Chapter 7  

After calming Xue Feifeng, Shen Qingran went to the kitchen to cook. By now, he had become quite skilled at lighting the fire. Puffing out his cheeks, he blew gently, and the tinder crackled to life. He rubbed his face—his improper fire-starting technique from the past few days had left his cheeks sore from all the blowing.  

He poured water into the pot and added rice and eggs together. Once the rice had softened, he scooped it out and placed it in a bamboo steamer lined with silk cloth to steam. To avoid burning the vegetables, Shen Qingran simply piled the freshly harvested radishes and radish leaves next to the rice to steam, planning to dip them in sauce later as a side.  

It was a crude method, almost like preparing pig feed, but Shen Qingran thought himself clever. Carefully, he peeled the eggs—three in total, two for Xue Feifeng and one for himself. He still struggled with controlling the heat, and initially, he hadn’t wanted to steam dry rice. But after observing for a couple of days, he noticed that Xue Feifeng often didn’t feel full after eating porridge.  

Though Xue Feifeng never complained, from then on, Shen Qingran made sure to steam dry rice whenever possible.  

Of course, to save effort, he still cooked enough for two meals at once. As he peeled the eggs, Shen Qingran worried—what would they do when summer came and the food spoiled more easily?  

While waiting for the food to cook, Shen Qingran went to check on the white goose. It seemed to know that Shen Qingran had spared its life, as it flapped its wings at him in a friendly manner.  

Leaving the stove, Shen Qingran rubbed his cold hands—how exactly did one make a down jacket again?  

He also took a glance at Xue Feifeng’s Green Du Sapling. It looked wilted, its leaves dull, and he couldn’t tell if it was still alive.  

Shen Qingran sprinkled some wood ash over the sapling and added half a pound of wheat bran to the chicken coop.  

There were quite a few things to worry about. The lazy Shen Qingran rubbed his waist—thankfully, the Li Family didn’t farm.  

…  

At dinner, Xue Feifeng picked up a radish leaf from the plate—it was as long as his forearm from end to end. Lifting it required raising his arm high. Shen Qingran hadn’t bothered to cut it.  

On the table was a bowl of sauce Shen Qingran had thoughtfully prepared—minced garlic mixed with aged vinegar, sugar, and soy sauce. The proportions weren’t perfect, though, making it a bit too sour.  

The large bowl of sauce betrayed the cook’s intention to save effort for future meals.  

Xue Feifeng calmly dipped the overcooked radish leaf into the sauce, his expression as if he were savoring a royal chef’s meticulously prepared roasted lamb at a palace banquet. In reality, this was the worst stage of his culinary life.  

Shen Qingran picked at his rice, eating as little as a newborn kitten. He was picky—even more so than the original owner of this body—and everything he ate seemed to earn a look of disdain.  

Xue Feifeng couldn’t stand it. Shen Qingran had been eating very little these past few days, his chin growing sharper. The image of him gorging on greasy food was already fading, as if it had happened in another lifetime—even though it had only been a little over ten days.  

“Can’t eat the vegetables? Want meat instead?” Xue Feifeng considered hunting some game in the mountains that night.  

Shen Qingran shook his head. It wasn’t about the lack of meat—there was still a goose in the coop—it was the cook’s fault.  

His cooking was just too awful! Shen Qingran hadn’t experienced any of the so-called pure, pesticide-free, heaven-and-earth-nourished, divinely flavorful organic vegetables the novels raved about—the kind that supposedly surpassed beef and lamb without any seasoning. All he could think was: “This tastes terrible.”  

He wondered if the female lead in those stories was eating the “soul” of the vegetables, while he, being more mundane, was stuck with the actual food.  

Glancing at Xue Feifeng, who seemed to enjoy everything, Shen Qingran was tempted to ask—are you eating the soul too?  

In this cruel world, only the rice tasted familiar.  

…

Xue Feifeng noticed Shen Qingran frequently holding his waist, likely due to an injury there. Recalling the sword scabbard incident earlier that day, he felt deeply remorseful for forgetting to ask whether it had actually struck Shen Qingran.

He fetched two bottles of Medicated Wine from the cabinet and gestured for Shen Qingran to lie face down on the bed.

Shen Qingran refused outright.

There was no way he would expose even a corner of his clothing in front of Xue Feifeng—if his true gender were discovered, he might not even get plain rice to eat.

“Lie down.” Xue Feifeng unconsciously used his military command tone. Seeing Shen Qingran’s startled expression, he softened his voice. “Let me massage it, or it’ll still hurt tomorrow.”

Shen Qingran’s maternal relatives were merchants, while his father and brothers served in the military. Pampered like his mother, both mother and son were delicate and carefree yet completely powerless against the military discipline of their male relatives—the kind who would surrender at the first word.

Lying on Xue Feifeng’s bed, Shen Qingran marveled at the power of genetics.

Hah, even in another world, he was still this obedient.

Grudgingly, he made Xue Feifeng turn around before removing his outer robe, leaving only his inner garments. He lay prone on the quilt, struggling to drape the outer robe over his lower half.

A flat chest could be explained, but his little “chick” had to stay hidden.

Seated in his wheelchair by the bed, Xue Feifeng gently lifted the hem of Shen Qingran’s inner shirt. His breath hitched.

The skin of Shen Qingran’s back, usually hidden beneath layers of fabric, was like smooth jade—milky white with a dark bruise on the left side that looked particularly alarming. The wheelchair had flipped and struck his waist earlier, leaving Shen Qingran in too much pain to even cry out as he pondered the physics of momentum transfer. It was clear just how much force Xue Feifeng had used when throwing that scabbard.

A rough palm, warmed by the Medicated Wine, pressed against his waist. After the initial sting, the kneading motion sent tingling waves of comfort through him, so pleasurable that Shen Qingran had to bite his finger to stifle a moan.

“I’m sorry.” The softer the skin beneath his hand felt, the guiltier Xue Feifeng became.

Shen Qingran turned his head and smiled at Xue Feifeng, signaling it was fine. After all, he’d poisoned Xue Feifeng with his cooking first—they were even, and neither should blame the other.

But Xue Feifeng mistook it for a forced smile, deepening his remorse.

If Shen Qingran could speak, he’d surely cry out in pain.

Yet he couldn’t even voice his suffering.

For the first time, Xue Feifeng felt a pang of heartache for someone else. His tone carried a rare tenderness. “Don’t bite your finger. If it hurts, bite me instead.”

Xue Feifeng abruptly pulled Shen Qingran’s finger from his mouth, leaving him gaping and nearly moaning aloud.

I’m not in pain—it just feels too good.

“Sleep here tonight.” Xue Feifeng brought Shen Qingran’s quilt to the bed. “The weather’s turning cold. An extra layer will help.”

“What about you?” Shen Qingran wrote.

“Martial artists don’t need such comforts.”

Shen Qingran pointed out mercilessly, “But you still have to incubate the eggs at night, so…”

Xue Feifeng’s pitying gaze vanished instantly. “Right.”

Shen Qingran didn’t understand the aggrieved look—wasn’t this task perfectly suited to Xue Feifeng? Light and easy.

“Don’t crush them.”

Like a penguin mother leaving her nest, Shen Qingran instructed Xue Feifeng to watch over their “child” at home. Then he burrowed into the quilt, rolling around to warm the bed before declaring it ready.

There weren’t many people in the world as considerate as him, warming the bed for his big brother, Shen Qingran mused.

Xue Feifeng remained unmoved, his expression indescribable.

…

After Shen Qingran fell asleep on the floor, Xue Feifeng quietly got up and added another blanket over him. He cast a disdainful glance at the nest of eggs on the bed.

If Shen Qingran could lay eggs, he might reluctantly consider incubating them.

“…” Xue Feifeng frowned. What on earth had he just been thinking?

A faint noise came from the roof, and the window cracked open slightly. Xue Feifeng swiftly slipped out.

Chang Bai, having received his master’s order for “paper,” had urgently sent Chang Ming to deliver it.

The finest Xuan paper, smooth and white as snow, was presented along with a chest of brushes, ink, paper, and inkstones for Xue Feifeng’s inspection.

Chang Ming was excited. Did this mean their master was about to reconnect with his old allies and embark on a grand endeavor?

First, they’d drag that damned crown prince off his high horse!

Xue Feifeng took the paper and brush, thinking of their intended use. He clenched his fist, his tone peculiar: “You two have too much free time lately?” Reporting here daily like clockwork.

Not that they had nothing better to do… Chang Ming fawned: “No task of yours is trivial, master! I came posthaste day and night.”

Rubbing his hands eagerly, Chang Ming silently urged—write the letter, let’s take down that bastard crown prince!

“You may leave now.” Xue Feifeng waved him off.

“Ah?” Chang Ming scratched his head. “Does master have no other important matters to command?”

Prompted by this, Xue Feifeng turned back inside and returned with a pouch of eggs. “Incubate these. You may leave at dawn.”

Chang Ming: “???” Master, if you want chicks I can buy them for you—what’s this about?!

“These likely won’t hatch… When I was young, the village idiot next door tried this too. Everyone said it wouldn’t work.”

The current village idiot Xue Feifeng’s expression stiffened slightly: “Truly impossible?”

“Impossible. Those eggs all went rotten eventually.” Chang Ming carefully cradled the eggs, suddenly realizing his master’s unusual concern for them.

Could there be little masters inside?!

Chang Ming’s imagination ran wild. The storybooks spoke of mountain spirits—female demons who could bear fairy children with mortal men!

No, no—their master was no ordinary mortal. More likely, some spirit had been blessed by his essence to produce a clutch of dragon eggs!

Their master, advanced in years yet untouched by worldly desires—surely heaven had arranged this special providence.

Nodding solemnly, Chang Ming’s eyes welled with tears. It all made sense now! Soon there’d be a dozen round little bundles calling him uncle!

Hearing this, Xue Feifeng visibly relaxed, then found himself amused. Shen Qingran’s whimsical ideas—why had he taken them seriously?

“Take them as a reward.” Xue Feifeng couldn’t bear to look at them anymore.

“Ah!” So not little masters after all!

Chang Ming’s startled exclamation earned him a warning glare—don’t wake Shen Qingran.

Remembering how Shen Qingran had struggled to eat, Xue Feifeng added: “Gather some delicacies from the capital—whatever young noblewomen favor… Send some non-perishable pastries tomorrow, soft and finely made…”

“As you command.” Chang Ming recalled the glimpse he’d caught when the door opened earlier.

He’d been furious—how dare this brazen woman steal his master’s blankets! But seeing his master’s reaction now… Just as he’d thought—it must be the mistress!