Chapter 2: Cured Meat and Roast Chicken

The sunset’s afterglow fell on the Zheng family’s eaves; water had been sprinkled before the door to suppress the dust of dusk and bring a faint coolness.

At a small table facing the main gate, the three Zhengs were eating dinner.

“The son of Manager Wang was beaten forty times by Lady Zhao—he’s nearly dead, and they carried him back.”

Zheng Fa held his chopsticks, listening as his mother recounted the gossip from the estate.

His younger sister, Zheng Shan, sat beside him, half her body leaning against Zheng Fa, both hands clutching a rice bowl larger than her head, her entire face buried in it, eating with great relish.

Hearing her mother’s gossip, the little girl lifted her head and asked, “Wang Gui? Isn’t his family favored by Lady Zhao? Wasn’t he chosen as the Seventh Young Master’s personal attendant? Why was he beaten?”

Zheng Fa glanced at his sister and saw her round, bright eyes, her upturned lips still smeared with dark green vegetable juice.

That mischievous little expression—so small, yet so cunning!

Though she was only six, she understood that the Wang family and theirs weren’t on good terms.

Both families were tenant farmers under the Zhao estate, but their conditions differed drastically.

In earlier years, when Zheng Fa’s father was estate manager, the Zheng household had lived decently—far better than the Wangs.

But five years ago, during a demon beast disturbance, Zheng Fa’s father died while trying to harvest the crops.

With the pillar of the family gone and his position lost, the Zheng household plunged into ruin.

Zheng Fa’s mother, raising one son and one daughter, had to care for the children and till the land—life became extremely hard.

Meanwhile, the Wang family took over the managerial post left by Zheng Fa’s father, and their circumstances visibly improved.

Daily, Manager Wang, wary of Zheng Fa—the son of the former manager—subtly isolated the Zhengs.

Other households in the estate noticed too, but one side was a widow with orphans, the other a manager favored by the upper echelons; people naturally avoided trouble and favored advantage, so the Zhengs grew even more isolated.

Though children might not grasp the reasons behind adult conflicts, the exclusion they witnessed grew harsher.

Wang Gui, as the only son of Manager Wang, was the unofficial leader among the estate’s children and often led others in bullying Zheng Fa and little sister Zheng Shan.

Zheng Fa was different—he’d always been tall and sturdy, and his calm demeanor gave him quiet authority among the children; even Wang Gui dared not overstep.

Little sister Zheng Shan was lively, playful, and mischievous, and thus suffered many injustices; now that she heard of their misfortune, her joy was only natural.

“What are you making that face for?” Zheng’s mother scowled at her daughter. “They say Wang Gui is unruly and led the Seventh Young Master astray. Lady Zhao saw it and had him beaten—to teach him discipline. If she saw you acting like that, she’d beat you too!”

Zheng Shan opened her mouth in shock. “I’m not as bad as Wang Gui! Besides, I could never be an attendant—when he was chosen, he paraded it all over the estate. No one else had that chance!”

Zheng Fa silently shook his head—he’d long seen Wang Gui’s nature: a bully who cowered before the strong and tormented the weak.

But he didn’t believe Wang Gui had the guts to lead the Seventh Young Master astray.

The hour was still early; the Zhengs ate dinner now to borrow the fading daylight and save lamp oil.

All estate households ate only two meals a day—not just the Zhengs, but the Wangs too.

On the wooden table were only two dishes: one plate of green leafy vegetables, called “pigweed leaves” by the estate folk—originally cut for pigs, but eaten by poorer families too.

The Zhengs ate this often—a whole pot boiled in water, almost no oil, no salt, utterly hard to swallow.

The other dish was different: a bowl of tender bamboo shoots Zheng’s mother had gathered early that morning, slender and fresh, atop which lay two red, glistening—

Meat!

Two slices of cured meat!

Zheng Shan’s mouth was stuffed with pigweed leaves, her cheeks bulging, yet her big eyes locked fixedly on those two slices of meat.

If eyes could eat, those two slices would have vanished into her stomach long ago.

She remembered the cured meat had been pickled for the New Year—only a thin strip had been made; her mother cut two slices every ten days or so, rationing them tightly.

The last time they’d eaten it was a month ago.

Zheng Shan wasn’t greedy—two slices, one for her brother, one for her—that would be enough…

No, Mother must eat too, so she’d take only half a slice…

No, just one bite!

One bite would make her happy!

Finally, Zheng’s mother’s chopsticks reached for the two slices.

Zheng Shan’s eyes followed the chopsticks, even her little head tilting slightly.

The first slice, her mother placed into her brother’s bowl.

Hmm, of course.

The second slice, Zheng Shan saw her mother’s hand pause before her.

In the end, it too landed in her brother’s bowl.

Zheng Shan blinked, a faint ache of grievance rising within her, but she comforted herself: Brother works hard every day—he needs the meat more.

Pigweed leaves are tasty too!

She lowered her head, refusing to look at the meat in her brother’s bowl, chewing the greens with renewed vigor, as if devouring meat itself.

…

A pair of chopsticks descended from above her forehead.

The chopsticks, laden with meat, came so close—the aroma nearly slapped her face.

Zheng Shan snapped her head up to see Zheng Fa smiling as he placed a slice of cured meat into her bowl.

“Brother!” she grinned, teeth missing, joy spilling out from her gap-toothed smile.

“Eat the meat,” Zheng Fa said, ruffling her little head.

“Mm!” She picked up the slice, nibbling slowly, utterly content.

…

Zheng’s mother watched silently—no matter how much she favored her son, her daughter was still flesh of her flesh.

How could she truly wish to see her suffer?

Her favoritism toward her son wasn’t without reason.

Heavy labor in the fields required a man’s strength.

More importantly, whether a household had a man or not determined its standing in the estate.

If her husband had died and Zheng Fa weren’t here, her life—and her daughter’s—would be even harder.

In Zheng’s mother’s heart, it was Zheng Fa who upheld the Zheng household.

That her son cared for and looked after his sister filled her with quiet joy.

Unexpectedly, Zheng Fa picked up another slice of cured meat and placed it into his mother’s bowl.

Zheng’s mother looked up at her son, a strange warmth stirring in her chest.

After her husband died, she felt the sky had collapsed—she’d wished to die with him.

Yet now her son grew ever more thoughtful, making her unwilling to let go—and giving her something to hope for.

“I’m too old to benefit from meat. I don’t even like it. You’re still growing…”

“I’m already tall enough.”

“….”

Zheng’s mother stared at her son—over seven feet tall, nearly eight—and found no reply.

She marveled inwardly: despite the family’s poverty, her son grew taller each year.

At seventeen or eighteen, he stood half a head taller than anyone else in the estate.

Life was hard at home, yet this child had grown into the finest physique in the entire village.

It kept others from daring to look down on them.

…

At night, Zheng Fa lay in bed, the patchy blue tiles above him letting in starlight.

Beside him, he heard his sister’s sleepy lip-smacking from the next room, and his mother’s shifting.

The cotton quilt was old—some parts light and hollow, others stiff and clumped; it was uncomfortable and offered little warmth.

He closed his eyes, eagerly sinking into sleep.

When he opened them again, the world had changed.

Sunlight fell on a plain, white ceiling; outside, car horns blared in the street.

A down comforter gently embraced his body.

The quilt was so soft, yet Zheng Fa felt no lingering affection.

Barefoot, he leapt from bed, slipped on slippers, dashed out the door, opened the fridge, grabbed the whole braised chicken and four steamed buns he’d bought at the market days ago, and placed them in the microwave.

The aroma of chicken slowly filled the room.

Zheng Fa pulled out the freshly heated chicken—the skin crackling with golden fat, steam carrying its scent boldly teasing his taste buds.

Ignoring the scalding heat, he tore off a drumstick and shoved it into his mouth.

The rich, hot meat warmed his throat, sank into his stomach, then climbed his spine into a sigh of pure bliss.