Young Mistress, What Have You Found?
The sky had not yet brightened; a heavy gray-white seeped along the mountain ridges. In the valley, the chill and lifeless silence of night still lingered.
To preserve her strength for the next day, Ming Zhao ignored her hunger and drifted back into a fitful sleep. The lingering dread of nightmares left a shadow of gloom in her eyes.
When she awoke at dawn, she carefully shifted Mingshu, who was still asleep on her lap, and tucked the worn fur robe tighter around her grandmother. Only then did she rise and walk over to the nearly extinguished fire.
They were fortunate that a servant woman had woken during the night to add firewood. Even so, Ming Zhao felt utterly wretched—she had never experienced such hunger and cold before.
Zhao Yong and his son Zhao Huaiyuan were already there, discussing something in low voices. Seeing her approach, Zhao Yong stood up. “Young Mistress, why not rest a little longer?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Ming Zhao replied, her voice slightly hoarse. Her gaze settled on Zhao Huaiyuan. The young man was nearly grown, his face still bearing traces of youth, yet his eyes held the marks of hardship and the tempering of blade and sword. “Brother Huaiyuan, may I accompany you on the scouting today?”
Zhao Huaiyuan was taken aback and instinctively looked at his father. Zhao Yong also frowned. “Young Mistress, it’s too dangerous! The mountain paths are treacherous, and if we encounter…”
“I know it’s dangerous,” Ming Zhao interrupted him. She was desperate to break this deadlock. “That’s precisely why I must go. First, my eyes might spot traces of people or edible things that you’ve overlooked. Second, I want to see the road ahead for myself.”
She paused, then added, “We won’t go far—just around the nearby hills. An extra person means an extra pair of eyes. Grandmother has Qing Niang and the others to look after her.”
Zhao Yong was about to protest further, but Zhao Huaiyuan spoke first, his eyes meeting Ming Zhao’s. “Young Mistress, are you not afraid?”
“I am,” Ming Zhao answered plainly. “But fear is useless.”
Zhao Yong looked at his son, then at the young mistress with her calm, resolute gaze, and finally sighed. “Huaiyuan, protect the young mistress. Make sure you return before sunset.”
“Yes, sir!”
After a simple meal of cold biscuit crumbs and a few sips of warm water, Ming Zhao and Zhao Huaiyuan left the valley. Zhao Huaiyuan handed her a sharpened wooden spear, which she accepted. Noticing the Short Blade at his waist, she followed behind him as he moved ahead with light, alert steps. Ming Zhao used the spear as a walking stick, doing her best to keep up.
The morning forest was shrouded in mist, dew soaking the withered grass and their clothes, chilling them to the bone.
The air was piercingly fresh, yet eerily silent. Apart from the wind and occasional bird calls, no human voices could be heard.
Ming Zhao didn’t know how to describe it—this era possessed the most beautiful scenery and the cruelest of worlds. It gave rise to the elegant prose and profoundly sorrowful poetry of the literati, blending together into the distinctive style of the Wei and Jin dynasties.
Yet none of this could conceal the bones scattered everywhere or the wandering souls of the homeless.
Zhao Huaiyuan was familiar with the mountain paths. He identified animal trails and faint footprints, avoiding areas that might be ambush points or offer clear lines of sight, instead choosing routes dense with trees and complex terrain.
Ming Zhao imitated him, observing intently.
She saw trampled dry branches, mud stains scraped onto rocks, and even in a sheltered stone hollow, she discovered still-warm ashes and a few small bones picked exceptionally clean—
Someone had stayed here not long ago, and had eaten a child.
But in these times, such things had become commonplace, not even worthy of conversation. Ming Zhao could only pretend it didn’t exist.
“Refugees, not many of them, no more than five, likely a family,” Zhao Huaiyuan judged in a low voice. “Judging by the direction, they also headed deeper into the southwestern mountains.”
The wilderness was not entirely devoid of life.
Desperate people were migrating deeper, searching for a faint glimmer of vitality.
They continued onward, crossing a ridge and entering a gentle, sun-facing slope. Here, the trees were slightly sparser, and among the withered yellow grass, some hardy cold-resistant plants could be seen stubbornly surviving.
Ming Zhao’s gaze carefully swept over the ground, tree trunks, and crevices in the rocks. In her previous life, she had been long ill and had read many miscellaneous books, fantasizing about wilderness survival. She had a vague impression of certain edible wild plants and herbs.
“Brother Huaiyuan, look at that,” she pointed at a cluster of low-growing plants with thick, spiny leaves. “Is that thistle? I’ve heard elders say the young leaves can be blanched to remove bitterness and eaten.”
Zhao Huaiyuan crouched down to examine it. One couldn’t just eat anything from the wild; if something went wrong, there was no medicine. But food was truly scarce. He picked a little and tasted it, frowning. “It has a wild vegetable taste, but it’s very bitter, and there’s not much.” “Something is better than nothing,” Ming Zhao said, picking all of it and wrapping it in a piece of coarse cloth. She also discovered several clusters of wild garlic with slender leaves and swollen roots. Though thin and small, their pungent smell was invigorating.
The two of them worked together, digging up everything they could. They would not let go of anything edible. They had many mouths to feed, and with winter coming and no food, if only they could encounter some animals.
Zhao Huaiyuan sighed. They needed to nourish the old master and the young mistress, otherwise how would they endure?
If something happened to the old mistress, how would he explain it to the general when he saw him?
The search was slow and meticulous, more often than not yielding nothing.
The frozen ground was hard, and many plants had long since withered.
Hunger and cold were like invisible whips, driving them not to overlook any possibility.
The sun gradually rose higher, the fog dispersed somewhat, but the sky remained leaden gray, the sunlight pale and feeble.
The two walked to the shaded, rocky base of a cliff. Here, the Humidity was heavier, with thick moss and ferns growing in the crevices.
Ming Zhao scanned the dark green moss and dead vines when suddenly an unusual color caught her attention.
Deep in the shadows where several massive rocks interlocked on the cliff above, at the roots of a dead dwarf tree, in a damp, backlit corner, there was a patch of dark red.
Her heart inexplicably skipped a beat. She walked over quietly. Pushing aside the hanging dead vines, the red gradually became clearer.
It was a cluster of fungi.
Not shaped like an ordinary mushroom cap, but rather like layered clouds or solidified flames. The color was a rich crimson, edged with a dark golden sheen, its surface smooth and glossy. In this dark, damp corner, it possessed a startling, breathtaking beauty.
Ming Zhao’s breath hitched slightly.
Red Reishi?
The legendary immortal herb said to benefit heart qi, tonify the center, increase wisdom, and with long-term consumption, lighten the body and prevent aging?
In reality, it might not be that miraculous, but it was undoubtedly an extremely precious and rare medicinal herb, especially now when medicine was scarce and her grandmother’s health had collapsed.
“Young mistress, what have you found?” Zhao Huaiyuan approached cautiously upon seeing her stand motionless for so long, and then he too spotted the cluster of red ganoderma. “Is that lingzhi? What a rare color!”
“It’s red ganoderma,” Ming Zhao replied, her voice slightly dry. “It should be excellent medicinal material, perhaps useful for Grandmother’s illness.”
Zhao Huaiyuan’s eyes lit up. “It can cure the old madam’s illness? That’s wonderful!”
He immediately stepped forward, somewhat flustered. “How do we harvest it? Just pluck it directly?”
“I’ve heard lingzhi should be removed with wooden or jade tools, avoiding iron or metal to preserve its medicinal properties,” Ming Zhao recalled the somewhat ambiguous descriptions from books. “Use this wooden spear, carefully pry it from the roots, and try to keep it intact.”
Following her instructions, Zhao Huaiyuan untied a sturdy spare hemp rope from his waist, leaped up several times, secured the rope tightly around the tree trunk, and then descended using the rope to retrieve the ganoderma.
Holding his breath, he moved with extreme gentleness, gradually separating the red ganoderma from the withered tree roots.
The red ganoderma was tough in texture, almost gelatinous, and it took considerable effort to remove it intact. It was about the size of an adult’s palm, layered and shimmering with a reddish-gold luster that gleamed brilliantly even in the dim crevice of the rock.
With his skilled and daring movements, he leaped down in a few bounds and handed it to Ming Zhao.
The red ganoderma felt slightly heavy in her hand, cool from the mountain rock. Ming Zhao carefully wrapped it in a piece of coarse cloth and placed it back into her carrying basket.
Not daring to linger, the two followed the markers from their earlier path and quickened their pace back toward the mountain camp.
Passing by a mountain stream, they saw water flowing down from above, carving out a pool among the scattered rocks. The water was clear, emitting faint wisps of white mist in the winter chill.
Zhao Huaiyuan stopped. “Young mistress, I’ll fetch some water. It’s cold at night, and it would be good to have more hot water.”
“Alright,” Ming Zhao nodded, placing her basket and wooden spear on a nearby rock. She walked to the water’s edge, staring blankly at her reflection, intending to scoop some water to wash her face and dispel some of her fatigue.
Just as Zhao Huaiyuan bent down to fill his leather water pouch, Ming Zhao caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of her eye—a figure shifting behind the shrubs not far upstream.
Instantly alert, she tugged at Zhao Huaiyuan’s sleeve, signaling him to stay quiet.
Grabbing her basket, the two hid behind a large rock and peered cautiously.
It was a woman, dressed in tattered clothes, her hair dry and disheveled. She was struggling to drag something, her movements stiff and slow.
As she drew closer, Ming Zhao could see she was dragging a motionless person—a man, it seemed, equally ragged, his limbs hanging limply. Under the woman’s rough dragging, he left chaotic marks on the pebbles and frozen ground.
The woman kept her head down, her expression obscured, but she emitted intermittent, indistinct sobs—like crying, or like the dying moans of an animal.
She dragged the body to the water’s edge, paused as if gathering strength, and then began to push the person into the icy stream!
“Stop!”
The words escaped Ming Zhao’s lips.
Her voice echoed clearly in the silent valley.
How could she contaminate the water source!
She hadn’t even washed her face yet!
The woman shuddered violently, jumping back like a startled rabbit. She looked up in terror, revealing a gaunt, ashen face covered in grime, her eyes clouded and bloodshot, filled with a near-maddening despair.
She saw Ming Zhao and Zhao Huaiyuan, especially noticing the wooden spear in Zhao Huaiyuan’s hand and the Short Blade at his waist. Her face grew even more terrified. She wanted to run, but her legs trembled so violently she couldn’t move a step.
“Don’t—don’t come any closer!” Her voice was hoarse and broken, choked with sobs. “He’s not breathing, he’s dead! I—I just wanted him to be clean… to let him drift away with the water, not rot here…”