Li Xiuxiu’s terrified questioning was like a bucket of icy water, dousing the faint warmth that had just begun to rise.
She pointed at the fragrant bowl of rice porridge, shrinking back uncontrollably, her voice trembling beyond coherence. “Xiaoman… Xiaoman! Th-this… what kind of sorcery is this? You… have you been possessed by something unclean?”
A broken hut beside a mass grave was already a place thick with yin energy.
Her daughter had come back from the brink of death—and could even conjure food out of thin air. Everything had exceeded the limits of what a rural woman of ancient times could comprehend.
Liu Xiaoman didn’t panic. She had expected this reaction long ago—even drafted a response in her mind.
Instead of explaining immediately, she took advantage of her lingering feverish weakness.
Her eyes reddened, and she forced out a few hot tears.
That sallow little face instantly displayed a mix of survival relief, grief, and joy.
Her trembling, bony hand reached out and tightly grasped Li Xiuxiu’s cold wrist. Her voice, thick with sobs, sounded especially clear in the wind-whistling hut:
“Mother… it’s not sorcery! It’s Father! Father saw we were about to starve to death… he came to me in a dream and gave me this divine medicine and immortal porridge!”
“Shitou?” Li Xiuxiu trembled all over, stunned. “You mean… your father came to you in a dream?”
She was already kind and timid, and constantly worried about her husband whose fate was unknown. Liu Xiaoman’s excuse was like a key, instantly unlocking the softest, most defenseless part of her heart.
Seeing this, Liu Xiaoman quickly pressed on while the iron was hot, adding more convincing details to the lie.
Sniffling, she continued in broken sentences: “Father was wearing a brand-new officer’s robe—he looked so imposing! He said… he’s doing well over there, became a young general… he’s just worried about the three of us.”
Imitating the tone of the original owner’s father from memory, she went on, “Father said he saw I had a high fever and was about to die, and it broke his heart. He begged the King of Hell and got this divine medicine and a bowl of immortal porridge to send back. He said the medicine will cure me, and the porridge will give us strength… so we must live well and wait for him to return!”
“Sorry, Father Liu Shitou—borrowing your name for now. Once I make it big, I’ll build you a golden statue and offer incense every day!” Liu Xiaoman joked inwardly without guilt, while her face remained full of longing and sorrow.
To Li Xiuxiu, who had already fallen into despair, these words were like a blessing from the heavens.
Her husband wasn’t dead—he had even become an official in the underworld and could send things back! Fear was instantly replaced by overwhelming grief and a flicker of hope. She hugged Liu Xiaoman and burst into loud sobs:
“My Shitou! You died so miserably! And you still worry about us…”
The crisis was temporarily resolved. Liu Xiaoman quietly let out a sigh of relief. The most important thing now was to recover her strength.
Without hesitation, she picked up the red-and-white capsule and swallowed it with a mouthful of warm porridge.
A stream of warmth slid down her throat into her stomach. The medicine seemed to take effect instantly, dispersing the burning pain in her lungs and the chill in her limbs.
She pushed the sturdy white porcelain bowl firmly toward Li Xiuxiu and said in an unquestionable tone:
“Mother, you and Congming eat quickly! Father is watching—we need strength to live!”
The rich aroma of rice aggressively filled the air. Li Xiuxiu and Liu Congming couldn’t remember the last time they had smelled pure white rice.
Liu Congming stared at the bowl, drool dripping from the corner of his mouth into a small puddle.
But Li Xiuxiu shook her head repeatedly and pushed the bowl back. “No, Xiaoman, you’re sick. You eat—you need it to recover!”
Liu Congming also looked at his sister obediently. Though his stomach growled loudly with hunger, he shook his head hard and didn’t dare reach out.
“Mother!” Liu Xiaoman suddenly hardened her expression, forcing herself to sit halfway up. Her dark, bright eyes shone with unprecedented determination. “Father said the three of us must live together! Not one of us can be left behind! One bite each—no one gets left out! If you don’t eat, you’re disobeying Father!”
Her firm, unquestionable attitude stunned Li Xiuxiu once again.
That was right—this was the immortal porridge her husband had risked everything to send back. It was their hope of survival.
With tears in her eyes, she nodded and carefully lifted the bowl, as if holding a priceless treasure.
Using the chipped edge of the broken bowl, she scooped a small spoonful, blew on it repeatedly, and then shakily fed it to Liu Congming.
He eagerly opened his mouth and swallowed the warm, soft porridge.
A sweetness he had never experienced before exploded across his taste buds.
A faint sparkle seemed to appear in his previously dull eyes as he smacked his lips and mumbled, “Porridge… sweet… sis…”
Li Xiuxiu fed him another bite before finally taking a small sip herself.
The warm porridge slid down her cracked throat into her empty stomach, soothing her so deeply she nearly cried.
At last, she fed some to Liu Xiaoman as well.
A simple bowl of white rice porridge, shared among the three in that dilapidated hut, was eaten one small bite at a time with utmost care—as if they were performing a sacred ritual.
It was the first real food they had eaten since being driven out of their home—the food that would keep them alive.
After taking the medicine and eating the porridge, Liu Xiaoman felt her temperature slowly dropping. A faint strength began to return to her body.
The dizziness from the fever faded, and her mind grew clearer.
The three huddled tightly together in the biting cold night, sharing the lingering warmth of the porridge, gaining long-lost warmth and hope.
Meanwhile, in the main house of the Liu family estate, dinner was coming to an end.
On the table sat only a basin of watery wild vegetable gruel and a few limp salted vegetables.
Wang Jinhua fished around in the basin with her chopsticks for a long time without finding even a few grains of rice, complaining unhappily, “It’s all because of those burdens. If we didn’t have to feed them, we could’ve added another handful of rice to the pot!”
Old Madam Tian lowered her eyelids and snorted coldly. “Enough. It’s peaceful now. That sickly girl is probably already cold by now. Tomorrow morning, have the eldest go take a look and find a place to bury her so she doesn’t start stinking.”
They never could have imagined that the person they thought was certain to die had not only survived, but was now eating pure white rice porridge they themselves wouldn’t dare to eat.
The western side of the hut leaked wind, bringing cold—but it couldn’t stop the rich, sweet aroma of the porridge from drifting outward.
To villagers accustomed to coarse grains and bran cakes, this scent was downright irresistible.
The night wind carried the fragrance far away—right into the nose of Wang Jinhua, who had just stepped out of the latrine.
She sniffed hard, suspicion appearing on her face. “Where is that rice smell coming from? So fragrant… like polished rice porridge from a wealthy household…”
Following the scent step by step, she headed toward the mass grave and eventually stopped not far from the broken hut.
In the darkness, faint rustling footsteps drew closer.
Suddenly, a sharp, biting female voice tore through the night, approaching from afar, filled with jealousy and malice:
“I knew I heard something! You jinxes—kicked out and still not behaving, secretly eating something good!”
Before the words had even finished, the footsteps had already stopped at the hut’s entrance.
A tall, gaunt shadow was cast onto the broken door by the pale moonlight. That familiar tone—
It was their aunt, Wang Jinhua.