, the acquisition cost must be steep too.
After settling his bill, he made a final stop at the blacksmith’s but bought nothing before heading back to the mountain.
Up in the mountains, Fan Jing hadn’t gone out that morning.
At noon, he heated two steamed buns for lunch—buns Kang He had made the night before, worried Fan Jing would go hungry if he went down the mountain.
After eating, he napped briefly before getting up, slinging his arrows over his shoulder, locking the door, and checking his traps.
The past few days had been dry, making the forest paths clean and easy to walk.
Along the way, he spotted soil Kang He had dug up and wondered how his friend’s business had gone that day.
Near the first trap, before he even reached it, Fan Jing noticed a sneaky figure poking around the spot where he’d wrapped cloth around his trap markers.
The man wasn’t tall, about Fan Jing’s height, but stockier, with broader bones.
His face was dark, with a finger-length scar under his left eye.
A wood-chopping knife hung at his waist, and a longbow was slung over his shoulder.
Recognizing the man, Fan Jing stayed silent, stepping lightly as he approached.
“Hey! Sneaking up like that—it’s you, Big Jing! You scared me half to death!”
The man, focused on the trap, jumped when he realized someone was behind him.
Fan Jing gave him a cold look.
“What are you doing here?”
“Well, I just came up the mountain today and happened to pass by…”
The man, Sun Dasheng, faltered under Fan Jing’s icy glare, his guilt showing.
His shifty eyes suddenly caught the gauze wrapped around Fan Jing’s arm, and his tense expression relaxed into a smirk.
“Oh, got yourself hurt? Is that arm alright?”
Fan Jing knew the man had no good intentions.
Hunters in the mountains, aside from masters and kin, each had their own trapping grounds.
Though territories weren’t explicitly divided, everyone knew whose was whose, and decent folks didn’t trespass.
But Sun Dasheng, from their village, was a poor hunter with sloppy archery, always snooping around others’ traps.
Many hunters knew his ways, but since he hadn’t been caught red-handed—and with his cousin being the village head—no one could say much.
Seeing Sun’s sly look, Fan Jing shook his arm.
“Want to find out?”
Sun Dasheng waved his hands quickly, stepping back with a sheepish grin before slinking off.
Once he was gone, Fan Jing checked the trap.
No wonder Sun was lurking—luck was on Fan Jing’s side today.
A new trap had collapsed, catching a pheasant with colorful feathers.
Fan Jing pulled the injured bird up; it was too weak to struggle much after flapping for so long.
He reset the trap and, instead of checking the others, returned to the cabin.
As Fan Jing walked away, Sun Dasheng crept out from behind a bush.
Seeing the pheasant Fan Jing had caught, he smacked his lips, regretting his timing.
Had he arrived earlier, that bird would be in his pot tonight.
Greedy thoughts aside, he stared at Fan Jing’s lean figure, thinking that without that cold face, he was still a decent-looking fellow.
His mind wandered to cruder thoughts.
He’d once tried to charm Fan Jing, saying the mountain was lonely, and since Fan Jing had no prospects for marriage, they could pair up for some fun.
But Fan Jing, fierce as ever, had shot an arrow at him for it.
Knowing Fan Jing’s skill, Sun didn’t dare try again.
But seeing the bandage on Fan Jing’s arm, his scheming eyes began to turn.
Back at the cabin, Fan Jing put the first live catch of his mountain stay in a basket in the yard, tossing in some bran for it to eat.
He didn’t check his other traps—not just to bring the pheasant back, but to keep Sun Dasheng from tailing him and finding his other traps.
His traps were marked, and a careful search could uncover them, but following him would make it far easier.
No way would he let Sun get that advantage.
By dusk, Kang He finally returned.
He’d thought he’d timed his trip from the county well, but late autumn days grew short, and darkness fell quickly.
Halfway up the mountain, he noticed the sky dimming fast and hurried his pace, not stopping once, arriving sweaty and overheated.
He tucked his outer shirt under his arm, his back soaked, looking like he’d been chased by a ghost.
“Got something today?!”
Seeing the caged pheasant in the yard, he was clearly delighted.
Fan Jing grunted in reply, opened the door for Kang He, and returned to the stove.
A fire was already lit, with a pot of water heating.
He glanced at Kang He’s basket, seeing the mountain goods he’d taken to sell weren’t brought back, so he knew how business went without asking.
Kang He gulped down a bowl of cooled boiled water, feeling refreshed.
He said to Fan Jing, “I begged you to come to the county with me, but you wouldn’t. You don’t know the unreasonable person I ran into today.”
Fan Jing looked at him.
“Must’ve been some old country man who couldn’t speak proper Mandarin. I couldn’t get through to him. He stood at my stall cursing me for ages, even spat, saying I looked down on him.”
Fan Jing’s brows furrowed, setting down the fire tongs.
“Did you report it to the authorities?”
“What authorities? Luckily, a kind young man stepped in to help me out. The old man knew he was in the wrong and didn’t make more trouble.”
Fan Jing seemed to have more to say but held back, his face returning to its usual calm as he fed the fire.
Kang He seized the moment.
“I’m thinking you’ve got to teach me the local dialect.”
“There are plenty of kind folks in the county—why not ask them to teach you?”
Kang He paused, thinking Fan Jing was getting sharp with his words.
He rummaged in his bag and sidled up to Fan Jing.
“Candied winter melon—try it, see how it tastes.”
Fan Jing didn’t take it or respond.
Kang He unwrapped the oiled paper, picked up a piece dusted with sugar, and suddenly popped it into Fan Jing’s mouth.
Fan Jing’s eyes widened slightly as his lips briefly brushed Kang He’s fingers.
The sugar melted in his mouth, sweet and overwhelming, stopping any words he might’ve said.
Seeing Fan Jing stay silent, Kang He’s eyes crinkled with a smile.
He tossed a piece into his own mouth, expecting the sweetness but not its intensity—it was tooth-achingly sweet, soaked through with sugar.
As a rough man in this tough place, he wasn’t fond of such cloyingly sweet treats.
Fan Jing ate it without comment.
Kang He figured Fan Jing never wasted food, good or bad—even coarse rice with unhusked grains went down without complaint.
So he handed over the whole packet, thinking even if Fan Jing didn’t like it, he’d save it for the two girls down the mountain.
“How about taro tofu tonight?”
Fan Jing had said he’d never eaten it, so Kang He kept a piece at home, planning to cook it with the pork he’d bought.
Taro tofu was filling but not particularly nourishing; without oil and seasoning, it was bland.
“Up to you,” Fan Jing said.
With that, Kang He took out the slab of pork, cut it into chunks, and rendered the fat.
The pork fat alone filled the room with a rich aroma.
While rendering, he crushed garlic and ginger and chopped some chives—locally called “flat vegetables,” slightly tough and flowering but full of flavor when cut raw.
He’d bought a big bunch from a vegetable seller for one coin, enough for two meals.
The pork yielded a bowl of fat, plenty for cooking frugally for a month.
Kang He left some fat in the pan, tossed in the garlic and ginger, and the aroma burst out.
Thin slices of taro tofu and chives were stir-fried together, simmered briefly to soak up the flavors.
Taro tofu paired well with rice.
Kang He served Fan Jing a big bowl of coarse rice.
The soft yet firm taro tofu was fragrant.
Fan Jing took a bite—smooth, flavorful, distinct from regular tofu.
No wonder the Chen family raved about it; cooked with oil, it tasted almost like meat.
“How is it? To your liking?”
Kang He watched Fan Jing eat, his relaxed expression showing he liked it.
Kang He piled more into his bowl while asking about the taste.
Honestly, these hearty, delicious days felt like having a personal cook.
It was great, but Kang He couldn’t just enjoy it guilt-free.
“Half of what you earned today went into your stomach.”
Kang He laughed, thinking it wasn’t bad—fifteen coins for pork, five for candied melon, ten for ingredients, thirty coins total.
He didn’t mind.
“Are you worried I won’t pay you back soon? I can settle some now.”
Fan Jing frowned.
“That’s not it.”
“If it’s not about the money, then you’re worried about me.”
Kang He looked at him.
“What are you worried about?”
Fan Jing fell silent, eating a mouthful of rice.
This guy didn’t appreciate good intentions, always shutting him up with such talk—Fan Jing decided to stop meddling.
Kang He, seeing this, added more food to Fan Jing’s bowl, urging him to eat more.
After dinner, Kang He felt sticky and couldn’t stand it.
He fetched water to bathe.
Carrying a bucket of hot water outside to avoid wetting the already damp mud floor, he bathed in the yard.
The night breeze in the forest was chilly, but at least the colder weather meant fewer mosquitoes.
In summer, bathing outside would’ve left him covered in bites.
Shirtless, he quickly poured water over himself, rinsing off.
He thought about Fan Jing’s injured arm, figuring bathing must be tough for him…
Lost in thought, he suddenly heard a rustling sound nearby.
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