Aman turned to fan him. “Why don’t you take off your clothes? You’ll be cooler that way.”
Zhao Ye coughed lightly. “Aman… you’re a woman.”
“I know,” Aman said without a care. “So if I’m hot but can’t take off my clothes, why shouldn’t you?”
“…”
That logic made no sense at all.
“This weather is unbearable… still no rain. The well in our courtyard is dry. Tomorrow I’ll have to fetch water from the river at the edge of the village.”
Which meant more work for her.
Zhao Ye said nothing, quietly grateful for Aman’s tireless care, while hating his own helplessness.
He slowly loosened his belt, exposing his sunken chest. The stifling heat only added to his discomfort.
Yet listening to Aman chatter beside him seemed to ease his mood.
“Feeling cooler now?”
Aman reached for his forehead, wiping the sweat sliding down his face. She fanned him vigorously, wishing there were a ceiling fan overhead, desperately missing modern air conditioning.
Back in the capital, summers were hot too, but the Crown Prince’s mansion always had plenty of ice to beat the heat.
Or they’d retreat to summer villas for a month or two, bringing along many servants—including Aman, year after year.
The royal gardens were vast and lavish, with pavilions and pools every few steps—truly delightful.
“Hmm,” Zhao Ye turned his head away, evading her hand.
“Then sleep. Sleep, and you won’t feel hot.”
Aman was exhausted. Her arms drooped as she fanned him; soon her rhythmic, soft breathing revealed she had fallen asleep.
But the heat made her sleep uneasy. She was so tired that she fell asleep despite tossing and turning, her body like a furnace, sweating even in slumber.
Her clothes stuck damply to her skin, uncomfortable and clingy.
A cool breeze stirred, and Aman sighed in relief, feeling for a brief moment as if she were back in the modern world.
Zhao Ye watched her settle, a gentle smile appearing on his lips.
She was really worn out.
Before, she fanned him; now it was his turn to fan her.
He gently moved the fan, sending refreshing air to ease her discomfort.
He studied her for a long while. Zhao Ye couldn’t quite understand why Aman insisted on staying by his side.
After four months on the road, she was tanned and thin, her skin rough and cracked from sun exposure.
Aman rose early, tiptoeing to the backyard to check the vegetables.
The seeds from the system seemed improved; rows of lush green vegetables grew thick and healthy, tender and vibrant—very pleasing to the eye.
She cleared the remaining plots, then checked the system’s reward for today.
Unlike before, this time the reward was a chick.
Aman stared at the little chicken for a long moment.
How was she supposed to explain a suddenly appearing chick?
“Damn this stupid system! Can you give a useful reward instead?”
She fumed for a while, but ultimately didn’t claim it—she still needed to go fetch water.
Besides the chick, there was also a five-pound bag of ice.
Aman stared at the ice, wondering if the system had noticed the heat and sent it to cool her down.
But ice in this era was a luxury. Ordinary people could barely acquire it, needing special coupons. It was stored in winter and reserved for the wealthy in summer; the poor were only movers of ice.
Though modest, these rewards were better than nothing.
Aman carried two wooden buckets to the upstream river. Two buckets would suffice for the day’s water needs.
“Sigh… why couldn’t she just accept it? Li Guaitie has skills—if she behaved, life could still go on,” a villager murmured.
“She got involved with the widow… we all knew, but the village chief said there was no evidence, so it was forgotten.”
“After she fussed, Li Guaitie threatened divorce. She probably lost her mind for a moment…”
“Ha! You didn’t hear last night—the pots and pans were smashed. With that temper, who could take it? No wonder he cheated,” someone else muttered.
A cluster of villagers debated, some with pity, some lamenting, some taking perverse pleasure.
Aman didn’t know exactly what had happened, but unease grew in her chest.
She set down the buckets and forced her way through the crowd.
The village had an old, crooked locust tree, thick enough that three adults could barely wrap their arms around it.
And hanging from that tree—Aman’s eyes went wide, her face draining of color—was Li Guaitie’s wife.
She had hanged herself.
A grown woman, heavy as any adult, yet now suspended lightly by a hemp rope, swaying with the wind.
“The village chief! The village chief is here!”
Li Guaitie and the village chief arrived.
Seeing his wife, Li Guaitie let out a shrill wail, throwing himself to the ground in grief.
“Cai Niang! How could you do this!”
“I only said I’d divorce you in anger yesterday—why did you take it seriously?”
He cried as though his heart were torn apart. The chief ordered her body lowered, his face somber. “By custom, women who commit suicide are not buried in ancestral graves. Wrap her in a worn straw mat and dispose of her in the back ravine.”
Onlookers comforted Li Guaitie. “Don’t cry. Life goes on; you have a son to raise. Stay strong.”
“Yes… it was her own choice… such is fate…”
Aman silently lifted her buckets and walked back.
By the time she reached the doorway, Zhao Ye had already heard her footsteps.
Usually, Aman would call out to him upon returning. Zhao Ye had grown accustomed to this.
But this time, he distinctly heard her heavy steps—yet she did not call his name.
“Aman?”