He took a nap upon returning, expecting sleeplessness but falling instantly—likely because no customers awaited him, plus the exhaustion from recent days.

Tang Xianling slept soundly until waking refreshed and full of energy.

Meanwhile, Cui Dabao arrived home carrying his food basket.

As soon as his son entered, Father Cui declared, “You two can have that bread. I don’t care for it.”

“You’d like some today, but there isn’t any,” Cui Dabao hummed, still humming as he carried the basket. “Mr. Tang’s shop is closed today and tomorrow.”

Father Cui was skeptical. He hadn’t bought any bread, coming home empty-handed, yet his son seemed so cheerful?

“No worries, I just happened to make the congee a bit thicker,” Sun Douzi called out from the kitchen. Previously, they’d paired pot cakes and bread with congee, but Dabao insisted on thin rice porridge instead—especially with pot cakes, which he said demanded plain, watery congee.

But today he’d risen before dawn and added too much grain to the pot.

Sun Douzi had planned to add water and thin it out before Dabao returned, but now saw no need.

“Is porridge enough for breakfast? I’ll make a couple more pancakes.” Sun Douzi thought his father would be hungry after working all night on thick porridge alone, so he immediately scooped flour from the bin to knead dough.

Cui Dabao: “Then make one extra for me too. I can’t be bothered to go out. I just went early, and none of the food stalls on the main street were open yet. I can’t be bothered to wait for others either. “The pork floss bread was dangling right in front of me. I thought about it all night. Even if Brother Tang’s breakfast place wasn’t open, I didn’t want anything else.”

“Mr. Tang saw I came up empty-handed and gave me some meat floss and milk, saying the meat floss would go well with congee.”

Father Cui: “No wonder you’re so cheerful and didn’t throw a tantrum.”

“Dad, I’m not a seven or eight-year-old kid anymore,” Cui Dabao grumbled.

Father Cui chuckled and casually recalled, “When he was seven or eight and attending private school, he once saved up money to buy some meat-stuffed rice dumplings. But when he got home and ate them, he said the flavor had changed. He cried for three whole days.”

Sun Douzi, listening in the kitchen, widened his eyes in curiosity, staring at the man.

Though embarrassed by his father’s story, Cui Dabao didn’t feel humiliated. But under Douzi’s wide-eyed gaze, he felt a tingle of pride. Like showing off a treasure, he recounted the whole tale: “It was from a street vendor. I remember it vividly. The first meat-filled zongzi I tasted was salty and a bit gritty, like egg yolk. We usually eat honey-date zongzi in Fengyuan City, so I wasn’t used to meat-filled ones at first. I spat out a mouthful, but the more I chewed, the more fragrant it became. I went back and bought more.”

“That zongzi was pretty pricey—six wen each.”

“I saved up for two days, planning to buy a few more for Father to try. But when I brought them home and took a bite, they tasted awful. Nothing like the first one at all.”

Cui Dabao was furious and bawled his eyes out at home.

Father Cui had been smiling, but when he heard Dabao say it was delicious and wanted him to try some, his smile slowly froze. He had teased Dabao about this incident many times, assuming Dabao was just throwing a childish tantrum because he hadn’t gotten a good one. Little did he know it was because he hadn’t gotten that delicious one.

“Father isn’t hungry. It’s fine,” Father Cui said then.

He resolved never to tease Dabao about it again.

Unaware of his father’s thoughts, Cui Dabao saw Douzi listening with amusement, eyes sparkling with laughter. He couldn’t wait to share more embarrassing childhood stories. Even after entering the kitchen, he declared, “Mr. Tang said milk needs heating. I’ll warm it up.”

“Let me do it,” Sun Douzi took the basket.

How could he let a man do the work?

Cui Dabao nudged Douzi gently with his elbow. “You already know all my embarrassing childhood stories. What about yours?”

“Me?” Sun Douzi, seeing the man’s curiosity, racked his brain for a while and finally dug up a bitter memory. “When I was eight, I went up the mountain to gather pig grass. I tasted some fresh berries, and later my stomach hurt so badly I thought I was going to die. I went to sleep at my parents’ graves for the night, and by the next day, I was fine.”

Cui Dabao: That’s hardly an embarrassing story.

As he listened, an uneasy feeling settled in his chest.

“Didn’t your brother and sister-in-law come looking for you? When exactly did this happen?”

Seeing Dabao’s displeasure, Sun Douzi hurriedly said, “It’s nothing, nothing. It was summer.” In truth, it was autumn—bitterly cold, pitch-black nights. He’d collapsed on the grave mound, terrified.

Cui Dabao pinched Douzi’s cheek. “You’re not telling the truth.”

“It was autumn… I didn’t want you to worry. It’s all fine now.”

Cui Dabao, who had been pinching Douzi’s cheek, instead stroked it gently. “Next time we go to the village, we’ll go together. I’ll visit my parents’ graves too.”

“Okay.” Sun Douzi agreed, feeling a bit happier. “Dabao, my life is good now. Don’t be upset.”

Outside the kitchen, Father Cui was pleased to watch the couple converse. Seeing them, he turned and walked back inside with his hands behind his back.

Dabao used to be like a child, always thinking about eating. Now that he’s married to his husband, he knows how to care for others. This is good. Once Douzi’s health recovers and they have a child, he’ll save some money. Then he’ll have the face to go down and see his husband.

Good.

Soon, the Cui family sat down for breakfast. The corn porridge was thick, its yellow grain fragrance mingled with bits of white rice. Sun Douzi had chopped some of his own pickled vegetables. Three thin flatbreads lay on the table—he’d cooked them over too high a flame, but luckily they hadn’t burned.

Time to eat.

Though Cui Dabao felt for his husband, he took a bite of the pancake and stopped—it tasted bitter, unpleasant.

“Where’s the pork floss jar?”

“Forgot to bring it out. I’ll fetch it.” Sun Douzi entered the kitchen, emerged holding the pork floss jar, and handed it to the man. “If you don’t want the pancake, have this with your porridge.”

Cui Dabao picked up a clean pair of chopsticks and scooped a spoonful of meat floss onto the porridge. The fluffy, golden floss sat lightly on the thick porridge without sinking in. He switched to a spoon, scooped up a mouthful of porridge mixed with the floss, and brought it to his mouth.

The plain porridge, with its subtle hint of millet, combined with the savory, fluffy, melt-in-your-mouth meat floss that still offered a slight chew, created an incredibly delicious combination—refreshing yet satisfying.

“Delicious! This pork floss really elevates congee.” Cui Dabao urged his father and Douzi to try some. “Don’t save it all for me—what’s the fun in eating alone?”

Father Cui recalled how his son had cried for three days over buying him a meat-stuffed rice dumpling. Now he understood: Dabao loved good food, but he was also deeply filial. Only those closest to him would ever get a taste of his treasured treats.

“Douzi, you should try some too. If we finish it, we can always ask Mr. Tang to buy more,” Father Cui told his son-in-law, urging him not to waste Dabao’s thoughtful gesture.

Cui Dabao held his rice porridge bowl. “Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll go ask him later.”

“Dad, Douzi, you must try it. This pork floss has absolutely no greasy pork taste.”

Sun Douzi and Father Cui finally took a bite. It was indeed delicious with rice. Father Cui liked to mix in some shredded pickled vegetables for extra flavor. Cui Dabao didn’t care for the pickled vegetables, finding them too salty.

“I’m getting old, my taste buds are stronger. This way is just right,” Father Cui said.

Sun Douzi was fine with it. He actually loved the pork floss, but he couldn’t bear to use it all in his porridge. Just a hint of the flavor was enough for him. So he mixed in some pickled vegetable strips too, saving most of the pork floss for Dabao.

After the Cui family finished breakfast, the cow’s milk boiled on the stove. Father Cui wasn’t used to drinking goat’s or cow’s milk, so he let the two children have it. Cui Dabao said to Douzi, “Drink just a little first. I heard from Mr. Tang that some people get upset stomachs if they’re not used to it.”

“Got it,” Sun Douzi replied. He never had stomach trouble after eating the pork dishes from Mr. Tang’s house, but this was goat milk, so he decided to listen to Dabao.

After breakfast, Father Cui went to work. With nothing to do at home, Cui Dabao felt a bit down, thinking he wouldn’t get to eat Master Tang’s breakfast again tomorrow. Changing his clothes, he said, “Douzi, I’m going for a stroll in town.” He wanted to see if anything new had appeared.

Sun Douzi replied, “Alright.” As soon as Dabao left, he locked the courtyard gate.

Earlier, after a quarrel with his father, Cui Dabao had stayed at the West Market Inn for three days. During that time, several wealthy young masters had given him some money. Cui Dabao never intended to become a hangabout, but he wasn’t one to turn down unexpected earnings. He knew his family’s worth and figured that since the young masters offered tips, why refuse?

Truth be told, Cui Dabao had a bit of a reputation in the streets of Fengyuan City—specifically as a connoisseur of fine dining. Some hustlers were actually quite friendly with him, greeting him with lines like, “Where’s Old Man Cui been eating lately?” or “Bro, any new spots worth checking out?”

These hangers-on knew every new trick in Fengyuan City’s food, drink, and entertainment scene, making it easy for them to earn rewards by serving the young masters well.

Sure enough, as soon as Cui Dabao hailed a rickshaw and arrived at the West Market, he bumped into one of these hangers-on.

“Hey, isn’t this my brother Cui? I haven’t seen you in ages! Where’ve you been making your fortune?”

Cui Dabao chuckled, “You’re teasing me! What could a lazybones like me possibly be up to?” Recalling the morning’s meat floss porridge, he added with relish, “But you know what? A new breakfast spot just opened on the main street near my place…”

The two, being old acquaintances, chatted and headed straight for the West Market.

Tang Family, Zhengjie Street, Baxing District.

Tang Xianling had just woken up. He stretched lazily, looking wide awake. A good night’s sleep truly made everything look like birdsong and flowers—except for Old Tang’s face.

“Mother, what time is it?”

Jiang Yun looked up at the sky. “Probably past the fourth hour. You slept quite a while.”

That was around nine or ten o’clock, not too long after all. As Tang Xianling went to fetch water to brush his teeth and wash his face, he remarked, “The sun’s out today. We should move the vegetables out to the courtyard to dry.”

“And I’ll go shopping later. You can buy your own lunch, Mother.”

“You should eat the pastries I brought back yesterday, too, before they go bad.”

Jiang Yun was the type who couldn’t bear to eat good things herself. If he hadn’t mentioned it, she would have stashed them away. Sure enough, she said, “Those pastries you brought back were so neatly wrapped. Next time, you could give them to someone.”

“Give them to whom? They’d go bad by then.”

To the unforeseen guests.

Jiang Yun: “If your eldest sister brings Erniang again, we could let the kids try some.” She was still unwilling to eat them herself.

Tang Xianling stopped arguing. After brushing his teeth, he went to the kitchen. In a few swift motions, he unwrapped the pastry package, took a piece of peach crumb cake for himself, and handed a packet to Jiang Yun. “Here, let’s eat. When my eldest sister comes up later, I’ll make something delicious to treat her.”

He took a big bite—the crumbly pastry crumbled everywhere. He quickly handed the package to Jiang Yun, freeing one hand to catch the crumbs. Munching away, he remarked, “These are actually pretty good—buttery, crispy, and flaky. Good thing I didn’t give them to that old hag. I brought them back.”

A packet of peach cookies costs thirty wen. There were five cookies inside, meaning each one cost six wen. They were quite expensive.

After eating one, Tang Xianling stopped. Delicious as they were, they became a bit cloying when eaten in large quantities.

He began moving the shop tables into the courtyard. The weather had cleared completely, and it was time to prepare the preserved plum greens—he’d need to buy another hundred jin or so to make them all at once.

“Today I must go shopping and also visit the blacksmith in the West Market to order some baking trays.”

The current oven was built by the mason with clay or some kind of latticework dividers, separatingthe upper and lower sections to maximize space. But for baking cookies, the gaps were too large—they might fall through. Iron pans were still needed.

Jiang Yun pitched in to help move the tables, reminding Wu-ger, “Don’t forget your father’s medicine. It’s at Tong’an Hall, a bit further back in the West Market.”

“Got it.” Tang Xianling had genuinely forgotten.

He carried the vegetables out to dry in the courtyard.

“Mother, stay home. I’m leaving. If anyone knocks during the day, it’s probably deliveries. Just put everything in front of the shop. I’ll sort it when I return.”

“Understood.”

Tang Xianling finished packing, carrying a vegetable basket—he’d grown accustomed to using it when going out, as it was convenient. Shops wouldn’t deliver small items, so he could bring them home himself. Unlike modern times, there were no plastic bags provided here.

He emptied his savings jar, counted out a total of 1,960 wen, and stuffed them into a cloth pouch inside the basket. He’d need extra money to order baking trays, so he added another 600 wen from his new product reserve fund.

Finally, he placed a bunch of greens on top of the basket to cover his money pouch as a precaution. He tucked the five taels of silver from Old Tang into his inner robe along with the herbal prescription before heading out.

The small grain shop on Rice and Flour Street had everything, and it was quite cheap. Tang Xianling bought a dan of flour, roughly 110 jin. This time, he bought refined flour at seven wen per jin. Buying a whole dan was cheaper when rounded up, costing only 700 wen, with free delivery.

He bought 25 jin of red beans for 100 wen.

He needed to go to the East Market for charcoal and spices.

Before even leaving the main street, Tang Xianling had spent half his money. His shopping basket suddenly felt much lighter. He hailed a rickshaw to the East Market, heading straight for the spice shop. Pepper, Sichuan pepper, bay leaves, cardamom…

With the experience of sourcing ingredients for his business in the previous days, he knew exactly how much to buy this time.

“Two jin of this, three of that, just one of this…”

He didn’t dare buy spices by the pound.

Spice total: two hundred twenty wen.

Tang Xianling: Paid with a heavy heart.

He then bought brown sugar—three catties for sixty coins.

Tang Xianling carried the brown sugar and spices himself. They weren’t heavy, so he tossed them into his basket. He asked the shop assistant where the charcoal vendor was, and the assistant pointed the way. Tang Xianling headed straight to the back.

After winding through seven turns and crossing three streets, the view suddenly opened up—a row of two-story buildings.

Tang Xianling initially thought he’d stumbled into a brothel, but then he saw the sign hanging above the shop entrance: ‘Fragrant Bath House’. He noticed people carrying baskets, bringing their families inside—men and women, old and young.

Wait a minute—

!!!

It was actually a bathhouse!

Tang Xianling’s eyes lit up. He slung his basket over his shoulder and went inside. The main hall was quite spacious, with large windows at the back now open. He could actually see a lake not far behind, and the breeze blowing in was pleasantly cool.

“Would the guest like to bathe? Ladies and young ger are twenty wen each, men twenty-five wen, and children under seven fifteen wen.”

Tang Xianling: “I’ll come back another time. How late is this bathhouse open?”

“Our bathhouse doesn’t accommodate overnight guests. The main bath closes at Chen hour. If you wish to stay overnight, you can book a private room…”

The shop attendant explained in detail.

Tang Xianling understood—it was the difference between walk-ins and VIPs. Moreover, this establishment was a “clear bathhouse,” as the attendant put it, meaning it only provided bathing and scrubbing services, no frills. Some caravans arriving before the city gates closed, weary from travel, would splurge and reserve the entire main bathhouse.

All fees were calculated by liang.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” Tang Xianling smiled. “I still have things to attend to today.”

The attendant was very courteous, chuckling, “No problem, no problem. Just come tomorrow, honored guest. If you’d rather not spend extra, bring your own snuff. We sell it here too—tooth powder, toothbrushes, snuff, we’ve got it all.”

“Deal.” Tang Xianling agreed immediately.

Big cities really are the best.

It made him feel like a country bumpkin. In Fengyuan City, as long as you had money, you could truly live in luxury.

Leaving the bathhouse, he followed the attendant’s directions eastward for a hundred meters until he reached the charcoal shop. The charcoal shop wasn’t far from the bathhouse. He guessed the bathhouse was their main customer. There was also a lake nearby, with particularly beautiful scenery. Weeping willows lined the banks of the flowing water, which connected to the city’s moat outside the walls.

Tang Xianling ordered fifty jin of charcoal. He needed it for the shop and for cooking at home. Anything more than that was beyond his means. Fifty jin of charcoal cost six hundred and fifty wen, and there was no free delivery. He wasn’t a big customer.

“How much for delivery?”

Shop assistant: “Sir, we don’t offer door-to-door service. If you need delivery, there are porters outside the gate. Negotiate the price with them—usually four or five wen per trip.”

Tang Xianling hired a porter for five wen. The coal was expensive, and he felt uneasy. The porter showed him his identity booklet, gave his full name and address, and the shop assistant added, “Sir, he’s a porter who hauls goods for us. He’s a familiar face. You can trust him.”

That settled it. Tang Xianling paid the porter.

He’d now spent 1,735 wen, and still needed to buy oil, eggs, vegetables, and pork. That would cover most of it. He still had oil paper at home. When he’d run the shop earlier, he’d sold for five solid days. One day, he ran out of pickled vegetable pancakes, leaving only red bean paste. He sold the pork floss bread for seven wen each. Though pricey, the small portions meant high costs, so he didn’t actually make much that day.

All told, costs and profits split evenly—or perhaps slightly less, each item under half a wen. Factoring in wastage, it balanced out. If sales volume increased, profits would rise. Tang Xianling hadn’t miscalculated.

After all that hustle, it was noon. Tang Xianling didn’t go to the West Market. Instead, he found a small eatery in the East Market, sat down, and ordered a plate of mutton pilaf for twenty-two wen. He ate until his mouth was greasy—it was so fragrant. But he had to eat quickly; once the mutton fat cooled, it became a bit cloying.

The shop served complimentary tea. After eating his fill, Tang Xianling wiped his mouth and headed toward the West Market.

The oil could wait. First stop: the blacksmith’s shop.

“You’re here? I still haven’t figured out that hand-cranked egg beater,” the blacksmith’s son greeted him.

Tang Xianling: …

He chuckled—the boy actually recognized him.

“Not for that. The beater’s too pricey for me now. I came to ask if you make thin-walled iron baking pans—rectangular, half a palm tall, with very thin iron.” Tang Xianling gestured the dimensions.

If it was too expensive, he’d just make one.

The blacksmith’s son said, “I can make it. Want one? One tael of silver each.”

This one uses thin iron.

It was within his budget, but when it came time to order, Tang Xianling hesitated. He’d been thinking of using the oven more to save costs. With a baking tray, he could make peanut milk cookies—either to sell or give to customers.

But he was tight on cash right now. He couldn’t afford to treat customers yet. Money had to be spent wisely. He had about one tael in his reserve fund, and he estimated he could save five hundred wen for lawyer fees.

The remaining four hundred-odd cash went toward his and Jiang Yun’s food expenses. Jiang Yun was very frugal, so he handled most of the spending. They still had over a hundred cash left at home.

Business was slow before, with modest daily earnings. Indeed, increasing volume could boost profits later—staying open until eleven would bring in more qian.

But ordering a baking tray costing one or two taels now seemed unlikely to significantly boost their business.

Customers would have to wait while bread or pot-stirred rice cakes were baked.

Tang Xianling scanned the shop, noticing the large iron woks and stew pots. He inquired, “How much for a round iron plate? Slightly recessed in the center, but not too deep. The iron shouldn’t be too thin either—about the same thickness as the woks.”

He envisioned using one iron plate for both jianbing guozi and egg-stuffed pancakes.

“This big,” Tang Xianling gestured with his hands.

Make the egg-stuffed pancakes first; the pancake rolls can wait.

“This? I’ll ask my father.”

Tang Xianling waited there, thinking that if it cost two taels of silver, he’d come back during his next vacation. After a while, the blacksmith’s son returned: “One tael and three hundred wen.”

“How many days will it take?” Tang Xianling had an idea.

“Two or three days.”

Tang Xianling asked, “I’ll pay six hundred wen today. When you deliver the goods on the third day, I’ll pay the rest. Is that alright?”

“That’s fine.”

Tang Xianling promptly paid, wrote the receipt, and left his address all in one go. Then he looked up, “I haven’t asked your name yet.”

“Wang Tieniu.”

“Well then, Mr. Wang, thank you for your trouble.” After saying this, Tang Xianling checked the receipt, folded it neatly, and stepped out of the shop.

He thought: The name Tieniu is quite common.

But Huangfu Tieniu is quite special—not just the name, but that face too.

Next came getting medicine for Father Tang, buying oil, and heading home.

At the market stall, he arranged with the egg seller to deliver thirty eggs to his shop the day after tomorrow. Once his griddle returned, he’d start cooking. Depending on how business went, he’d add more eggs if sales were good. As for the vegetable seller, he’d bought up his entire stock again.

“Do you still have serrated kale? If so, bring me another basket tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes, yes!” The older vendor was overjoyed.

Tang Xianling: “Just deliver them directly to Brother Tang’s breakfast shop.”

“Oh, and if snow pea shoots come in, if yours are good quality, come straight to me.”

Older vendor: “Got it, thanks, boss.”

After settling these matters, Tang Xianling saw the older man struggling with a heavy basket of vegetables. He instinctively helped lift it. The man felt terribly embarrassed, insisting he could manage and didn’t want to dirty the boss’s hands.

“I’m just a food vendor. I haven’t even asked your name or where you live?”

“My surname is Han. I’m Han Kai. I live in Han Village, Qili Town, outside the city.”

Tang Xianling didn’t know where Qili Town was. “Is your home far from the city?”

“Not far at all. I can walk there easily.” Han Kai feared Master Tang might think his home was too distant, worrying deliveries would take too long, so he hastened to assure him.

Tang Xianling nodded. “That’s good. When you go into town to sell vegetables, leave early and return early. Stay safe.”

So that’s what Boss Tang was worried about, Han Kai thought. After a moment, he couldn’t hold back and honestly added, “Actually, it only takes a little over an hour to walk from the village to Fengyuan City. It’s not far. I can return early after selling my vegetables.”

That meant just over two hours on foot—indeed, quite manageable. Tang Xianling asked, “Do you know Xujia Village?”

“Yes, that village is far from the city—it takes nearly half a day to reach. And if you’re heading toward Tingjiang Prefecture, it’s another half day. Both places are isolated. Going into town to sell goods or buy oil and salt is quite a chore.” Han Kai’s comparison made their village life seem relatively comfortable.

Tang Xianling thought, Thank goodness Tieniu bought that mule.

He wondered what Tieniu is up to now.

━━ 🐈‍⬛ ━━

Deep in the mountains, Huangfu Tieniu suppressed a sneeze, his eyes fixed intently on three deer not far ahead. He locked onto one of them, hand steady on the bowstring.

As the arrow flew.

Huangfu Tieniu recalled Tang Xianling’s bright eyes when the deer was mentioned.

This one won’t be sold—it’s a gift for Tang Xianling to eat.