In the end, it was Qingguo’s piercing wail that saved Xing Yue.

“Guoguo’s awake. I’ll go check on him.” Qingheng blushed, patted his butt, and ran off.

Once inside the room, he continued, “I figured you were still weak, so you might sleep for a while. I didn’t have Xing Zhao wake you up so you could sleep a little longer. We ate first. There’s firewood left in the stove, so the porridge is still warm. The flatbreads and pickles are in the steamer. Take your time eating—there’s no rush. Once the medicine cools down a bit, I’ll come feed it to Xing Zhao.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than he saw Xing Yue’s face flush crimson; realizing he might have misunderstood something, he instantly wished the ground would swallow him whole.

Qingguo’s waking up not only saved Xing Yue but also saved him as well. So he ran faster than a rabbit.

Xing Yue: “…Oh, okay.”

Only Xing Zhao was still half-asleep. He looked at Qingheng’s retreating figure, then looked up at Xing Yue’s face: “Big Brother, why are both you and Brother Heng blushing?”

Xing Yue thought to himself, “And you’re the one asking? You clueless little brat.”

He pinched his cheek in a huff, picked up his bowl, squatted by the clay basin, and began brushing his teeth. After finishing, Xing Yue scooped some water from the tub and washed his face.

Glancing at the assortment of odds and ends on the windowsill—a chipped bowl, a wooden box, a sickle—Xing Yue didn’t spot any soap or the like. With no other choice, he steeled himself and called out to Qingheng inside the room, “What do I use to wash the cloth?”

“The one in the wooden box,” Qingheng’s voice replied immediately. Thankfully, he hadn’t offered to help Xing Yue wash his tooth-wiping cloth.

Xing Yue breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, okay!”

He opened the box to find white granules mixed with some yellowish-gray soil.

Xing Yue didn’t know what it was. He dipped his finger in a little, washed the cloth, and found that it didn’t lather up like modern soap or detergent; after washing, only a few fine bubbles appeared on the water’s surface.

It seemed to work, after all.

Breakfast was thick millet porridge. Xing Yue thought for a moment, then stayed in the kitchen.

After scooping up a bowl of rice, he sat down in front of the stove, mixed the pickles into the porridge, and began to eat heartily, taking a bite of flatbread followed by a spoonful of porridge. The rice porridge wasn’t the refined grain of today—soft, smooth, and fragrant—but rather a coarse grain with a rough texture that scratched the throat when swallowed. Still, compared to the bran-laced pig feed he’d been eating throughout his exile, this was already a decent meal.

Xing Yue was still eating with great relish.

He thought to himself that his ability to adapt was truly frightening.

His parents had died in an earthquake when he was a child, and he had been cared for by his grandmother for a time.

Later, when his grandmother grew old and fell ill, unable to care for him, he was sent to live with his eldest uncle.

His uncle’s family had children of their own—more than one, in fact—and he never had a moment’s peace when it came to food and lodging. After opening a farmhouse restaurant and making some money, he swore he would never let himself be mistreated again.

Who would have thought that after traveling through time, in just a month and a half, he’d cast aside any notions of whether or not he was being treated unfairly—and now found even a bowl of coarse-grain porridge delicious.

Xing Yue sometimes marveled at how he could adapt to any kind of life. He was truly resilient.

If he were like other people—someone who, after time-traveling, would never put up with any hardship—who knows what his life would have turned out like? Maybe the grass would already be growing on his grave?

He’d sometimes think, “Maybe I should just give up,” but deep down, he was too attached to life.

So, faced with the choice between a grave overgrown with weeds and pig slop, he’d mutter under his breath, “Whatever happens, happens,” yet in reality, he chose the pig slop.

Between pig slop and coarse grains, he chose to savor his meal, eating the coarse grains with relish, wasting nothing, and making the most of it. Two bowls of porridge, two flatbreads, and a plate of pickles—in five or six minutes, he devoured it all like a whirlwind.

“You…” Qingheng was passing by the kitchen and was about to tell him there was still a hard-boiled egg in the basin on the floor, but he saw that he had already finished eating and was putting the bowl into the clay pot, scrubbing it with a “clatter.”

Qingheng：“……”

He stared at him in disbelief, his eyes wide. First, he was surprised at how fast he’d eaten.

Second… he was actually washing the dishes!

Lord Xing, a third-rank official with a substantial income, surely shouldn’t be so strapped for cash that he couldn’t afford servants to look after his household. And his young master, having passed the Jinshi examination at such a young age, had clearly immersed himself in poetry, classics, and the works of the Hundred Schools for years. Would such a person be so skilled at tending the fire, washing dishes, and managing kitchen affairs?

Qingheng couldn’t help but wonder to himself.

After a moment’s thought, he said nothing more. Holding Qingguo and clutching his wet diaper, he slipped quietly away from the kitchen doorway. Xing Zhao was crouched in the corner of the courtyard, playing in the sand.

Qingheng tossed the diaper into the chipped earthenware basin and went to find him.

As he approached, he intended to ask about the family situation—whether his older brother also had to tend the fire and cook—but then he saw Xing Zhao’s small hands buried in the sand. He cupped a handful of sand in both hands and immediately dumped it into one of his leather boots.

Qingheng：“……”

It turned out that Xing Zhao had taken off one of his boots at some point and was enthusiastically pouring sand into it. 

Qingheng: “……”

His temples throbbed, and a surge of anger welled up inside him.

He thought about it. The boy had suffered all the way here, had only just recovered from his illness a day ago, and had only been home for a day. His older brother was watching too… Alright…

No, that won’t do.

He still felt a bit like giving this brat a good scolding. Qingheng closed his eyes decisively and turned to walk away.

Forget it. Out of sight, out of mind. He’ll go make something to eat for Qingguo.

Besides, those boots… weren’t even his.

Qingguo’s breakfast was, as always, warm goat’s milk.