Chapter 54: Money Can Be Earned Again, But a Husband Is One of a Kind

Old Man Qian’s words hung in the air as he met Wei Zhao’s unblinking stare.

The frail man’s lips twitched faintly before he turned away with deliberate indifference.

Had they not been standing apart, had the old man not deliberately lowered his voice, he might have sworn Wei Zhao heard every word.

After the New Year, they’d need to travel to the county clinic—who knew if the roads would be safe? In these chaotic times, even poison could serve as protection.

Yu Tingwan accepted it without hesitation.

“That wild ginseng restores vital energy—it’s what saved my husband’s life before. Do you have any left?”

Old Man Qian eyed her skeptically. “You got silver?”

The Yu Tingwan of old would have bowed her head in silence.

But not today. The young woman squared her shoulders. “I do.”

Hui Niang’s betrothal gift—a full tael—burned in her pocket.

She’d watched Wei Zhao’s condition deteriorate daily. Even if Old Man Qian prescribed something, she feared the cure might be worse than the illness.

She couldn’t lose him.

Money could be earned again, but a husband was irreplaceable.

In matters of life and death, Yu Tingwan knew where to draw the line.

Old Man Qian waved a gnarled hand. “Silver won’t conjure miracles.”

“Only ever had one root of mountain ginseng—dug it up years back near Thunderclap Ridge.”

“Half went into your man. The other half stopped Silly young lady’s bleeding.”

When the young lady had nearly bled out birthing twins, he gave it to her.

Yu Tingwan’s fingers tightened. “Then what other tonics do you have? With the mountain pass still blocked—”

“Don’t waste your breath.” The doctor snorted. “I’m the only medicine man for ten villages. If I don’t have it, no one does.”

Yet he offered a thread of hope: “When I took that ginseng, there was a younger root beside it. Left it to grow.”

“That sprout could mean life or death now.”

“Your man’s pulse flutters like a dying candle—weak, erratic, drowning in ailments. Every day that pass stays closed is another nail in his coffin. Want to save him? Hunt that ginseng. If not…” A meaningful pause. “Start measuring him for burial clothes.”

Yu Tingwan’s breath hitched. “Where exactly? The deep mountains?”

“Foothills, southeast slope. Deep woods have more herbs—and more ways to die. Only fools and hunters venture there.”

He turned to leave. “Mark my words—I’ve searched five times and found nothing. After all these years? Might be dust by now.”

As he shuffled away, Yu Tingwan pressed a basket of golden persimmons into his hands. He left a pouch of wound powder in return.

Long after his footsteps faded, she stood frozen in the courtyard.

The winter sun offered no warmth.

*

Wei Zhao had heard everything.

A persimmon rolled between his pale fingers.

Life.. Death.. Neither meant freedom.

The outcome mattered little to him.

Yet someone cared..

*

The kitchen’s rhythmic pounding ceased as Yu Tingwan shared the news.

“Father, Mother—should we search the mountains?”

Hui Niang’s hands flew to her mouth, eyes glistening.

Wei Shouzhong wiped sweat from his brow. “Old Qian’s right. Waiting for the pass to open is gambling with death.”

His decision came swift as an axe fall. “Wife, pack provisions.”

Finding the ginseng was uncertain. Not trying was unconscionable.

His gaze shifted to Yu Tingwan. “You’ll stay.”

“That root could be anywhere. Better to search the deep woods where herbs thrive.” His calloused hands flexed. “No place for a woman.”

Restlessness drove him to action. Though exhausted from pounding glutinous rice, he reached for his axe.

“I’ll speak with Hunter Peng.”

“The Peng family?” Yu Tingwan’s eyes widened.

Hui Niang intercepted her husband with surprising calm. “Wait. Bring gifts first.”

Years of marriage had taught her this dance—when to push, when to yield. She shaped the sticky rice into cakes, her movements precise.

Yu Tingwan worked beside her, grinding peanuts into paste with brown sugar. “Will Hunter Peng agree?”

An old story unfolded between sizzling cakes:

“Eight years back, his wife ran off with a peddler, abandoning their suckling babe. Your father found the child blue from hunger…”

Half a month they’d sheltered the infant, sharing their meager meals. A debt unpaid.

Hui Niang’s hands stilled. “This feels like trading favors.”

*

Eight golden cakes emerged—crisp shells giving way to sweet filling.

Two for the young couple. Four for the hunter. Two saved for New Year’s.

Still unsatisfied, Hui Niang added pickled beans to the offering.

Yu Tingwan divided her share carefully before seeking Wei Zhao.

“Husband.”

He sat motionless, fingers pressed to his wrist—a doctor’s gesture performed with unsettling accuracy.

She nudged his boot with her toe. “What weighs on your mind?” Wei Zhao didn’t look up. “Counting my remaining days.”