Chapter 9  

At night, Shen Qingran dreamed that he took a knife for an unknown general, who repaid his kindness by gifting him thousands of acres of fertile land.  

Shen Qingran woke up in frustration.  

Yesterday, he had nearly coughed up blood over the five acres of sugarcane, and then the incident with the Dudou left him feeling awkward. He and Xue Feifeng hadn’t spoken all afternoon.  

Xue Feifeng hadn’t initiated a conversation either.  

Hugging his quilt, Shen Qingran shook his head and suddenly remembered something.  

What happened to the eggs Xue Feifeng was incubating?  

He hadn’t seen them all day yesterday—had they been eaten?  

Xue Feifeng, however, showed no guilt whatsoever. Chang Ming had taken the eggs, and given how idle his subordinates were, they might just hatch a brood of chicks in twenty-one days.  

“Yesterday morning, a peddler passed by. I saw he was selling brushes and Xuan paper, so I traded the eggs for them.”  

Xue Feifeng took out the paper Chang Ming had brought and handed it to Shen Qingran. “From now on, if you want to say something, you can write it here.”  

The paper was high-quality Hui-style treated Xuan paper, suitable for meticulous brushwork with slow ink absorption—something ordinary households couldn’t afford even a single stack of. Shen Qingran, accustomed to all kinds of specialty paper, didn’t immediately recognize its value. Still, he hesitated. “But Aunt Zhang said they were for hatching chicks…”  

You’ll have to explain it to her yourself next time she comes. I’m not taking the blame for this.  

Xue Feifeng: “It’s fine. Think about it—if you personally hatched them, raised them, and spent every day with them, they’d become attached to you. Could you bear to eat them later?”  

Of course not.  

Shen Qingran nodded in sudden understanding, looking at Xue Feifeng with admiration. He had almost wasted his effort—thankfully, there was someone sensible at home.  

With that matter settled, Xue Feifeng relaxed. “Try writing something.”  

Shen Qingran picked up the brush, forgetting the original character’s persona, and confidently wrote his own name with a hint of showing off.  

He might not know farming, but at least he could write decently—surely Xue Feifeng wouldn’t look down on him for that?  

“Did you have a tutor, Qingran?” Xue Feifeng asked casually.  

Shen Qingran’s scalp prickled. How had he forgotten this detail? Looking back at his writing, he realized that good calligraphy required arm strength and wrist flexibility—something the original owner’s frail body lacked. The strokes were weak, and the endings were flawed.  

But this mistake might actually work in his favor.  

He wrote: “When I was little, a scholar fleeing hardship came to our home. My mother gave him some food in exchange for teaching me to read.”  

Shen Qingran paused, then self-deprecatingly added: “You already know how I am—a bit lazy and fond of comfort, even as a child. My mother said that as a farm girl like me, if I couldn’t do fieldwork, no one would want to propose marriage. So she thought it better for me to learn a few characters, pretend to be a delicate young lady who never lifted a finger to do manual labor, and maybe fool some outsiders.”  

After all, his mother was thousands of miles away, and Xue Feifeng wouldn’t go verify the story.  

The “outsider” Xue Feifeng felt a phantom pain in his knee, mentally filling in the rest: The Shen family had initially looked down on Li Feng for his poverty, unable to sustain Shen Qingran’s indulgent lifestyle. But as Shen Qingran grew older and rumors spread that Li Feng had saved some money, they hastily revived the childhood betrothal, leaving no room for refusal.  

That hurdle was cleared.  

Shen Qingran wanted to cut the Xuan paper into small notebooks, stitch them together, and hang them in every room for easy access. Xue Feifeng took over the task, leaving him idle again.  

Selectively ignoring the five acres of sugarcane, Shen Qingran spent his free time watering the Green Du Sapling, teasing the geese, and alternating between scolding himself for idleness and genuinely not wanting to work in the fields.

Lazy people will get their due. Before even heaven could intervene, a familiar voice rang out from outside, causing both Shen Qingran and Xue Feifeng to freeze.

Aunt Zhang was here again!

The terror of being dominated by egg-hatching.

Aunt Zhang genuinely meant well, thinking that since Shen Qingran had just married, he should learn as much as possible before pregnancy. Compared to those who only wanted to laugh at Xue Feifeng’s misfortune, Shen Qingran was truly grateful to Aunt Zhang.

“Auntie will teach you how to make glue today. You’re free, right?”

Under Aunt Zhang’s enthusiastic gaze, Shen Qingran shook his head.

“Then let’s go. Time to start.”

…

Shen Qingran had thought it couldn’t possibly be harder than hatching eggs. The moment he saw the scene before him, he knew he was wrong.

A large pit had been dug by the well, filled with water and soaked with pigskin, cowhide, horsehide… and more. After four or five days, the hides had swollen and rotted, looking as if they would burst at the slightest touch.

The overwhelming stench of grease and rot hit him, and Shen Qingran’s face twisted in horror.

Aunt Zhang fished out the hides, grabbed a small brush, and began scrubbing off the dirt. “Any raw hide, no matter how old, can be used to make glue. With the war going on outside, carts and horses all need glue for repairs. I heard Wangjiatun specializes in making this to sell. We’re not selling, just making some for our own use. No need to rush to the market—buying now would cost a fortune.”

In the kitchen, an iron pot of boiling water simmered. Aunt Zhang’s daughter-in-law tended the fire and, seeing it was ready, came out to help. She sliced the hides into pieces and tossed them into the pot.

“Boil them for a full day and night. Once the hides are thoroughly cooked, the glue will drip down. When the last drop is thick and sticky, the glue is done,” Aunt Zhang explained as she worked. Seeing Shen Qingran’s delicate, pale fingers, she didn’t ask him to join in the labor.

But with both women squatting on the ground working, Shen Qingran couldn’t just stand by. He grabbed a slippery piece of pigskin and immediately regretted it—he wanted to discard his hands altogether.

Suppressing the churning in his stomach, Shen Qingran steadied himself and helped Aunt Zhang slice the hides before tossing them into the boiling water.

Aunt Zhang said, “Once it’s cooked, we’ll spread straw on the filter rack. After straining, it’ll congeal into jelly, then we’ll slice it thin and dry it. Come by tomorrow if you’re free—Auntie will give you some when it’s done.”

Shen Qingran smiled in gratitude.

He didn’t return home until nearly noon. The moment he was alone, he leaned against a sparsely leafed willow tree and vomited until he was gasping for breath.

Luckily, his stomach was empty, so nothing came up. Disgusted by the lingering stench on his hands, Shen Qingran plucked two leaves to wipe his mouth. Leaning against the willow, he rested, feeling deeply resentful.

Why did female protagonists get to be “Tofu Beauties,” while he had to battle pigskins?

Was there gender discrimination in farming novels?

After composing himself, he walked home as if nothing had happened.

Meanwhile, on a nearby hillside, two villagers tilling the land watched Shen Qingran’s state and exchanged glances, recalling Cai Shi’s words. They silently agreed on what the other was thinking.

“Looks like Fengzi really got cuckolded.”

“Poor guy. Shen Qingran’s pretending nothing’s wrong—probably doesn’t want Fengzi to find out.”

“How long can he hide it? Sooner or later, everyone will see. A woman like that deserves to be drowned in a pig cage. If my wife dared pull such a stunt, I’d break her legs.”

“Easy for you to say. Who was it that got chased around the village by his wife with a hoe last month?”

The two chatted and laughed as they worked. The toil of farming passed quickly with some amusement, regardless of who might overhear their words or how they might be twisted.

…

The moment Shen Qingran stepped through the door, his pout was so pronounced it could have hung a small oil bottle. He had clearly seen Xue Feifeng frown!

How dare he frown!

Did he think he smelled bad?

Without waiting for an explanation, Shen Qingran threw himself at Xue Feifeng, rubbing against him vigorously until half the grease on his body had transferred to the other man.

He felt utterly wronged today!

Xue Feifeng was baffled. He swore his frown hadn’t been because of Shen Qingran’s scent.

“Then why did you frown?” Shen Qingran glared, forgoing pen and paper entirely to stubbornly scribble his words directly onto Xue Feifeng’s palm while perched by his knees.

“I saw you were upset and worried someone had bullied you.” Xue Feifeng met Shen Qingran’s gaze, his tone sincere and flawless.

Shen Qingran lowered his head. Had he been that obvious?

It really wasn’t that bad.

He wasn’t incapable of enduring hardship—he just didn’t want to, plain and simple. But compared to the suffering Xue Feifeng had endured in battle, his complaints were trivial.

After venting his frustrations on Xue Feifeng, Shen Qingran’s gloom gradually lifted. Sitting at Xue Feifeng’s feet, he perked up with a hint of pride. “Aunt Zhang said she’d give us some resin. We can use it to patch up the damaged parts of this wheelchair.”

He tapped the wheelchair, then trailed his fingers down to feel Xue Feifeng’s shin, suddenly concerned. “I didn’t aggravate your injury, did I?”

Strange, why did it feel perfectly fine?

Maybe the tendons were severed.

Shen Qingran’s excuse was flimsy at best—he never once doubted that Xue Feifeng’s lameness might be feigned.

Just as Xue Feifeng never suspected he wasn’t truly mute.

“It’s fine. The external wounds have healed completely.” Xue Feifeng’s words were half-truths. While his surface injuries had indeed healed, allowing him to run and move freely, lingering effects remained—aches during rainy weather, soreness after prolonged exertion, and an inability to return to the battlefield. The Miracle Doctor had instructed him to leave the mountains every half-month for treatments: herbal fumigation, acupuncture to stimulate blood flow, and the like.

“I’ll need to leave the mountains in a few days.” It wasn’t just for his leg. According to Chang Bai’s letter, a band of marauders had appeared in the south, taking advantage of the imperial army’s preoccupation with the frontlines to harass villages. They were dangerously close to Li Family Village. If left unchecked, the chaos would inevitably spread here.

Shen Qingran was a sheltered, delicate soul. If possible, Xue Feifeng wished to shield this remote mountain village like a Peach Blossom Spring, untouched by the turmoil of the outside world, where they could live carefree.

Shen Qingran’s eyes widened in alarm. He knew exactly how long that mountain path was—for Xue Feifeng, with his injured legs, the journey in and out would be agony.

Xue Feifeng stuck to his usual excuse of trading herbs. Shen Qingran’s expression darkened with worry and guilt. “If you’re worried about money, I can skip a meal.”

Xue Feifeng chuckled, finding this side of Shen Qingran utterly endearing. He fought the urge to pinch those cheeks.

I could farm if I had to, Shen Qingran grumbled inwardly.

If forced to choose between tending the fields himself and letting Xue Feifeng, with his lame legs, trek through the mountains, Shen Qingran would reluctantly opt for farming.

Xue Feifeng relented. “It’s not just about money. I also need medicine for my leg.”

Shen Qingran: “I’ll go with you.”

“No.” Xue Feifeng immediately refused. If Shen Qingran came along, many things would become impossible. He tactfully made an excuse, “I just bought five acres of sugarcane, and it’s about to mature soon. If neither of us is home, wouldn’t it all get stolen?”

Shen Qingran stomped his foot in frustration, torn between the sugarcane fields bought with Xue Feifeng’s hard-earned money and the questionable morals of people like Cai Shi on one side, and Xue Feifeng setting off alone on the other. After some thought, he could only glare fiercely at Xue Feifeng.

Why did you have to buy sugarcane fields in the first place?!  

Did a donkey kick your brain or something?!  

Fuming, Shen Qingran went to take a bath, leaving Xue Feifeng standing there, still reeking of the earlier task. Those eyes, which had been hardened by years of unyielding battlefield ferocity, slowly softened with a glimmer of amusement.  

If he’s this worried about being teased for smelling bad after handling pigskin, what would he do if he knew how much blood these hands had spilled—blood that even the endless yellow sands couldn’t wash away? Would he still dare to cling so close?  

Xue Feifeng’s faint smile faded as he tightened his grip on the wheelchair’s armrests.  

No. Shen Qingran would never find out.  

…  

That night, Chang Bai arrived posthaste with a large bag of pastries. He and Chang Ming took turns maintaining contact with Xue Feifeng.  

Over the next two days, these treats—steamed warm—appeared on Shen Qingran’s table, offering a lavish spread of sweet, sour, salty, and mild flavors. He could even hear himself swallowing in anticipation.  

Now this was real food.  

Tears welling up in his eyes, Shen Qingran didn’t bother asking where they came from. Since Xue Feifeng had provided them, he’d eat his fill first and ask questions later.  

Xue Feifeng watched as Shen Qingran devoured seven or eight glutinous rice balls stuffed with salted egg yolk or diced meat, handed him a cup of water, and then watched helplessly as Shen Qingran proceeded to eat five or six more sweet treats—Hibiscus Crisps, Date Flower Rolls, Osmanthus Cakes…  

Sweet and savory foods must occupy separate stomachs.  

“Slow down.”  

Embarrassed, Shen Qingran put down the half-eaten Lotus Leaf Rice Cake and let out a delicate burp. The original owner’s gluttonous habits had stretched his stomach, and after days of starvation, he deserved some understanding.  

Seeing Shen Qingran pick up a brush, Xue Feifeng knew what he wanted to ask. “I had someone bring these from outside. I’ll be leaving in a few days, and I didn’t want you to go hungry.”  

So you’re stuffing me full before you leave?  

Shen Qingran blinked: Don’t waste money next time.  

But with his hands still clutching the pastries, the words held no persuasive power whatsoever.  

Thinking of money, Shen Qingran frowned. Xue Feifeng had no income now—was it because he ate too much that Xue Feifeng felt compelled to go out and earn money?  

Shen Qingran gazed sorrowfully at Xue Feifeng. If only they were in modern times—I’d take care of you.  

Xue Feifeng struggled to explain, “Actually, I still have some money left.”  

Shen Qingran sniffled: Don’t lie to me. You’re broke.  

“No—”  

“You traded both legs for twenty taels, and all of it went into sugarcane fields. What money do you have left? I’ll eat less from now on.”  

Pouting, Shen Qingran glared at Xue Feifeng with reddened eyes, like an enraged rabbit on the verge of tears if Xue Feifeng dared insist otherwise.  

Xue Feifeng rubbed his temples. “Fine, fine. I’m broke.” That big-mouthed village chief—why hadn’t he just said a hundred taels back then?  

Shen Qingran handed Xue Feifeng the half-eaten pastry in his hand. You eat too.  

Xue Feifeng froze for a moment before accepting it. He took a bite, barely tasting it, lost in thought.  

…

When Xue Feifeng left, he stocked up a large amount of food for Shen Qingran, terrified of repeating the previous tragedy—when everything had been devoured by the eighth day.  

Seeing Xue Feifeng about to buy more rice and flour from Aunt Zhang, Shen Qingran flushed with embarrassment and tugged him back.  

I’m not a bottomless pit!  

This much food could last one person two months.  

Shen Qingran escorted Xue Feifeng to the mountain path, watching his limping figure with reddened eyes.  

It’s all my fault for being so useless.  

Xue Feifeng stopped, dismissing Shen Qingran’s idea of seeing him off further. Chang Ming was waiting outside with the horse, and the longer Shen Qingran accompanied him, the longer he’d have to keep up the limp.  

“Turn around and go back,” Xue Feifeng ordered. He’d noticed Shen Qingran responded well to commands—if not for his laziness, Xue Feifeng might’ve suspected he’d once been a soldier under him.  

Shen Qingran obediently turned on his heel, but after two steps, Xue Feifeng called out to him again.  

Does he want me to walk with him after all?  

Shen Qingran’s heart leapt with hope.  

“Do you have enough food at home? Should we buy more? You can put it on credit with Aunt Zhang—I’ll pay her back when I return.” Xue Feifeng’s concern was utterly genuine.  

Shen Qingran: “…”  

Please just leave already. Thanks.