Chapter 245: The Sesame Scent on the Way Home

Han Qing stepped out of the cracked gate, and the outside world was drizzling.

The sound of fine rain striking the crystal osmanthus was clear as some instrument—this made him dazed for a second, because having stayed long inside the gate, returning to a world of sound felt somewhat unfamiliar. Su Yu rushed over first, her hand hovering three centimeters from his cheek, not touching: "Heartbeat?"

"Normal." Han Qing's voice hoarse, "Inside…… the flow of time is different."

He opened his hand, the crystal paper crane lay still in his palm, the light patterns on its wings pulsing steadily. Xiao Yu's light imprint instantly caught the frequency: "GuiHuaYuan energy stability……67%, up 5% from when you entered. How did you do it?"

"I taught them how to cultivate beauty to be stronger." Han Qing said, the tear‑drop fruits on the scar garden on his chest lighting up one after another, "Using memory as soil, and those willing to remember as roots."

The crystal paper crane suddenly rose from his palm, unfolding in midair into a semi‑transparent "map." It was a real‑time projection of GuiHuaYuan: two‑thirds of the area glowed warm amber, while one‑third of the edge regions remained dangerous gray‑white (areas harvested by the Thirteenth Civilization). But at the edge of the gray‑white zones, tiny golden light points were slowly sprouting—like new flesh growing on the rim of a healing wound.

"Yun'ai—the survivor representative inside—is using my method to reconstruct the destroyed areas." Han Qing pointed at those light points, "They aren't simply 'repairing'; instead, in places that have been harvested, they are planting new 'first‑time' memories."

Kaiwen pushed his glasses, the data stream on the light curtain refreshing like a waterfall: "This reconstruction will generate a unique frequency…… if the Thirteenth Civilization comes again to harvest, they will collect samples of 'reborn beauty' rather than 'death beauty.' Theoretically, this contaminates their harvesting logic."

"It's contamination." Han Qing retracted the paper crane, which returned to its original form and fell back into his pocket, "Efficiency-1 once said: harvesters rely on an addiction to the beauty of the moment of ending. If we let the place of ending begin to grow, their drugs will be adulterated."

Lao Zhao was in the Bridge Space kitchen, staring blankly at a small cloth bag of real sesame. The sesame had been sent that morning by the Soil Collector—a root‑system intelligence that had found the preserved seeds in the granary ruins of a vanished civilization, only twenty grams.

"Only enough for one bowl of tangyuan." Lao Zhao said softly, "My son…… his body sync rate is at 99.7% today. The medical team says he can fully return to his real body."

The kitchen fell silent. Aili was checking the seventh injector—she had decided not to use it today, but needed to confirm it was in optimal condition. The one‑eyed woman's geometric flower in her eye socket rotated slowly, the cooling fins emitting a steady hum.

Su Yu folded a new paper crane, this time writing "Zhao Xiaoshu" on its wings—the name of Lao Zhao's son, who had been eight when he went missing seven years ago, had grown to fifteen in Bridge Space, yet had never tasted real food.

"The sesame needs to be stir‑fried." Lao Zhao finally moved, pouring out the sesame as if performing a ritual, "Low heat, stir slowly, don't let it burn. If it burns, it turns bitter."

The iron pot heated over the fire, the sesame in the pot giving off fine crackling sounds. When the aroma spread, everyone stopped what they were doing—it was pure, the scent from before civilization shattered, so simple it made their eyes heat up.

Xiao Yu suddenly said, "The light imprint detects emotional frequency…… in Bridge Space, Zhao Xiaoshu is crying."

"It's not a sad cry." She added, "It's…… a cry of anticipation."

Lao Zhao finished stir‑frying the sesame, then ground it slowly in the stone mortar. He ground it fine, each press feeling like stroking time. The ground sesame powder was mixed with lard and sugar—the last bit of sugar, dug from deep in the ruins warehouse, its packaging already brittle.

"The tangyuan skin needs glutinous rice flour, warm water to form the dough." Lao Zhao began kneading, the rotation speed of his wrist exactly the same as when he usually turns a wrench, "The water can't be too much or too little—too much makes it sticky, too little makes it crack."

Han Qing watched from the side, then suddenly asked, "Have you taught him before? Before your son……?"

Lao Zhao's hand paused for a second: "I have. When he was six, he stood on a little stool, his tiny hands covered in flour. The tangyuan he wrapped came out lopsided, boiled they all fell apart, and he called it 'sesame porridge tangyuan.'"

The dough in his palm gradually smoothed. He divided it into small portions, each rolled into a smooth ball, then pressed a dimple with his thumb and scooped in the sesame filling.

"Seal it slowly, don't rush." Lao Zhao demonstrated, his finger movements as gentle as closing the last few pages of a book, "If you rush, cracks will form and the filling will leak when boiled."

Everyone gathered around to learn. Su Yu's first tangyuan split, her second barely held shape. Aili's fingers were astonishingly steady—a surgeon's precision, her tangyuan perfect as if pressed from a mold. Kaiwen pushed his glasses three times, producing a polygonal "geometric tangyuan," and even he laughed.

Han Qing wrapped his slowly. He thought of Chen Mo, of the sesame blossoms in the ruins to the south. As the tangyuan in his hand gradually took shape, the tear‑drop fruits on his chest warmed slightly—Yun'ai was sending some frequency through the crystal paper crane, as if saying: I see it, this movement is beautiful.

The tangyuan went into the pot, sinking and floating in the boiling water. Lao Zhao stared at the pot, his gaze like guarding something fragile.

The interface of Bridge Space opened in a corner of the kitchen. The medical team came out first, then a boy seated on a floating chair—fifteen years old, pallid, large‑eyed, his look at the real world both yearning and fearful.

His gaze locked directly onto Lao Zhao.

"Dad?"

Lao Zhao's hand trembled once, the ladle tapping the pot's rim with a clear sound. He drew a deep breath and ladled out the first bowl—six tangyuan, plump and white, floating in the clear broth.

"Come." He said only one word.

Zhao Xiaoshu rose from the floating chair—for the first time in seven years standing in his real body, steps stumbling. Aili reached out to help, but Lao Zhao's gaze stopped her. The boy steadied himself, step by step walking to the table's edge and sitting down.

He stared at the tangyuan for a long while, then picked up a spoon, scooped one up, blew on it, and carefully bit into it.

The moment the sesame filling flowed out, his whole body froze.

"What's wrong?" Aili asked anxiously.

The boy said nothing. Large tears fell into the bowl, mixing with the soup. He swallowed that mouthful of tangyuan, choking as he spoke:

"……It's hot."

He lifted his tear‑filled eyes to Lao Zhao: "Real food…… is hot."

Lao Zhao turned away, his shoulders trembling slightly. In the kitchen, everyone averted their faces. Only the tangyuan in the pot kept churning, steam rising like a gentle ritual.

Just then, Xiao Yu's light imprint flashed violently: "Alert—abnormal pulse detected in the grafted sapling's crack!"

Everyone rushed outside. The drizzle still fell, the crystal osmanthus on the sapling's branches glowing, but the light was not a steady amber—it flickered rapidly between amber and dangerous deep purple.

"Frequency analysis shows……" Xiao Yu's voice tense, "An external signal is trying to intrude into GuiHuaYuan through the sapling in reverse! Signal signature——the Thirteenth Civilization!"

The crystal paper crane flew from Han Qing's pocket, unfolding its map—on it, the gray‑white edge of GuiHuaYuan was being eroded by deep purple. Yun'ai's distress frequency came through the crane, not as sound but as a tactile memory: icy, greedy "tasting," like a tongue licking a wound.

Han Qing pressed his chest, all the tear‑drop fruits blazing: "They are trying to directly harvest the source of 'reborn beauty'…… because they've found that this beauty is 'fresher' than 'death beauty.'"

Lao Zhao scooped the last tangyuan into his son's bowl, wiped his hands, and picked up the wrench leaning against the wall.

"Lesson time is over." He said, his voice as calm as saying "the water's boiling."

"Now it's time to teach those harvesters——" he turned the wrench, the metal surface reflecting the sapling's dangerous purple light, "What 'don't mess with someone else's dinner table' means."

Han Qing looked at the sapling, then at the boy in the kitchen cradling his bowl, tears still unshed.

"For beauty to become strong, it needs roots." He repeated his earlier words, adding, "And for roots to survive, someone must be willing to fight for them—even if the fight is over whether a bowl of tangyuan should be snatched away."

The crystal paper crane settled on his shoulder, the light patterns on its wings stabilizing into a firm gold.