Chapter 232: Grain‑Scarcity Years

The autumn of 1958 arrived amid a sea of withered desolation and hopelessness.

The once‑in‑a‑century drought, like an invisible giant hand, clamped the throat of the vast lands. Rivers ran dry, fields cracked, and the wheat waves that should have rolled golden now lay sparse, wilted, and withered.

Newspapers and broadcasts were still filled with fervent slogans, yet the scorching panic that permeated the air seeped in like ever‑drying dust, penetrating everywhere.

Most of the small blast furnaces at the steel‑making sites have ceased their ominous roars, resembling silent burial mounds scattered across the barren land, heralding the failure and cost of that feverish campaign.

Yet more unsettling than the extinguished furnace flames was the emptiness of the granaries.

When Director Wang of the Street Office stepped into Courtyard No. 95 again, the fervor that had marked the early‑year steel mobilization had vanished from her face, leaving only heavy fatigue and unmistakable worry.

She stood in the Central Courtyard, her voice hoarse as she announced to the gathered residents the news everyone had long sensed yet still refused to believe—food rations were again sharply cut.

When the exact figures slipped from her mouth, a chorus of suppressed sighs and desperate whispers rose from the crowd. The already meager rations were now reduced to barely the basic survival line, even whether they could fill a stomach became uncertain.

"Comrades, the hardship is temporary! We must trust the organization, trust…" Director Wang tried to rally, but her words appeared pale and feeble before the bewildered, pallid faces before her.

She knew in her heart that this was no longer a hurdle that belief alone could overcome.

Yan Bu Gui adjusted the glasses that slipped to his nose, his complexion ashen, muttering silently the reduced numbers as if tallying the approaching steps of death.

Jia Zhangshi this time had no strength left to cry or wail, merely clutching her grandson Bang Geng tightly, her gaze hollow as she stared at the sky.

Qin Huairu stood behind her, so thin she seemed shapeless, like a leaf that could be blown away at any moment. Even the usually boisterous Liu Haizhong hung his head, sighing.

Above the Siheyuan, an invisible, suffocating gray haze seemed to loom.

Li Ping'an listened to the announcement in silence. He squeezed the hand of Lin Xueqing beside him, feeling the chill at her fingertips.

Lin Xueqing's due date was at the end of autumn, precisely when the gap between harvest and seed was most severe.

"Don't be afraid, I'm here." he whispered, his tone steady as a mountain.

That night, the world fell silent; only the autumn wind swirling fallen leaves in the empty Alley, rustling softly, adding a touch of bleakness.

Li Ping'an rose silently, draped in a dark coat, like a shadow merging with the night, and left Xi Kua Yuan.

He did not use the main gate but slipped over a low wall that was hard to notice, his light steps melting into the blackened street.

He headed toward the area near Ruanfen Post outside the city, a place rumored to host occasional black‑market trades. The terrain there was tangled with vegetation, ideal for concealment and escape.

He had to fabricate a pretense of buying grain at the black market, to provide a plausible source for the food he would soon procure. Though the risk was enormous and capture would bring unimaginable consequences, he had no other choice.

After lying in the shadows near Ruanfen Post for a moment and confirming no one was tailing him, Li Ping'an's spirit sank into the mysterious Spiritual Spring Space within his body.

In an instant, the bleak autumn night outside was replaced inside the space by a warm, moist, vibrant scene. Golden rice piled into small hills, wheat grains plump, corn cobs robust; nearby pens held plump chickens and ducks, piglets snorted, and the fish pond shimmered.

The air was suffused with refreshing Spiritual Qi, the boundless Spiritual Spring flowing endlessly.

He took only a modest amount, mentally extracting a small sack of roughly twenty jin of fine white flour, a similar sack of golden millet, plus several strips of air‑dried meat wrapped in oil paper and dozens of eggs.

Each of these items was a lifesaving treasure now. He stuffed the supplies into a prepared old burlap sack, then deliberately smeared some soil and grass clippings on its exterior to mimic hurried travel marks.

Having done all this, he quickly left the perilous zone, circled a few times, and then slipped back to Xi Kua Yuan like a phantom.

Li Pingle had not slept, anxiously waiting; when she heard a faint rustle, she opened the door at once. Seeing the heavy sack on her brother's shoulder, she gasped and covered her mouth.

"Brother! This… this is too dangerous!" she whispered, her voice trembling with tears.

"It's fine." Li Ping'an placed the sack in a kitchen corner, carefully covering it with firewood, his tone calm, "Remember, if anyone asks, say I leveraged an old connection from my former unit, spent a fortune, and managed to bring this lifesaving grain from elsewhere. Anything else, I know nothing."

Li Pingle nodded vigorously, tears streaming down uncontrollably, a mix of lingering fear and the bittersweet sting of newfound hope.

From that day onward, the meals at Xi Kua Yuan subtly shifted in silence.

On the dining table, a golden corn‑flour pancake would occasionally appear; though mixed with plenty of wild greens to stay inconspicuous, its firm texture and gentle grain aroma starkly contrasted with the thin broth and watery rice that others ate.

Sometimes Lin Xueqing's bowl would contain a silky steamed egg, or the soup would float a few hearty meat slices. Li Ping'an and Li Pingle still subsisted mainly on coarse grains and wild greens, but at least the lethal hunger was alleviated.

Li Ping'an was extremely cautious. Each "replenishment" of food was kept to a minuscule amount and always scheduled for the deep night, creating the illusion of an outing.

The water the household drank daily had long been quietly swapped for diluted Spirit Spring Water. Lin Xueqing's complexion remained good during pregnancy, even rosier than many non‑pregnant women in the courtyard, and Li Pingle's work strength had increased.

These subtle differences, amid a populace generally gaunt, were actually rather noticeable.

Sure enough, whispers began to circulate in the courtyard.

"The Li family at Xi Kua Yuan… they hardly ever line up for grain tickets, do they?"

"I see Dr. Lin looks quite fine…"

"I heard Li Chief has wide connections, is that…?"

These rumors naturally reached Li Ping'an's ears. Unflustered, during a casual chat with Yan Bu Gui, he sighed as if offhand, "Sigh, the family's resources are nearly drained. Not long ago I leveraged a comrade‑in‑arms' connection; they scraped together a bit of grain at a terrifying price, just enough to keep Xueqing's pregnancy hanging on. These days are hard!"

Yan Bu Gui was skeptical, but Li Ping'an's status as Head of the Security Department and his previously steady, reliable reputation made Yan more envious than suspicious, and he thought of nothing else.

Once the story spread, the courtyard's chatter gradually turned into exclamations of "Li Ping'an is capable," "caring for his wife," and envy toward his "mysterious comrade."

However, the tension in Li Ping'an's heart tightened further. He knew this was only a stopgap.

Though the space held abundant food, he could not take large amounts, lest it invite disaster. He could only, like a desert traveler, sip the sweet spring cautiously, sustaining his family's life while keeping the existence of this spring hidden.

The autumn wind grew ever harsher, whipping up endless yellow sand.

The Siheyuan struggled to breathe amid the worsening food crisis, its human brilliance and darkness magnified to the extreme by this survival trial.

The unusual "affluence" of Xi Kua Yuan was like a faint glimmer in darkness, bringing hope while harboring unknown risks.

Li Ping'an was like a guardian walking a tightrope, each step requiring precision and caution. He knew this long winter had only just begun.