The chopsticks fell to the floor.
Aman hurriedly picked them up, wiped them with her sleeve, and handed them back. “It’s okay, it’s okay. If you can’t do it once, we’ll try twice. You’ve only just started—of course it won’t be easy. You have to keep trying.”
She feared he might give up, so she patiently coaxed the young prince.
Fortunately, Zhao Ye proved even more determined than she imagined. After several attempts, sweat dotted his forehead, and finally, he managed to grip the chopsticks successfully.
“Zhao Ye, you’re amazing!”
Aman gave him full praise, watching the system progress bar jump wildly. She eagerly anticipated the next ability that would unlock.
Due to missing functions, Zhao Ye could only grasp the chopsticks for now—he couldn’t yet manipulate them precisely.
For now, it was enough just to feed himself.
But he looked like a toddler learning to use chopsticks: one hand gripping them tightly, stabbing the rice with all his strength.
Zhao Ye: “…”
Aman: “…”
After a brief silence, Zhao Ye frowned, about to give up.
But a warm touch came from the chopsticks:
“You’re amazing! You actually managed to stab the rice!” Aman said. “Now try bringing it to your mouth!”
For Zhao Ye, this was a very difficult task.
Aman decided not to pressure him. She pushed the two meat buns to the side, took a bite of vegetables herself, and carried a bun outside.
“It’s too hot in here. I’ll eat outside—it’s breezy and cooler.”
Aman knew Zhao Ye had pride. As an adult, he couldn’t even hold chopsticks. That earlier awkward moment—he probably didn’t want her to see.
Aman sat on the doorstep, back to Zhao Ye, savoring her meat bun. The rich aroma of oil and meat exploded in her mouth.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had real meat. She’d eaten rats from filthy ditches, slugs from rocks, and grasshoppers from the wild—whatever protein she could find.
Anything cooked over fire, Aman would eat. Surviving was more important than delicacies.
Officials only gave basic rations: two wheat cakes and a jug of water daily. No meat—just enough to keep them from starving.
Aman held her meat bun carefully, chewing slowly to savor every bit.
She sneaked glances at Zhao Ye in the house. His hand clutched the chopsticks, painfully trying to pick up a meat bun. His arm refused to cooperate.
He gritted his teeth. If one could see his expression, it would be twisted and grim.
Aman smiled.
See? She knew Zhao Ye wasn’t weak!
If he wanted the meat, he had to find a way himself.
She wanted to get him moving again, but recovery depended more on him than her.
Zhao Ye had trained in martial arts since childhood. His muscle control was precise, down to every fiber.
By the time Aman went back inside, Zhao Ye had already finished eating.
Aman pretended not to be surprised as she cleaned the dishes. Zhao Ye called after her: “Aman. I can do it now.”
His tone was calm, but his heart raced.
“Then from now on, you can feed yourself.”
“Yes.”
Her soft, clear voice filled the room as Aman got busy again.
“Aman,” he said, “I want to try something too.”
He lay in the house. His hands could move, but his lower body was still paralyzed. Hearing Aman splitting bamboo, he guessed she was weaving something practical.
Aman placed him in a reclining chair.
“What are you making?” he asked.
She had split many thin bamboo strips, which seemed to come alive in her hands, interwoven quickly into shapes.
“Baskets, tubs, bamboo mats.”
“I want to make you a wheelchair. When I’m not home, you can push yourself around the courtyard. Staying in the house all the time will make you stir crazy.”
Home?
She had already made this place her home.
But Aman didn’t really have a choice—anywhere else would be worse.
“Alright, I’ll do the splitting.”
Aman worked in the yard. Skilled and strong, she split bamboo and roasted the pieces slightly over fire. With a twist of her hands, shapes began to form.
She had some carpentry knowledge—her father, poor as he was, had built furniture for her older sisters when they married. Not out of love, just necessity.
After some work, the bamboo reclining chair had taken shape.
She thought a bamboo bed would be even better—then she wouldn’t have to sleep on the ground every night.
Behind the bamboo grove was a stretch of wasteland, beyond which lay a graveyard.
Small mounds of earth marked the graves, some without headstones. Brave as she was, Aman walked through the cemetery searching for wild vegetables.
She filled a basket with bamboo leaf vegetables.
Elsewhere, edible wild greens were scarce—most of the countryside had been foraged. But this graveyard saw few visitors.
People naturally feared it. Aman also dug up some purslane, which grew plentifully here: thick, tender, green leaves.
By the time she returned, dusk had fallen. The medicinal brew simmered on the stove. Zhao Ye continued to move his hands; when he could lift his arms, he could barely shift himself.
He propped himself up, crawling slowly, thinking no one saw him while Aman was out.
But lifting his head, he met her bright black eyes.
His arms went weak, and he nearly collapsed.
Then Aman’s joyous voice rang out: “Zhao Ye, you… you can move by yourself?”
Zhao Ye had thought his arms were powerless. Hearing her, he suddenly felt strength surge.
“Mm,” he said softly. “Aman… my hands feel numb.”
“Numb?”
Aman hadn’t fully processed it, but her body reacted instantly. Dropping the bamboo basket, she grabbed Zhao Ye under his armpits and lifted him off the ground.
Zhao Ye: “…”
Aman: “…”