Chapter 65
Xiaofeng’s stepfather, Liu Gouzi, was strict and never allowed him to play, always making him do a lot of work.
Zhao Ger had run into him a few times while gathering firewood in the mountains, and after a few encounters, they became familiar.
Xiaofeng worked hard—he could do the labor of two grown men—but Liu Gouzi wasn’t just strict, he was harsh. He only let him work, never play, and barely gave him enough to eat.
The wild fruits outside the mountains had already been scavenged clean by the village children, so when he couldn’t find food, he ventured deep into the mountains.
The untouched depths of the mountains were dangerous. Not even adults ventured there, let alone children. But when a person became desperate enough from hunger, they dared anything - even gambled with their life.
There were plenty of edible things in the deep mountains. He picked wild fruits and often shared some with Zhao Ger and Guaizai.
Guaizai was also close to him. Once, he even ran to Xiaofeng’s house to ask him to play, but Liu Gouzi caught them and chased him off with a broom a few times. After that, Guaizai didn’t dare go again.
Xiaofeng was always busy, dressed in rags, and not originally from the village. Afraid of being disliked, he rarely walked around the village. Though he was close to Zhao Ger, after Zhao Ger married Fang Zichen, they hadn’t seen each other again. He wouldn’t take the initiative to visit either.
Xiaofeng hung his head and said softly, “Uncle Fang g-gave me an egg today.”
Since he’d eaten their egg, he felt he should show some gratitude. He wasn’t the type to forget kindness.
He didn’t dare take vegetables from home without permission, and he had nothing of value himself. After thinking it over, he decided to go chop a bundle of firewood in the mountains.
For farming families, firewood was indispensable.
Hearing the reason, Zhao Ger smiled. “Did you see your Uncle Fang this morning?”
“Mhm!”
“I’m grinding flour right now. Can you help me for a bit?” Zhao Ger asked.
Firewood wasn’t worth much in the village—the mountains were full of it. A single bundle couldn’t compare to an egg, so Xiaofeng was eager to help. Otherwise, he’d feel too guilty.
He was still young, his arms little more than skin and bones, and couldn’t push the millstone. Zhao Ger wasn’t like his stepfather, so he just had him help pour the flour in.
Once the cornmeal was ground and the rice in the pot was steamed, Zhao Ger scooped out a large bowl, wrapped it in vegetable leaves, and handed it to Xiaofeng. Xiaofeng refused adamantly, trying to run away, but Zhao Ger grabbed him. “I’ll have more work for you later. If you don’t take this, I won’t dare ask you again.”
Xiaofeng hesitated for a long moment before finally accepting it. “Th-thank you, Uncle Zhao.”
“Mhm. Next time you come, I’ll make steamed buns for you.”
Outside the fence was a small patch of unused land, overgrown with weeds. Zhao Ger went back inside, grabbed a hoe, and started digging.
The soil was poor—not suitable for corn or peanuts—but it could grow mustard greens.
Mustard greens were hardy. Just scatter some seeds, and they’d grow with little care. They were bitter, so villagers rarely ate them fresh, but they were perfect for pickling.
Fang Zichen liked sour and spicy flavors, so Zhao Ger planted some. In two months, they could be pickled and saved for winter.
As evening approached, Fang Zichen returned with Guaizai in his arms.
Carrying things while holding a child was inconvenient, so Fang Zichen simply let Guaizai sit on his shoulders. He must have still had a childlike spirit himself because he played with Guaizai the whole way back.
He pretended to be a motorcycle, with Guaizai as the rider, tugging his ears. When Guaizai leaned left, Fang Zichen veered left, making engine noises as he zigzagged instead of going straight. By the time they reached the village entrance, he was drenched in sweat.
Fang Zichen ran fast, and Guaizai found it thrilling, giggling nonstop—until his joy turned to misfortune.
The moment Fang Zichen stepped through the courtyard gate, there was a loud thud from above
Guaizai’s forehead had smacked into the doorframe. The sound was so loud Zhao Ger heard it from where he was digging and looked over.
Fang Zichen quickly lifted Guaizai down. His forehead was bright red—clearly a hard hit.
Under Zhao Ger’s unreadable gaze, Fang Zichen felt more guilty than concerned. “You okay, kiddo?”
Guaizai was dizzy from the impact, in so much pain he wanted to cry. But he thought of himself as a brave little man—brave men didn’t fear pain.
Rubbing his forehead, he looked up and said, “Father blow blow, then no hurt.”
Fang Zichen blew on it, and Guaizai rubbed it again as if some divine medicine had taken effect. Completely fine now, he ran to Zhao Ger with a smile. “Daddy, Guaizai help you work!”
The turned soil was full of roots. If they weren’t picked out, the weeds would grow back in a few days. Guaizai was good at this task. Whenever he found a worm, he’d pull it out to feed the chickens.
The chicks were still too small to eat them, but the hens could.
Fang Zichen carried the meat into the kitchen. Zhao Ger had already washed the pot after steaming the rice, so all he needed to do was add water and toss in the pork bones.
Bone broth took a long time to simmer—only then would the marrow release its richness.
These days, there was no feed. Villagers mostly fed their pigs weeds, so the pigs grew slowly, taking over a year to reach slaughter weight. As a result, the bones were extremely hard. Fang Zichen struck them with the back of the knife two or three times but couldn’t break them.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The noise in the kitchen was louder than a demolition crew. Zhao Ger dropped the hoe and rushed over to see Fang Zichen glaring at a cracked cutting board.
Fang Zichen turned and said, “Zhao Ger, where’d you buy this cutting board? It’s terrible.”
Zhao Ger: “……”
The board was as thick as a finger and made of good wood. Terrible?
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