Lǐ Xiùxiù’s terrified questioning was like a bucket of ice water, dousing the faint warmth that had just risen.
She pointed at the steaming bowl of rice porridge, shrinking back, her voice trembling uncontrollably: “Xiǎomǎn… Xiǎomǎn! What… what kind of witchcraft is this? Are you… possessed by something unclean?”
The dilapidated hut beside the mass grave was already the most ominous place around.
A daughter resurrected from death, able to conjure food from nothing — all of this exceeded the comprehension of an ancient rural woman.
Liú Xiǎomǎn did not panic. This reaction was expected, and she had already prepared a mental script for handling it.
Instead of rushing to explain, she used the weakness from her lingering fever, reddened her eyes, and forced out a few scorching tears.
Her waxy, pale face instantly displayed the expression of one who had survived a disaster — a mix of sorrow and joy.
She trembled as she reached out her emaciated hand and tightly grasped Lǐ Xiùxiù’s cold wrist, her voice choked with tears, unusually clear in the wind-whistling hut: “Mother… it’s not witchcraft! It’s Father! Father… he saw we were about to starve and, in a dream, sent me this miraculous medicine and immortal porridge!”
“Shítou?” Lǐ Xiùxiù shuddered, frozen in place, murmuring: “You mean… your father sent it in a dream?”
Being gentle and timid, and having longed day and night for her husband whose fate was uncertain, Liú Xiǎomǎn’s excuse pierced the softest, most defenseless part of her heart like a key.
Seeing this, Liú Xiǎomǎn seized the moment, adding more convincing details to her lie.
Between sobs, she stammered: “Father… he was wearing a brand-new military uniform, so imposing! He said… he’s doing well there, became a young general, but… but he couldn’t stop worrying about the three of us.”
She mimicked the tone of her father from her memories, continuing to fabricate: “He said, seeing me burning with fever, he was heartbroken. He begged the King of Hell to grant this miraculous medicine and a bowl of immortal porridge to bring back. He said this medicine can cure me, this porridge can give us strength, and we must survive well until he returns!”
“Father Liú Shítou, I apologize for borrowing your name. Once we become successful, I’ll erect a golden effigy and a shrine, offering three daily incense sticks!” Liú Xiǎomǎn mentally quipped, but her face showed devotion and sorrow.
For the already desperate Lǐ Xiùxiù, these words were like a heavenly blessing.
Her husband was not dead, even an official in the underworld who could manifest and send things back! Fear instantly gave way to deep sorrow and a glimmer of hope. She clutched Liú Xiǎomǎn and wept aloud: “My Shítou! You suffered so! And you still thought of us…”
With the immediate crisis eased, Liú Xiǎomǎn breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The priority now was regaining strength.
Without hesitation, she picked up the red-and-white capsule and swallowed it with a mouthful of warm rice porridge.
A wave of warmth slid down her esophagus into her stomach; the medicine seemed to spread instantly, dispelling the burning pain in her lungs and the chill in her limbs.
She pushed the sturdy porcelain bowl toward Lǐ Xiùxiù with authority: “Mother, you and Cōngmíng eat! Father is watching; we must have the strength to survive!”
The rich aroma of rice instantly filled the hut. Lǐ Xiùxiù and Liú Cōngmíng had not smelled pure white rice in ages.
Liú Cōngmíng stared fixedly at the bowl, drool dripping from his mouth, forming a small puddle.
Lǐ Xiùxiù waved her hands repeatedly, pushing the bowl back: “No, Xiǎomǎn, you are sick. You eat first, eat more to get better!”
Liú Cōngmíng obediently shook his head, though his stomach growled with desire, not daring to touch it.
“Mother!” Liú Xiǎomǎn’s face hardened. She lifted half her body with all her strength; her black, shining eyes radiated unprecedented determination. “Father said we three must survive together! No one can be left behind! One bite each, and no one is abandoned! If you don’t eat, you’re not following Father’s words!”
Her firm, indisputable tone again shocked Lǐ Xiùxiù.
Indeed, this was the immortal porridge sent by her husband, their hope to live.
Through tears, Lǐ Xiùxiù nodded cautiously, lifting the bowl as if it were a priceless treasure.
She first scooped a small spoonful, blew on it, and carefully fed it to Liú Cōngmíng.
He eagerly opened his mouth, swallowing the warm, soft porridge.
A sweetness he had never experienced exploded on his taste buds.
The dullness in his eyes seemed to shimmer with a new light; he mumbled, “Porridge… sweet… sis…”
Lǐ Xiùxiù fed him another spoonful, then finally took a small bite herself.
The gentle porridge slid down her parched throat into her empty stomach, warming her so much she almost cried.
Finally, she fed some to Liú Xiǎomǎn.
A simple bowl of white rice porridge, in this ruined hut, was shared among the three of them — tiny, precious bites, eaten as if in a sacred ritual.
It was the first real food they had eaten since being cast out — their life-saving meal.
After taking the medicine and eating the porridge, Liú Xiǎomǎn felt her body temperature slowly drop, and a faint strength coursed through her body.
The dizziness from the high fever subsided, and her mind grew clearer.
The family of three huddled tightly in the bitterly cold night, sharing the warmth from the porridge, feeling long-lost comfort and hope.
Meanwhile, in the upper hall of the Liú family mansion, dinner was nearly finished.
On the table was a thin, watery wild vegetable gruel and a few wilted pickles.
Wáng Jīnhuā fished in the bowl with her chopsticks for a long time, not getting more than a few grains of rice, complaining: “All because of those dead weights. If it weren’t for feeding them, we could have added another handful of rice!”
Elder Tián’s eyelids drooped as she snorted coldly: “Fine, now it’s quiet. That sickly kid is probably already cold; we’ll send the eldest to bury them first thing in the morning, so it doesn’t stink.”
Little did they know, the person they assumed dead had not only survived but was eating pure white rice porridge they themselves would not spare.
The western side of the hut leaked wind, bringing cold, but could not stop the rich, sweet aroma of the porridge from drifting out.
To rural people used to coarse grains and bran cakes, this fragrance was a fatal temptation.
The night wind carried the scent far, reaching Wáng Jīnhuā, who had just left the outhouse.
She sniffed hard, suspicion creeping onto her face. “Where’s that rice fragrance coming from? So fragrant… like the polished rice porridge of a wealthy household…” She followed the scent step by step toward the mass grave, stopping not far from the ruined hut.
In the darkness, faint rustling footsteps seemed to approach.
Suddenly, a sharp, piercing female voice cut through the night, close now, thick with jealousy and malice: “I knew I heard something! Ha! You cursed kids, cast out and yet not staying put, secretly eating something good!”
Before the words fell, the footsteps had already stopped at the hut’s doorway.
A tall, thin, sharp figure was cast onto the broken door by the pale moonlight — the familiar tone revealed her identity: their aunt, Wáng Jīnhuā.