Chapter 25: All stung

The following day, Kang He went alone to Zhang Shili’s place.

Later, when he returned, Fan Jing was lingering at the border, and the two met up before heading home together.

For the next ten days or so, it went on like this, an unspoken understanding between them.

Kang He made trip after trip to Zhang Shili’s hill, gathering at least a few hundred pounds of roots to store in the wooden cabin.

During that time, he also brought Zhang Shili a dish of pickled fish, a batch of dumplings stuffed with shepherd’s purse and egg, and a pot of wild chestnut and bone soup.

On one or two of those days, when he finished digging roots early, he helped Zhang Shili prepare a couple of dishes to go with drinks.

Living alone, Zhang Shili didn’t mind eating well, but selling the chickens, ducks, and rabbits he hunted down the mountain wasn’t worth it, and he was too lazy to bother with curing or smoking them.

So, they became his feasts.

The problem was, he had no real skill—good meat ended up bland in his hands.

Kang He cooked him a hearty meat dish, enough to last a day or two, ready to eat with a quick reheat.

Zhang Shili loved it and was even happier when Kang He came by.

One day, Kang He finished work early and cooked at Zhang Shili’s cabin.

He stir-fried some pheasant meat and roasted a rabbit with fennel, the cabin filled with a mouthwatering aroma.

Zhang Shili, salivating at the smell, said, “With skills like that, it’s a pity you’re not a chef.”

“No way I’ve got that kind of talent,” Kang He replied.

“I just cook to make it tasty for myself. If I really tried that trade without someone guiding me, I’d just be floundering.”

He’d once asked around in the city about how chefs operated these days.

The agent had asked right off: whose apprentice was he?

What dishes was he skilled at?

Had he worked for any noble or wealthy households?

Had he ever cooked at a city tavern or restaurant?

How many banquets had he handled, and how big were they?

Hearing all that, Kang He immediately gave up on the idea of pursuing it.

His half-baked skills were good enough to feed his family well, but making a living in that trade wasn’t so simple.

He had no master, no experience, and didn’t know how to prepare grand banquet dishes.

His cooking wasn’t extraordinary—just passable.

What could he hope for?

Zhang Shili said with some regret, “You’re not wrong. These days, any trade needs connections to get a foot in the door. Otherwise, no one will take you seriously.”

Kang He smiled, deftly transferring the meat into a clay pot.

He said to Zhang Shili, “Big Brother, the roots on this hill are almost all gathered. After today, I might not be able to come back here for a while. I made you a couple of good dishes today to thank you for looking out for me these past days.”

Zhang Shili felt a pang of reluctance.

“Look out for you? You’re the one bringing me food every few days, cooking for me. If it was anyone else, who’d bother?”

Though he hated to see Kang He go, he knew the man had to make a living, and there was nothing more to be gained here.

Zhang Shili found Kang He thoughtful, good-natured, and worth befriending—he didn’t want to lose contact.

He thought for a moment and asked, “Are you still gathering taro and roots?”

“Of course, they keep well in winter and can be stored.”

Zhang Shili slapped the table.

“Next time you come, I’ll take you to another hill nearby.”

Kang He hesitated.

“Isn’t that another hunter’s territory? Without permission, it could stir up trouble.”

“That’s Ge Youquan’s land from my village. When he got married, he borrowed two strings of cash from me for the banquet and musicians, and he still hasn’t paid me back. I never pressed him. With our friendship, if I take you there to gather some goods, he’s not likely to object.”

Kang He thought it’d be great to work new land—more roots to stockpile, and with enough hands at home, they’d manage.

But he felt uneasy using Zhang Shili’s favor, given their indirect connection.

Seeing his hesitation, Zhang Shili said, “If you’re worried he won’t agree, don’t rush over yet. I’ll talk to him first. If he’s fine with it, I’ll let you know. How’s that?”

“That’d be great, but it’s a lot of trouble for you, Big Brother.”

Zhang Shili waved it off.

“No trouble at all. You call me Big Brother, and I see you as a younger brother. What kind of brother doesn’t help out? It’s no big deal.”

Kang He was deeply grateful.

He didn’t want Zhang Shili running to Ge Youquan’s hill and then back to relay the news.

They agreed Kang He would come by in two days to hear the outcome.

When leaving, Zhang Shili wanted to give Kang He a plate of meat to take home, but since Kang He had made such good dishes, giving him some would mean less for himself.

Instead, he stuffed a hunted wild duck into Kang He’s hands.

Kang He didn’t want to trouble him and refused, but Zhang Shili insisted, so he reluctantly accepted.

Back home, Kang He plucked the duck, stir-fried the innards for a fragrant meal, and salted the rest to smoke over the stove.

It was good meat—too good to sell at the county market.

Their meals in the mountains weren’t bad, but at home, they kept things simple.

The duck offal, washed seven or eight times and stir-fried, had no trace of gaminess, just a tangy, fragrant flavor perfect with rice.

Fan Jing ate two bowls in one go, and as Kang He served him a third, he mentioned the plan to visit Ge Youquan’s hill.

“He’s treating you well, even willing to…” Fan Jing trailed off, shoving food in his mouth.

“Your tone’s sourer than the pickled radish I made,” Kang He teased.

Fan Jing ignored him, focusing on his meal.

Seeing this, Kang He placed a piece of meat in his bowl.

“If you don’t like it, I’ll just cook for you from now on.”

Fan Jing glanced up but said nothing, eating a few more bites before muttering, “I’m not that petty.”

Kang He thought to himself that Fan Jing’s long silence didn’t exactly scream generosity, but he was amused by the hint of jealousy.

“I don’t care to cook for others,” he said.

“I only want to cook for you. Back then, I had to please your grandparents and uncle’s family to win their approval so you’d stay with me. Now, for the sake of connections, I cook for others too, but it’s just for long-term planning.”

Hearing this, Fan Jing gave him a look, feeling a bit comforted.

That day, Fan Jing went down the mountain alone to sell game, bringing five pounds of winter bamboo shoots Kang He had suggested.

He thought the buyer wouldn’t care, but the man was thrilled, saying his father loved bamboo shoot stew and that winter shoots were pricey—his mother was too frugal to buy them.

The buyer was so pleased he filled Fan Jing’s waterskin with good tea from the tavern.

In a good mood, Fan Jing bought two pounds of flour to bring home.

As he reached the house, he saw Kang He in the yard, flailing like he was possessed.

“What’s wrong with you?” Fan Jing rushed over, dropping his things.

Kang He stopped, returning to normal.

“You’re back.”

He went inside and brought out a bowl of warm water for him.

“There’s water here,” Fan Jing said, showing the waterskin and mentioning the tea the buyer gave him.

“Drink some anyway,” Kang He urged.

Fan Jing raised an eyebrow—who insists someone drink water?

He took the bowl, touching it to his lips for a pretend sip, but a sweet taste flowed into his mouth, like honey in the water.

He looked at Kang He.

“Not bad, right?” Kang He said, bringing out a clean clay jar half-filled with honey, its sweet aroma wafting out.

He hadn’t fully extracted the honey, leaving some honeycomb inside, but the wild mountain honey’s flavor was so good it didn’t feel crude.

Earlier that day, while setting traps, Kang He had spotted a honeycomb on an old tree vine, glistening with plenty of honey, and brought it back.

As he spoke, a sharp pain hit his back, like a needle prick, and he couldn’t help but scratch.

Fan Jing, seeing this, put down the bowl.

“Take off your shirt. You might’ve got a bee in there.”

Kang He agreed, thinking to check.

As he removed his outer layer, a buzzing sound came, and two bees flew out.

Startled, Kang He recalled tying his sleeves and collar tightly when collecting the honey—how had bees gotten in?

Realizing they’d been trapped in his clothes, he quickly stripped off his inner layer too.

Three more bees fell out, and Fan Jing stomped them dead.

“What’s this? Did you get stung?”

Fan Jing inspected Kang He’s smooth back, now sporting several red, swollen welts, and frowned.

“Yeah.”

Kang He’s mouth went bitter.

He grabbed the medicine box, asking Fan Jing to pull out the stingers, apply cold water to reduce swelling, and rub on some alkaline ointment.

Fan Jing got to work, cleaning up the welts on Kang He’s back and two more on his waist.

Glancing at Kang He’s pants, he asked, “Any stings down there?”

Grimacing in pain, Kang He clutched his waistband.

“I can handle that myself.”

“You’ve got eyes on the back of your head now? Can you even reach your butt?”

Kang He flushed.

“It doesn’t hurt, so maybe not—hey, hey, Fan Jing, don’t—”

One hand on the doorframe, Kang He looked down as his pants were pulled to his ankles, his heart sinking.

After a moment, he silently pulled them back up, feeling drained.

“How can you be so overbearing?” Kang He muttered weakly, pouting at Fan Jing.

Fan Jing took another sip of the honey water, seeing Kang He’s ashen face, like he’d lost his soul.

“What’s a man getting shy about?”

“Does being a man mean I deserve to have my butt exposed?” Kang He snapped, his dignity in tatters.

“Who told you to mess with a beehive?”

“I saw the honey and thought you’d like it.”

Kang He didn’t even care for sweets himself—if he hadn’t been thinking of Fan Jing’s tastes, he wouldn’t have risked poking a hive.

A jar of honey, no matter how valuable, wasn’t worth it.

Fan Jing fell silent.

After a long pause, he said, “I won’t tell anyone.”

Kang He huffed.

He wasn’t the type to be placated with a single word.

Listing Fan Jing’s offenses, he said, “You touch me when I’m sleeping, fine. But today you grabbed my butt. My honor’s ruined—no good family will have me now.”

Fan Jing set down the bowl.

“What family are you looking for? Zhang Shili’s sister?” Coldly, he added, “Zhang’s an only child. His relatives cut ties after he got locked up. There’s no sister to introduce to you.”

Kang He froze, realizing he’d forgotten that detail.

Zhang Shili and Fan Jing had played him, and he’d genuinely spoken up for them.

Annoyed, he said, “Fine, I’ll go be a fake son-in-law, staying with one family after another.”

Fan Jing gave him a cold look.

“No one would take you without a contract.”

“Then I’ll steal your contract while you sleep and see how smug you are then.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Kang He jutted his chin.

“Watch me.”

Fan Jing stepped closer, and Kang He stood his ground, chest puffed out.

Then his butt got smacked, and he yelped, crumbling.

That night, with welts swelling on his back and butt, Kang He could only sleep on his stomach.

Fan Jing, seeing him like that, felt a twinge of guilt and told him never to mess with beehives again.

Kang He didn’t reply.

The honey water was tasty, and the fried bees, sprinkled with salt and fennel, were crispy and fragrant—Fan Jing hadn’t held back at dinner.

Unable to resist, Kang He said, “I won’t touch wild hives anymore. I’ll make some beehives from wood, keep bees myself, and we’ll have honey without the hassle.”

Fan Jing, hearing him talk about beehives, asked, “Your body doesn’t hurt anymore?”

“How could it not hurt? I can’t even sleep.” Kang He glanced at Fan Jing, softening his voice.

“But if you kiss me, it won’t hurt anymore.”

Fan Jing thought the guy hadn’t been stung enough.

If saliva worked better than medicine, no one would need doctors or worry about medical bills.

Seeing Fan Jing ignore him, Kang He shook his head.

“Whether my pain’s real or not doesn’t matter. That you don’t care—that’s what’s real.”

“You got stung and still talk this much?”

Kang He grinned.

“You hate my chatter? Too bad the bees didn’t sting my mouth shut.”

Fan Jing, knowing he’d never win this argument, stayed silent.

Kang He looked at the man beside him, eyes closed, pretending to sleep, refusing to talk.

The welts seemed to throb more.

Staring for a moment, he suddenly leaned in.

Fan Jing’s eyes snapped open, but Kang He had already pulled back.

Fan Jing touched his lips, stunned for a long moment.

He felt like he’d been stung by a bee too.

Why else would his lips feel so hot and burning?