Aman busily kneaded the dough, her hands skillfully working it. She had worried earlier that ten pounds of rice might not be enough, but now, with the system, rationed carefully, it would be plenty.
“When you get better, you’ll be able to help me,” she said.
Zhao Ye knew he would never get better.
His legs had been broken on the orders of his father.
He had injured the emperor’s most beloved concubine’s son, and the emperor demanded blood for blood.
His hands were crippled on the concubine’s orders. Palace attendants used double-edged sharp spikes to sever his tendons, so he could never again hold a bow or read scrolls properly.
Even his mother, kneeling before the emperor for three days straight, could not earn him a shred of pity. Zhao Ye felt pathetic.
He was pathetic. His mother was pathetic. And this dynasty… was even more pathetic.
Aman stuffed the wild vegetables into the buns. There was no meat, no richness of flavor, but the fresh fragrance of the vegetables was enough to make her mouth water.
The water in the pot boiled. Steam rose from the buns, while the herbal decoction in another pot was ready. Taking advantage of the steaming time, Aman carried the herbal water to wash Zhao Ye.
“This is water boiled from dandelions and honeysuckle. I dried some too, so we can brew it later. It’s good for your health,” she said.
The sores on his body seemed worse today. Aman cleaned them daily, keeping his skin dry to prevent insects from laying eggs on him. In this season, bugs were everywhere.
The pus from his body had glued his clothes to his skin. Aman wetted them with water and carefully peeled them apart. Even so, it tore the skin in places, bloodied and raw, making her wince.
“Be patient. It’ll get better soon,” she said.
Aman sniffed and, after cleaning the pus, applied the herbal wash to his body.
When she encountered scabs, she carefully picked them off. The sight was disgusting—he couldn’t bear to look, his eyes closed, body trembling.
“Don’t be afraid. When my family’s dog had a skin disease, I used to remove its scabs too. This isn’t anything different,” she said, trying to comfort him.
But then she realized she had compared Zhao Ye to a dog. She flushed, but Zhao Ye, for now, opened his eyes and looked at her.
“…Dirty,” he muttered.
“It’s not dirty, not at all. Everyone has hard times,” she replied.
“You don’t need to trouble yourself, Aman,” he added.
He was suffering deeply, his heart like it had a thousand wounds.
“I asked the doctor at the market yesterday. He said it’s not severe. You can recover,” Aman said, trying to reassure him.
Of course, this was partly to comfort him, but she wasn’t lying.
The system had a vital function: recovery.
Aman reasoned that, since the system wanted him to stay by Zhao Ye’s side, these functions were customized for his current condition.
All she had to do was follow the prompts, and she could bring him back to life.
“As long as you want to live, we can survive properly,” she said.
“As long as we live, there is hope.”
Hope… Zhao Ye could not see it. He could not see any future for himself. His life seemed to stretch only to its inevitable end.
Today, Aman indulged herself, steaming a pot of buns filled with wild vegetables, mixed with a bit of oil. Sadly, there was no meat, but even imagining a meaty bun made her mouth water.
“The buns are ready!”
Aman had become quite skilled. Before, she didn’t know how to make buns, but after being transported to this world, she had to learn.
Her father had been hardworking but clumsy, doing all sorts of labor to earn a bit of extra money. Even so, he kept having children, hoping one would succeed and elevate the family. Even daughters could be useful, raised on thin gruel until marriage, bringing back a bit of dowry.
Aman had grown up poor, with no privileges, no magic skills, and being a girl, her options were limited. She had learned to rely on herself, acquiring survival skills in case she was sold someday. And now, they were coming in handy.
The flour provided by the system was fine white flour, rare in this era where most people used coarse, grayish flour. Coarse flour made buns that looked dull and irritated the throat. Only wealthy families could afford fine white flour.
“This flour… you bought it?” Zhao Ye asked, surprised.
Aman realized she had overlooked that point. She muttered, “I… I did some work at the market today!”
“I can do anything!”
“What kind of work?”
It had to be something that could quickly earn her enough money for fine flour.
“Pig castration!”
Aman racked her brain. That was the only fast way to earn the flour.
Other jobs might only earn a few copper coins a day—nowhere near enough. But castrating pigs? Quick and lucrative.
She had watched her father do it as a child—precise, fast, efficient. Aman had learned his technique.
“Castrate pigs?” Zhao Ye didn’t understand.
“It’s… cutting off the boar’s testicles. Castrated pigs grow meat faster and don’t smell bad. If uncastrated, they go into heat, and the meat smells,” she said seriously, as if that’s exactly what she had done.
Zhao Ye couldn’t go out or verify. After a lifetime of pampered luxury, he knew nothing of this world.
“…Okay,” he said silently.
“Not too hot. Try it.” Aman handed him a bun. “There’s plenty of wild vegetables from the mountains inside. I hope it tastes good.”
His hands didn’t work, so she fed him.
Zhao Ye bit into the warm bun. The fresh aroma of the vegetables wrapped in the soft bun was the best thing he had eaten since being exiled.
“I steamed a lot. There are more in the pot outside!”
Seeing him eat heartily, Aman felt elated. They were alive—they could survive. Tomorrow she would go to the mountains again to gather more herbs and vegetables. Hunting was beyond her skill, so even if they encountered rabbits or other small game, they’d have no luck.