Chapter 2: The Poor Husband

Shi Yue awoke to the sound of coughing and the chill of morning wind slipping through the cracks in the wooden walls.

He wrapped the thin blanket tighter around himself, glaring at the patchy window.

No glass. Just a sheet of oiled paper fluttering.

He sighed. “Right. Ancient world problems.”

The cold bit into his bones. He shuffled out of bed, bare feet touching the cracked floor. There were no slippers.

The room was nearly empty — a wooden table with one chipped bowl, a stool missing a leg, and a bucket of stale water in the corner.

He opened the door.

Outside, Han Liang was splitting firewood with calm precision. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing lean arms lined with old scars.

Shi Yue cleared his throat.

Han Liang turned toward him, nodding once.

“You should stay in bed. It’s cold.”

“I noticed,” Shi Yue said dryly. “Do we have anything other than rice water to eat?”

Han Liang hesitated. “We have some old radish and millet. I was going to make porridge.”

“Just porridge?” Shi Yue frowned. “Anything else? Eggs? Flour?”

A pause.

“…We don’t raise chickens. And we can’t afford flour.”

Shi Yue raised an eyebrow. “Can’t afford flour? It’s the cheapest grain.”

“Not when you don’t have copper.”

Shi Yue stood there for a moment, the wind tugging at his sleeves.

Alright, so they were seriously poor.

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Back inside, Shi Yue looked around the kitchen — if you could call it that.

The stove was made of stone, soot-covered and full of ash. A single pot sat there, dented and cracked. No proper storage, no tools, no spices except coarse salt in a paper pouch.

Even the oil lamp was low on oil.

Shi Yue pinched the bridge of his nose. “God... You really dropped me into a life of hardship.”

But he didn’t cry. He’d lived worse before — foster homes, part-time jobs, ramen for weeks. At least here, he had a roof and a husband who wasn’t violent.

He turned to Han Liang, who stood awkwardly by the doorway.

“Let me cook today.”

“You’re still weak.”

“I’m not made of glass. Just get me the radish and millet.”

Han Liang nodded and disappeared. A few minutes later, he returned with a withered radish, a handful of dusty millet, and… one onion. Shi Yue nearly kissed it.

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Using what little he had, Shi Yue chopped the radish finely, soaked the millet in water, fried a portion of the onion in salt over the weak fire, and made something halfway flavorful — a hot porridge with a golden oil drizzle and soft-crunchy radish topping.

He served it in two bowls and pushed one toward Han Liang.

The man stared at it, visibly surprised.

Shi Yue smirked. “Eat. I promise it won’t kill you.”

Han Liang took a bite — and blinked.

Shi Yue noticed. “Good?”

“…Better than usual.”

Shi Yue chuckled. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my cooking.”

For a moment, the air between them warmed.

After breakfast, Shi Yue began cleaning. The house was coated in dust. Rat droppings in corners. Cobwebs under the bed. The smell of mildew clung to everything.

Han Liang offered to help, but Shi Yue shook his head.

“You go chop more wood. I’ll handle this.”

He rolled up his sleeves and got to work — sweeping, scrubbing with boiled water and salt, fixing the bed mat with twine. From the backroom, he found an old shirt and tore it to make rags. He set up a system to store tools, dried herbs, and cooking ingredients.

By evening, the house still looked poor… but cleaner. Lighter. More alive.

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That night, as they sat by the stove with their feet soaking in warm water, Han Liang glanced at him.

“You’re… different now.”

Shi Yue looked at him. “Do you mind?”

Han Liang shook his head. “No. You… seem happier. More alive.”

Shi Yue gave a small, tired smile.

“Maybe I am.”

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