Although Jian Jia felt both embarrassed and annoyed, she still drank the spoonful of medicinal wine. Medical knowledge in this era was limited, and a minor illness left untreated could easily develop into a serious condition. In the mountains, if diarrhea led to severe gastrointestinal inflammation, seeing a doctor would be difficult.
The taste of the medicinal wine was strong, but it worked quickly. Before long, her stomach calmed, and she fell into a deep, drowsy sleep.
She slept soundly until the sun was already high. Standing on the covered corridor, her eyes unfocused as she looked at the sky, she murmured, “What time is it?”
Without a clock, she had to rely on the sun and the shadows of trees to estimate the time. Perhaps because of the habits of the original body, her sense of time was surprisingly accurate. Right now, it felt like around eight or nine in the morning.
She heard Qin Lang call, “Sister, Brother left your meal in the pot.”
Qin Yi had left a meal? Jian Jia pictured a vague mush and half-cooked roasted chicken. She started to refuse, but Qin Lang quickly added, “Brother cooked white rice porridge today.”
Jian Jia looked around, hearing his voice but not seeing him. “Lang, where are you?”
From a crack in the east wing door, the thin Qin Lang emerged. “I’m here.”
Jian Jia was surprised. “How did you see me?” Qin Lang pursed his lips and pointed to the window nearby.
Jian Jia noticed a small gap in the window hidden behind debris. Qin Lang had seen her standing on the corridor through that gap. She smiled and touched her jaw. “I’ll clear the debris in front of your room later, Lang.”
In an ordinary household, the east wing room would be desirable. The Qin family was different. No windows faced outside, and sunlight only reached Qin Lang’s room in the afternoon. With the debris blocking the light, the room was almost dark. Given his weak health, staying in such a dim room was bad for him.
Qin Lang looked up and smiled shyly. “Thank you, Sister.”
That morning, Qin Yi had indeed cooked white rice porridge. Jian Jia had gotten up late, so the porridge had thickened, but compared to the rough meals of yesterday, it tasted excellent in the coarse bowl.
Jian Jia sipped the porridge and asked, “Where is your brother?”
Qin Lang spoke softly, “Brother hasn’t gone down the mountain yet.”
As a hunter in the mountains, Qin Yi’s livelihood depended on hunting. The money earned from selling games was the main income for the family. Hunting required long hours, and after catching animals, he had to go to town to sell them, so he was rarely home.
Qin Lang was quiet. After a few words with Jian Jia, he disappeared back inside. While Jian Jia cleared debris outside the east wing, she occasionally heard his coughing and smelled the faint bitterness of medicinal herbs from inside.
Under the windowsill were old pieces of furniture that blocked the window, allowing only a small gap to open. Jian Jia moved the furniture and peeked inside.
She was surprised to see Qin Lang reading and writing by the window. The small child held a worn brush, tracing characters carefully on coarse paper, sitting upright with proper posture. Every stroke was deliberate.
Seeing his serious expression, Jian Jia noticed the striking similarity between the two brothers. Qin Lang’s posture suggested that he might grow up to be like Qin Yi. She smiled softly.
Startled by her laugh, Qin Lang quickly put down the brush and said shyly, “Sister, do you need help?”
Jian Jia smiled warmly. “No need, I didn’t expect you to start practicing calligraphy. What books are you reading?”
He lowered his head, fingers fidgeting with his clothes, voice soft as a mosquito’s buzz. “Not reading much, just looking through things…”
Jian Jia chuckled. Why did this child act like a frightened animal? Reading and writing was good, so why so timid? But the boy had poor eyesight from reading in a dim room.
Jian Jia entered the room, a strong aroma of medicinal herbs greeting her. Despite the bright sun outside, the room was dark. She paused, letting her eyes adjust, then took in the small room.
There were only four pieces of furniture: a small bed against the wall, a closed wardrobe, a small desk by the window, and a disproportionately tall square stool.
On the desk were a few thin books, one missing its cover and worn from heavy use. A fist-sized inkstone sat in the corner, containing only a dark liquid, paler than used brush water. A one-foot-long brush lay on the inkstone, worn, with few remaining hairs and a cracked handle.
Most of the desk was covered with stacked yellow hemp paper, densely covered with writing. Ink stains of varying darkness turned the paper brown.
Jian Jia noticed a sheet laid flat with fresh impressions, the newly written characters darker than the others. She was surprised to see how neat Qin Lang’s handwriting was, much better than the original body or herself.
She looked through the books, which were early learning texts. Two of the books were tattered: one was the “Three Character Classic,” the other the “Thousand Character Text.”
In many parts of the Da Jing region, villagers were illiterate. Families could not afford private schools, and many children had no motivation to study. Jian Jia’s original village was the same. Only a handful of children could read.
Most children had restless minds, craving the open sky beyond classrooms. Yet young Qin Lang could read and practice calligraphy without supervision, and he did so seriously.
This child had talent.
Recalling the original story, it seemed Qin Lang’s literacy was not mentioned. Jian Jia realized that the original work barely sketched the cruel female lead, and Qin Lang was an almost nameless NPC.
Qin Lang’s face turned red as he lowered his head further. “I’m sorry, Sister. I will obey you from now on. Can I keep these books? I won’t practice when you are busy again…”
Jian Jia thought for a moment, then set down the books, patted his soft hair, and quickly left.
Hearing her footsteps fade, Qin Lang’s eyes began to water. His weak body meant he could not help his brother, and now he felt he had failed Sister Jian Jia as well.
He placed his small hands lightly on the desk and remembered what a childhood friend had said, “My father said, we are peasants. No matter how many books we read, we still must farm. Qin Lang, your family is poorer than mine. You will not get ahead.”
Qin Lang sniffled, tears welling in his red eyes. His friend had not lied. He would not get ahead. His frail body could not cross mountains, and he needed medicine bought with his brother’s hard-earned money.
He would not get ahead. His existence seemed like a burden. Without him, perhaps his parents would be better off, and his brother might have a brighter future.
“Lang, make way!” Jian Jia’s voice came from nearby. He looked up and saw her struggling to move a wide desk into the room, a large bundle on her back.
The narrow desk was replaced with a solid wooden one, smooth and fragrant with camphor. It did not wobble, even when pressed. Jian Jia returned the items from the small desk onto the new desk, then unwrapped the large bundle behind her.
She took out items originally meant for Xu Lingsheng, but suitable for Qin Lang: a celadon inkstone with pine-scented ink, pristine paper, and a high-quality wolf hair brush. These things now belonged to Qin Lang.
Dazed, he watched her take out a felt sock. Jian Jia cut off the top, leaving the cylindrical part. Opening it revealed white fluff inside, which she placed on the stool as a cushion, tying it securely to the legs.
After arranging the desk, she opened the large west-facing window. Fresh air and sunlight entered, dispersing the bitter smell. She repacked the bundle and reminded Qin Lang, “Lang, do not read or write in too dim or bright light. Do not spend too long without breaks. Rest when tired.”
She smiled at him, “You are so smart and diligent. Maybe one day you will become a top scholar.”
Qin Lang’s pupils widened, reflecting her face clearly. Her confident voice drowned out the words of his childhood friend, and two bright lights slowly appeared in his eyes. His trembling hands clenched firmly, full of resolve.