The next morning, the rain outside had finally stopped.
However, the mountain was still damp with accumulated rainwater, slow to dry.
The morning breeze was cold and carried a faint stench of rotting leaves.
Kang He needed to head down the mountain early.
Fan Jing, worried that Kang He might not know the way out, accompanied him to the outer mountain before stopping.
Kang He urged Fan Jing not to go out today, but Fan Jing didn’t respond, only pressing him to hurry down the mountain, warning that he wouldn’t make it back before dark otherwise.
There was a small path on the mountain that led directly to the main road, bypassing the village.
With few forks along the way, Kang He followed Fan Jing’s directions and reached the county town by noon.
The county enjoyed good weather, with the sun shining a bit fiercely.
Kang He didn’t rush to the clinic. Instead, he wandered the market for a while.
Whenever he heard someone speaking the official dialect, he’d linger nearby, quietly picking up their speech.
Not only that, he even tried striking up conversations to test his skills.
After lingering for a bit, he asked around for a clinic while practicing his speech, then went to get medicine.
He carefully described the symptoms to the doctor and got three doses of medicine—some for internal use, others for external application.
He also bought common remedies, mostly for external injuries, headaches, fevers, diarrhea, and bloating.
The old doctor, noticing Kang He’s methodical approach to buying medicine, asked, “Young man, are you a village herbalist?”
Kang He, mimicking the new accent he’d learned, replied, “Nothing so grand, just know a thing or two.”
“Knowing a bit is a good thing—helps you take care of yourself,” the doctor said.
Kang He smiled, noticing some herbs hanging in the clinic, not yet stored away.
The doctor seemed friendly, so he casually asked, “Do you buy herbs here, sir?”
“We do, but it’s a small clinic, so the prices aren’t high.”
Kang He said, “You’re a kind doctor, sir, charging fair prices for visits and medicine. Selling herbs to you would be like doing good deeds.”
The old doctor chuckled at the flattery, lowering his voice.
“You’ve got a silver tongue, young man. If you’ve got herbs in the future and don’t mind, bring them to my little clinic.”
Kang He wasn’t sure he’d have herbs to sell, but who’d turn down an extra opportunity?
“Sounds good,” he replied.
The medicine cost sixty-five coins, further depleting Kang He’s already meager savings.
Before leaving, Fan Jing had offered him money, but Kang He had refused.
Fan Jing had gotten injured saving him—taking his money to treat that injury would be utterly unreasonable.
Leaving the clinic, Kang He visited the meat market.
By afternoon, the butchers at the stalls were lounging lazily.
Flies, drawn by the smell of meat, buzzed around the glistening pork, but the butchers barely bothered to shoo them away.
Kang He found a stall in the corner called “Big Sister Wu’s Good Pork.”
Though it wasn’t in a prime spot, business was brisk, with hardly any meat left on the counter.
No wonder—her stall was spotless, unlike others where customers bought intestines, and careless vendors dumped the filth into nearby ditches.
More meticulous ones caught it in buckets but left them under the stall.
In the morning, it was fine, but as the day heated up, the stench from the buckets was overpowering.
No surprise the meat market was swarming with flies.
Seeing Kang He approach, the woman quickly cleared the pine branches covering the meat, inviting him to choose.
Kang He asked the prices: the popular streaky pork was twelve coins per portion.
Lean and fatty cuts were both pricey.
With limited funds, he opted for some pork bones and shoulder blades, enough to fill a basket—several pounds for just twenty coins.
He also bought three pounds of flour from a grain shop.
With his purchases complete, he bought two coarse flour buns from a street vendor, washing them down with a bowl of rough tea soup provided by the stallholder to fill his stomach.
He even spent a coin to chat with an idle laborer squatting by the wall, learning about local affairs.
After eating the buns, he started back.
By the time he entered the mountain, the sun was already dipping west.
After a day of sunlight, the mountain wasn’t as damp as it had been in the morning, now comfortably dry.
Kang He hurried back to the wooden cabin, which was locked from the outside.
As expected, that restless man had gone off somewhere.
Luckily, Kang He had the key.
This time, he didn’t rush out to find him.
Instead, he started cooking rice.
He cleaned the pork bones, cracked them, and stewed them with the rice.
On his way back, he’d also gathered some wild greens—mustard and spinach—for a cold salad.
When Fan Jing returned, he caught the aroma of meat from outside the cabin.
He’d been wandering the mountain and spotted smoke rising from their direction, knowing Kang He must be back, so he headed home.
“Where’d you go? I told you to rest and not wander—careful you don’t hurt your hand again,” Kang He said, unable to hold back his nagging when he saw Fan Jing return with his arm still in a sling, yet unable to stay put.
Fan Jing thought to himself, who’s foolish enough to get hurt just by stepping outside?
“Just walked around nearby,” he said.
With that, he pulled two green-shelled eggs from his pocket, about the size of a hen’s egg.
Kang He took them, finding their small size charming.
“Wild duck eggs?”
“Yep. There’s a stream up north where you can find wild duck nests.”
Kang He’s interest was piqued.
“I’ll check it out tomorrow. These eggs will be perfect for stir-frying with the mustard greens tonight.”
Fan Jing didn’t object to how Kang He planned to use the eggs.
In the past, he’d cooked wild pheasant or duck eggs he found in the mountains, boiling them in their shells for easy carrying.
He watched as Kang He took a bowl, deftly cracking the duck eggs with one hand.
The contents slid smoothly into the bowl without a speck of shell.
He finely chopped the blanched mustard greens, mixed them in, and beat the mixture together.
Fan Jing lifted the pot lid by the stove and peered inside.
A rich meaty aroma wafted from the steaming porridge simmering within.
“You know how to cook?”
Kang He paused, laughing.
“Cook? I just manage some simple dishes.”
Cooking was a chef’s skill—he wasn’t that talented.
But he found Fan Jing’s quiet demeanor oddly flattering, and it warmed his heart.
He did know a bit of many things, though only the basics, not mastery.
When he ran a social media account in the village, he’d filmed cooking, foraging, carpentry, planting—a wide range of skills.
He wasn’t just posing; he’d learned enough to get by.
But as a born-and-bred villager, he hadn’t known many rural skills at first—he’d learned them later for his videos.
Fan Jing thought Kang He was modest, not boastful.
He’d heard Kang He’s family were cooks, so it made sense he’d picked up some soup-making skills.
When the porridge thickened, Kang He ladled a bowl, added a spoon, and handed it to Fan Jing.
Perhaps tempted by the aroma and eager to taste it, Fan Jing didn’t hesitate, using his left hand to scoop up the porridge.
The pork bones had been cracked, their marrow melting into the porridge, giving it a glossy richness.
Sprinkled with ginger to cut the meaty smell and lightly salted, it was flavorful and satisfying.
For rural folk who rarely ate well, this pot of porridge was a rare treat.
Fan Jing vaguely recalled his mother making something this delicious when she was alive.
It wasn’t that his wife, Chen, lacked skill—she came from a poor rural family, raised in the village with little exposure to fine food, so how could she cook anything fancy?
His mother, before marrying his father, had been from the county town.
Though not from a wealthy family, growing up in town gave her broader experience with food and clothing.
She was the one who taught him the official dialect.
Seeing Fan Jing eat heartily, Kang He quickly prepared the cold wild spinach and pushed it toward him to eat with the porridge.
This man had probably made do with a cold bun for lunch.
Fan Jing set down his spoon and picked up chopsticks.
Kang He noticed and said, “With your right hand out of commission, just use the spoon with your left for the greens—it’s fine. If you can’t scoop them, I’ll pick them up for you.”
“No need,” Fan Jing said, deftly picking up a bite of greens with his chopsticks and eating it.
Kang He was surprised.
“Your left hand’s that nimble?”
“Was a lefty as a kid.”
Kang He gave a dry laugh, thinking he’d been prepared to patiently feed Fan Jing if needed.
But this guy didn’t need help.
He heated the pan to make mustard green and duck egg pancakes.
Fan Jing quietly finished a bowl of porridge, still wanting more but set down his spoon.
“Don’t make this again.”
“Not good?”
Fan Jing shook his head.
“With a family to feed, I’m eating too well up here in the mountains.”
Kang He understood but took the empty bowl, refilling it with more porridge and adding a piece of meaty bone.
The lean meat was nearly falling off the bone, looking tender and fragrant.
“I know you’re thinking of your family, but if you really care for them, you should focus on healing properly, not fussing over a bite or two of food,” Kang He said.
“Your family depends on you to earn money. If you’re not well, how can you keep things going?”
For the rich, healing might mean eating lightly; for the poor, it meant eating well.
A poor man’s life was already lean—skimping further was a death sentence.
“Besides, cooking for you makes me feel better.”
Fan Jing listened to his reasoning.
“You don’t need to feel guilty. My arm’s not your fault. Yesterday, whether it was you or someone else, I’d have helped all the same.”
“I don’t know how others would handle it, but I’ll do what I can to repay you.”
Fan Jing glanced at him, not saying whether he agreed, but he fell silent.
Seeing this, Kang He handed him the bowl and went back to frying the mustard pancakes.
Fan Jing held the bowl, staring at the meaty bone, lost in thought for a moment.
Soon, a palm-sized, fragrant mustard pancake was neatly placed atop the meat, snapping him out of it.
“Eat up, don’t let it cool,” Kang He said, spatula in hand.
Seeing Fan Jing hesitate, he added another pancake to the bowl.
Fan Jing moved the bowl aside and picked up his chopsticks again, eating earnestly.
With Kang He watching, he finished three bowls of porridge before stopping.
After dinner, Kang He cleared the dishes and took out the new Ascorbic acid cream to rebandage Fan Jing’s wound.
Yesterday’s medicine hadn’t been effective—the wound showedPan Jing’s arm was still in a sling, but he was out wandering the mountain.
Fan Jing didn’t reply, just urging Kang He to hurry down the mountain, warning he might not make it back before dark.
There was a small path on the mountain that led straight to the main road, avoiding the village detour.
With few forks to confuse him, Kang He followed Fan Jing’s directions and reached the county town by noon.
The weather in the county was fine, the sun a bit scorching.
Kang He didn’t rush to the clinic.
He wandered the market first, listening in whenever he heard someone speaking the official dialect, quietly mimicking their speech.
He even struck up conversations to test his skills.
After lingering, he asked for a clinic while practicing his speech, then went to get medicine.
He described the symptoms carefully to the doctor and got three doses—some for internal use, some for external.
He also bought common remedies, mostly for injuries, headaches, fevers, diarrhea, and bloating.
The old doctor, seeing Kang He’s methodical approach, asked, “Young man, are you a village herbalist?”
Kang He, using his newly practiced accent, said, “Nothing so grand, just know a thing or two.”
“Knowing a bit is good—it helps you take care of yourself,” the doctor replied.
Kang He smiled, noticing herbs hanging in the clinic, not yet stored.
The doctor seemed friendly, so he asked, “Do you buy herbs here, sir?”
“We do, but it’s a small clinic, so prices aren’t high.”
Kang He said, “You’re a kind doctor, charging fair fees for visits and medicine. Selling herbs to you would be like doing good deeds.”
The doctor chuckled at the flattery, lowering his voice.
“You’ve got a silver tongue, young man. If you’ve got herbs and don’t mind, bring them to my clinic.”
Kang He wasn’t sure he’d have herbs, but who’d turn down an opportunity?
“Sounds good,” he said.
The medicine cost sixty-five coins, further draining his meager savings.
Fan Jing had offered money, but Kang He refused—Fan Jing was injured saving him, and taking his .$@
He visited the meat market, buying pork bones and shoulder blades for twenty coins, enough to fill a basket.
He also bought three pounds of flour from a grain shop.
At a street stall, he bought two coarse flour buns and ate them with a bowl of rough tea soup from the vendor.
He spent a coin chatting with an idle laborer by the wall, learning local affairs.
Entering the mountain as the sun dipped west, the mountain wasn’t as damp as the morning. Kang He hurried back to the cabin, finding it locked from the outside.
As expected, Fan Jing was nowhere to be found.
He started cooking rice, cleaning and cracking pork bones to stew with it.
On the way back, he’d gathered wild mustard greens and spinach for a cold salad.
When Fan Jing returned, the meaty aroma hit him from outside the cabin.
He’d been wandering the mountain and saw smoke rising from their direction, signaling Kang He’s return.
“Where’d you go? I told you to rest and not wander—your hand could get hurt again,” Kang He nagged, seeing Fan Jing’s slung arm.
Fan Jing thought, Who’s foolish enough to get hurt just going out?
“Just walked nearby,” he said, pulling two green-shelled wild duck eggs from his pocket, the size of hen’s eggs.
Kang He took them, charmed by their small size.
“Wild duck eggs?”
“Yep. There’s a stream up north with wild duck nests.”
Intrigued, Kang He said, “I’ll check it out tomorrow. These eggs will be great fried with the mustard greens tonight.”
Fan Jing didn’t object to cooking the eggs.
He’d boiled wild pheasant or duck eggs in the mountains before, cooking them in their shells for easy carrying.
Kang He cracked the eggs into a bowl with one hand, the contents sliding in smoothly without shell bits.
He chopped blanched mustard greens finely, mixed them with the eggs, and beat them together.
Fan Jing lifted the pot lid by the stove, peering into the steaming, meaty porridge.
“You know how to cook?” he asked.
Kang He laughed, pausing.
“Cook? I just make simple dishes.”
Fan Jing thought Kang He was modest.
Hearing his family were cooks, it made sense he’d learned some soup-making skills.
When the porridge thickened, Kang He served a bowl with a spoon and handed it to Fan Jing.
Tempted by the aroma, Fan Jing didn’t hesitate, eating with his left hand.
The marrow from the cracked pork bones melted into the porridge, making it rich and glossy. Sprinkled with ginger to cut the meaty smell and lightly salted, it was flavorful.
Rural folk rarely ate well, so this porridge was a treat.
Fan Jing recalled his mother making such delicious flavors when she was alive.
It wasn’t that his wife, Chen, lacked skill—she was poor, raised in the village, and hadn’t tasted fine foods, so how could she cook them?
His mother, from the county town before marrying his father, had broader food and clothing experience.
She taught him the official dialect.
Seeing Fan Jing eat heartily, Kang He prepared the cold wild spinach and pushed it to him with the porridge.
He’d likely eaten a cold bun for lunch.
Fan Jing set down his spoon, picking up chopsticks.
Kang He noticed and said, “Your right hand’s out—use your left with the spoon for the greens. If you can’t scoop them, I’ll pick them up for you.”
“No need,” Fan Jing said, deftly eating greens with his chopsticks.
Kang He was surprised.
“Your left hand’s that nimble?”
“Was a lefty as a kid.”
Kang He gave a dry laugh, thinking he’d feed Fan Jing if needed.
But Fan Jing didn’t need help.
He heated the pan to make mustard green and duck egg pancakes.
Fan Jing finished a bowl of porridge, wanting more but said, “Don’t make this again.”
“Not good?” Kang He asked.
Fan Jing shook his head.
“With a family to feed, I’m eating too well up here.”
Kang He understood, taking the empty bowl and refilling it with more porridge and a meaty bone.
The lean meat was nearly falling off, tender and fragrant.
“I know you’re thinking of your family, but if you really care for them, heal properly, not fussing over a bite or two,” Kang He said.
“Your family depends on you to earn money. If you’re not well, how can you keep things going?”
For the rich, healing meant eating lightly; for the poor, it meant eating well.
A poor man’s life was already lean—skimping further was a death sentence.
“Besides, cooking for you makes me feel better.”
Fan Jing listened.
“You don’t need to feel guilty. My arm’s not your fault. Yesterday, whether it was you or someone else, I’d have helped all the same.”
“I don’t know how others would handle it, but I’ll do what I can to repay you.”
Fan Jing glanced at him, not confirming or denying, but fell silent.
Kang He handed him the bowl and went back to frying pancakes.
Fan Jing held the bowl, staring at the meaty bone, lost in thought.
A palm-sized, fragrant mustard pancake was placed atop the meat, snapping him out of it.
“Eat up, don’t let it cool,” Kang He said, spatula in hand, adding another pancake to the bowl.
Fan Jing moved the bowl aside and ate with his chopsticks.
With Kang He watching, he finished three bowls of porridge.
After dinner, Kang He cleared the dishes and rebandaged Fan Jing’s wound with Ascorbic acid cream.
Yesterday’s medicine hadn’t helped—the wound wasn’t healing, looking raw and unsettling.
“It needs stitching,” Kang He said, pulling out new needles and thread.
Fan Jing let him tend to it.
Each needle prick brought no words, but sweat beaded on his forehead when the stitching was done.
“Does it hurt?” Kang He asked.
Fan Jing didn’t answer, pulling a gourd from under the bed and drinking from it.
Kang He smelled wine.
“I’m going to sleep,” Fan Jing said, climbing into his small bed and pulling the curtain.
Kang He, sensing his mood, didn’t press further.
Looking at the quiet figure behind the curtain, he felt a strange pang in his heart.
Some people, he thought, don’t even cry out in pain.
There’s some part repeated, but overall still understandable. Thank you for the chapter!!!