She gritted her teeth and suddenly pushed the door open.
A thick stench of mildew mixed with dust rushed out, carrying an even stronger, nauseating smell of decay.
Ye Qing looked closely and saw a curled-up figure lying on the bed. The person was covered with an old quilt. His white hair was visible, and the back of his hand exposed outside the blanket was nothing but skin and bone—it was Old Man Chen.
He lay motionless, as if in a deep sleep.
On the small stool by the bed was a clay bowl, still holding half a bowl of blackened medicine soup.
Her heart gave a hard jolt.
He really hadn’t left with the evacuation group.
She lightened her steps and moved closer to the bed, her throat tightening.
“Grandpa Chen?”
No response.
Biting her lip, she leaned in further and reached out to touch the quilt.
But just as her fingers were about to make contact, a gust of wind blew in through the broken window and lifted the blanket’s edge.
Underneath was a face covered in white maggots, sunken eye sockets, and a twisted mouth frozen in its final moments.
“Aaah—!”
Ye Qing’s scalp exploded with terror. A chill shot from her feet straight to her head. She screamed and turned to run into the courtyard.
Her foot caught on the threshold and she fell hard. Her palm scraped against the ground and bled, but she didn’t feel the pain. Scrambling up on hands and knees, she leaned against the wall, gasping violently.
She had never been this close to a corpse before—let alone one so grotesque.
Even though the sun was scorching hot, her whole body felt cold, trembling uncontrollably. The image of that face kept replaying in her mind.
He hadn’t left with the village group… then when did he die? Did he die alone, just like her?
She leaned against the wall for a long time before finally regaining control of her trembling legs.
Facing the west wing, she bowed deeply.
“Grandpa Chen… I really have no other choice but to come here for things. If you’re watching from above, please… please forgive me.”
She didn’t dare look back at the room. Bracing herself, she shut the west wing door tightly and wedged it with a stick before heading to the main house.
The layout of the main house was similar to the west wing: a bed, a table, and a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. She quickly scanned the room.
She opened the chest first.
Inside was a small bag of coarse grain, several packets of powdered medicine labeled simply for coughs, bruises, and wound-stopping.
At the bottom was a thin cotton quilt, dry and fluffy, clearly sun-dried and stored away.
There were also several sets of coarse men’s clothes, a few feet of fine cloth, a household register, and a sewing kit with scissors and thread.
In the pouch she even found a small piece of broken silver and a few copper coins.
There wasn’t much else useful.
In the kitchen she found a small iron pot about the size of a bowl—rusted at the edges but intact, perfect for cooking.
In the stove compartment were two fire starters. On the spice rack was a jar of salt and other seasonings. On the cutting board lay a kitchen knife, bowls, chopsticks, and spoons. In the corner was half a basket of dried vegetables.
Hanging under the eaves were farming tools: a machete, a sickle, and a hoe—far better than the worn-out tools she currently had.
Ye Qing didn’t hesitate. She replaced all her old tools with these better ones.
Behind the kitchen door she found a backpack basket. She carefully placed coarse grain, medicinal powder, silver, and copper coins at the bottom.
Salt, spices, and dried vegetables were wrapped and tucked into the gaps. The thin quilt and coarse clothes were tied on top, and finally she added the small iron pot and kitchen knife.
She took down the bow and arrows with care and slung them over her shoulder.
From now on, these would likely be everything she had to survive.
Before leaving, she couldn’t help but glance back at the west wing. A sour ache filled her chest.
She found a few wooden planks and nails and carefully boarded up the west wing door and windows, sealing them tightly so that wild dogs or cats wouldn’t disturb it.
It was the last bit of peace she could give Old Man Chen and this empty house.
She returned to the Ye household with her pack and went straight to the main room where Old Ye Second lived.
The room was simple but more spacious and sturdy than the woodshed.
She knew her injuries hadn’t fully healed and her body was still weak. If she set out now, she might not even survive the road before encountering danger.
So for the next few days, she had to recover properly.
She laid the thin quilt over a wooden board, built a small stove with mud bricks, set the iron pot on top, and added dry branches. After washing some coarse rice, she poured in water and began cooking rice porridge.
The firelight flickered across her face.
She touched the scabbed wound on her back and couldn’t help but smile faintly.
Once she recovered, maybe this frail body could regain a bit of strength.
She was actually looking forward to it.
About ten minutes later, the rich scent of rice filled the air. Her stomach growled even harder.
Unable to wait for it to cool, she added a little salt and started eating directly from the pot with a spoon.
She could confidently say this was the most delicious porridge she had ever had.
She slept deeply that night.
After several meals, her body slowly began to recover. At least some color returned to her face, and she no longer felt unsteady when walking.
She began deliberately exercising, doing stretching and basic martial movements she had learned in her previous life—simple exercises suitable for her weak body—to rebuild strength and coordination.
Wang Guihua was truly vicious. Those kicks still left a dull pain in her chest.
She then remembered the herbal book titled Records of Herbs. Many of the characters were similar to modern ones, so she guessed her way through it.
She took out Old Man Chen’s medicinal bundles and found the one for anti-inflammatory and swelling relief. Inside were dried dandelion, mugwort, and several unknown roots.
Dandelion reduced swelling, mugwort dispelled dampness.
She crushed a few pieces, tossed them into the pot, and added half a jar of water.
Soon the water began to boil, releasing a faint herbal fragrance.
After boiling for two or three rounds, she extinguished the fire and let the decoction steep.
While it cooled, she removed her torn clothes, revealing scraped wounds on her back and old scars from Wang Guihua’s beatings layered with new injuries—so many it was painful to look at.
Once the herbal water cooled slightly, she scooped out a bowl, tested it with her fingertip, and only then carefully began applying it to her wounds.