Chapter 5 – Cooking Porridge for Nourishment and the Familiar Comfort of Warm Food

Looking at the large empty space she had cleared inside the spatial dimension, Song Yeqing sighed regretfully.

That space was specifically reserved for her G-Class Mercedes. After all, it had been sitting at the foot of the mountain for three months, exposed to the elements—sun, wind, and rain—and had gotten noticeably worn. She planned to store it in her space.

It was her very first car. She had died too suddenly back then and had left it behind.

But regret was all she could feel—nothing more. Driving a car in this place would probably get her treated like a monster. Not to mention, the road conditions here would make her too reluctant to drive it anyway.

Don’t ask her how she could afford a G-Class.

The Song family had always been a clan of celestial masters, with a lineage that could be traced back over eight hundred years.

Although the war a century ago had cost the clan quite a bit—both in money and lives—they had contributed heavily to the national effort.

Even without war, ghost hunting was a perilous job. By the time the lineage reached Song Yeqing’s generation, the Song family had dwindled to just over thirty people.

Still, the heritage of an old aristocratic family couldn’t be underestimated.

The Song family may not have had the most money, but when it came to priceless antiques and rare books, they had them in abundance. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that the old Song residence could be considered a museum.

Moreover, she had her father’s inheritance. She herself had started earning money by exorcising ghosts under her uncle’s guidance at the age of sixteen.

For a truly capable celestial master, making money came naturally. And she had inherited her father’s talent. By adulthood, she could take on clients on her own.

However, that was all in the past. Song Yeqing had already confirmed that she could no longer cultivate. The once-renowned young celestial master was now only a memory.

But martial arts still had to be picked up again. In this era full of dangers, one couldn’t afford to be powerless.

Song Yeqing got up to prepare breakfast. But as she rose, her vision went black and she had to steady herself by holding onto the side of the bed.

Clearly, her body needed proper nourishment. If she didn’t take care of herself, she’d break down entirely.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had been this weak. Her body had been nurtured from a young age with herbal baths—she hadn’t even had a common cold before.

Even though she couldn’t cultivate anymore, the knowledge remained. She knew some medical practices and could identify herbs. Getting her health back would just take time.

And those two children—she swore to make them healthy and strong as little bulls.

“Mother, what’s wrong?!”

A small body reached out to her, voice trembling with tears.

Even though she had mentally prepared herself, that one word—“mother”—still became an unbearable weight on Song Yeqing’s heart.

She opened her eyes to look at the elder son of the original Lady Song, named He Chengze.

The child in front of her wore beige cotton sleepwear, his teary eyes filled with worry as he tried to help her up. He was thin, but not alarmingly so, which only made his eyes appear even larger.

The younger one had also woken up—his name was Song Chengsi.

His clothes were made from the same fabric as his older brother’s. He looked a bit chubbier than his brother, but compared to modern children, he was still too thin.

Both boys had inherited their parents’ good looks, appearing delicate and adorable.

Since there had been no news from Song’s second brother, Lady Song and He Yanxin had agreed that the second child would take her surname. He Yanxin had consented.

He Yanxin had studied for a few years, and the names he gave weren’t bad at all.

“I’m fine… don’t be scared.”

Song Yeqing awkwardly patted the elder child’s head and tried to comfort the little one using the gestures she had learned from Lady Song’s memory.

“Can you play with your brother on the bed? … I’ll go make breakfast.” She still wasn’t psychologically ready to refer to herself as their mother.

“Okay, okay.” He Chengze nodded and moved to his brother’s side on the bed, sitting there obediently.

Although Song Yeqing knew from memory that both children were well-behaved—especially the older one, who had once been quite mischievous but now took excellent care of his brother—she still felt uneasy. How could two kids, one barely over three and the other just past one year, be left alone in a room?

But she had no choice. To cook, she had to retrieve things from her space. Children speak without thinking, and she didn’t dare to take things out in front of the older boy.

As long as she retrieved things where he couldn’t see, she could fool a three-year-old.

She walked out of the room into the main hall, which was used to receive guests.

In the center was a table with chairs. A set of ceramic teapot and cups sat on the table. A stove stood in one corner, and various utensils hung on the side wall.

Above the room was a shrine, with memorial tablets of deceased members of the He family. On the side were also tablets for Lady Song’s parents, her brother, and sister-in-law.

Strictly speaking, placing Song family tablets here wasn’t proper etiquette, but since Lady Song and her husband were essentially orphans, no one was too concerned with formalities.

Song Yeqing took out blankets and pillows from her space and set them around the bed in the bedroom to serve as a barrier.

The dark grey covers wouldn’t seem out of place in this era. As long as she put them away before He Yanxin returned, there’d be no problem.

“Watch your brother and don’t let him get down.”

“Okay, okay, okay.” He Chengze snuggled into the blankets and held onto his brother, nodding vigorously.

The younger one mimicked his brother and nodded too.

Only then did Song Yeqing feel at ease and went out to cook.

Having been weak for so long, she knew her stomach couldn’t handle oily food. She decided to make a vegetable and lean pork porridge—not too thick—and steam an egg.

The kitchen was very clean, not just in appearance but also in the sense that there was barely anything in it.

The cupboards held only coarse grains: buckwheat, millet, barley—all mixed together. For an average family, this was barely enough for half a month.

The salt jar was two-thirds full. There was half a jar of pickled vegetables. The other jars were mostly empty. A single egg sat in a bowl.

On the upper shelf of the cupboard was a small bunch of wild vegetables—an old batch that Lady Song had gathered yesterday while carrying the younger child and holding the elder’s hand.

Wild vegetables in October were notoriously difficult to chew.

After taking inventory, Song Yeqing quickly retrieved rice, meat, eggs, and greens from her space.

She also brought out kitchen utensils, including an electric slow cooker for the porridge and a steamer. Starting a fire would take too long, and her stomach already hurt from hunger.

Finally, she took out a solar-powered generator. The backup generator had a low-noise mode, but it was still louder than this one.

Although the He household was on the edge of the village and the kitchen had no nearby neighbors, it was best not to risk it. Besides, diesel and gasoline weren’t easy to come by here. Better to conserve them.

There was a well outside the kitchen window, but the water level was low. Song Yeqing struggled to draw water for washing rice and vegetables.

She nearly forgot about the drought. The used water couldn’t be discarded. She stopped herself just in time and poured it into a wooden bucket for washing clothes, watering vegetables, or feeding the chicken.

Qizhou was located in the Central Plains, and by October, it was already getting cold. The last batch of vegetables and scallions in the yard had only sprouted a few tiny leaves—not even guaranteed to grow fully.

She started the porridge first, then chopped meat, ginger, and greens, beat the egg, and finally had time to observe the courtyard carefully.

She tossed the wild greens and some coarse grains into the chicken coop. The lone hen inside was pitifully thin.

People could barely eat—how could a chicken get anything more than weeds?

She didn’t dare let it roam for bugs either. In current conditions, it would be snatched away immediately. Lady Song tried to catch bugs each afternoon during her trips to the wild fields to feed it.

The chicken was being kept solely to make egg drop soup to nourish the two children. But it now laid an egg every four or five days, instead of daily. Who knew when it might stop entirely?

She slowly walked around the courtyard, reinforcing her memory.

Since He Yanxin occasionally left for a day or two, the courtyard wall had been built high to ensure safety. From outside, one couldn’t see in.

It was the only possible security measure. Normally, with the neighboring Wu family keeping an eye out, there was nothing to worry about, so He Yanxin could leave with peace of mind.

But now, the situation outside was worsening, and even the tall courtyard wall couldn’t guarantee their safety.

The main house and west wing were built with grey bricks and wooden beams, the roof covered with tiles. It was the house built by He Yanxin’s grandfather, still solid to this day.

The kitchen on the east side of the main house had been rebuilt by He Yanxin when he got married, also using grey bricks.

The courtyard was large. One corner held the chicken coop, and a small vegetable patch had been fenced in. There was still plenty of open space.

A toilet had been built near the chicken coop, as far from the kitchen as possible. Next to it was a straw shed with farming tools and miscellaneous items.

The front gate was a thick solid wooden door, and the courtyard wall was a mixture of earth and stone.

According to memory, the He family’s home was considered quite good in Anshan Village. Among the thirty-odd households in the village, most had mud houses, and only a few could afford grey bricks.

Unfortunately, compared to a few years ago, half the courtyard was now empty. Most of the items had been sold off to make ends meet. The books in the west wing, in particular—there wasn’t a single one left.

Song Yeqing looked up at the cloudless sky. The air was fresh. But having always lived in the south in her previous life, she found it hard to adjust.

Not just physically—but spiritually, she didn’t belong.

(End of Chapter)