The sound of the courtyard gate being pushed open was heavy, followed by familiar footsteps, rough and weary from the mountains, heading straight toward her room.
Li Lanxiang had only just steadied herself, half-sitting against the kang, when a large, dark hand lifted the door curtain.
Wang Dashan’s figure blocked the doorway, cutting off the dimming light outside.
He wasn’t particularly tall, but broad-shouldered, with a frame hardened from years of hunting in the mountains. His muscles were taut, and now his back was slightly hunched. Deep cracks, etched by the autumn mountain wind, lined his face, and his eyes held unmasked worry.
“Awake?”
His voice was hoarse, as if caught by the cold wind, yet carried a tone of relief.
He didn’t first check on the cradle in the corner with his granddaughter, nor did he ask about the kitchen. He just looked at Li Lanxiang, eyes falling on the gray cloth wrapped around her forehead.
“Still hurts?”
The smell from him hit her immediately—
Sweat, the earthy musk of the mountains, the scent of decaying leaves, and most striking of all, the sharp tang of fresh blood.
The smell was metallic, mixed with the musky tang of animal fur, pressing straight into her nose.
Li Lanxiang’s stomach churned.
Though she had been a lonely old woman in her past life, she had loved cleanliness, and in her later years could not tolerate the slightest foul odor.
This intense, hunting-related bloodiness made her frown instinctively, almost turning her head away.
She forced herself to endure it, shaking her head at Wang Dashan with a somewhat weak voice:
“No… not really hurting anymore.”
After a pause, unable to bear the smell, and seeing that he was just standing there, she added:
“You just got back, all… go wash up quickly.”
Wang Dashan was clearly momentarily taken aback.
Standing in the doorway, his eyes—trained for tracking prey in the dense forest—showed a flicker of confusion as he looked at her, as if he hadn’t quite understood.
When he returned from hunting, he was always covered in the same scents. Normally, his wife would at most complain, “You’re dirty again,” and then rush to check the prey, calculating how much grain or salt could be exchanged, or which meat should be preserved and which should be given fresh to the nursing daughter-in-law.
Telling him to wash? That had never happened.
In the mountains, which man didn’t carry a bit of wild scent on him?
Li Lanxiang felt slightly uneasy under his gaze, realizing she might have said the wrong thing, inadvertently revealing her unfamiliarity.
But the blood smell made her head spin.
She inhaled quietly, avoiding his probing eyes, and instead asked: “What… did you bring back today?”
Mentioning prey, Wang Dashan’s attention immediately shifted, and his momentary confusion faded.
He turned slightly, seeming about to gesture, then realized his hands were also bloodstained, so he simply said:
“Luck was okay. Two rabbits, plump. Three pheasants, their feathers bright, should sell well. Also…”
He paused, lowering his voice slightly:
“A badger, not big, but fatty. I’ll prepare it, render the oil, and it’ll help you and Xinghua recover your strength.”
When he said, “help you and Xinghua recover,” his tone was natural, as if this were a matter of course.
Badger fat helped wounds heal.
Li Lanxiang’s mind immediately recalled this piece of common knowledge from the original owner’s memory.
Had he deliberately sought it out?
A faint warmth spread in her chest, and the discomfort from the blood smell seemed to be partially replaced by something more grounded.
She murmured softly, lowering her eyes:
“Then… you should go take care of it quickly. It’s getting dark, you won’t see well. Have Shizhu boil some hot water for you to wash with, don’t use cold water.”
These words, more specific than the earlier simple “go wash up,” sounded like the everyday nagging of a wife.
The confusion in Wang Dashan’s eyes eased, replaced by a steady sense of reassurance at being understood.
He nodded and said gruffly:
“Got it. You lie down, don’t worry.”
After a glance at Li Lanxiang’s pale face, he turned and lifted the door curtain, leaving.
Footsteps headed toward the water tank in the courtyard, and soon his rough voice could be heard calling to his youngest son, Shizhu.
Li Lanxiang listened to the sounds outside, slowly exhaling and leaning back against the kang.
The pain at her temple still throbbed faintly, but like everything around her, it felt vivid and real.
The metallic blood smell seemed to fade, replaced by the rising scent of cooking smoke from the kitchen and the low murmur of father and son in the courtyard.
This unfamiliar husband, this unfamiliar home, the tangible, living smell of survival—all reminded her that the Li Lanxiang who had waited, suspended in midair, was gone.
Now, this Li Lanxiang must live, firmly planted in this mud-brick house, amidst the smoke and toil of daily life.