Chapter 30.2

The brutal heat of the afternoon sun bore down like a hammer, baking the general’s tent in its relentless glare. Inside, the air was thick—almost suffocating—with the sharp, metallic scent of blood. Zhou Yinuo stood rigid, his back straight as an iron rod, a living contrast to the bloody stains smeared across his rattan armor.

Across from him, the old general sat, a hardened relic of countless battles, his eyes like cold, unforgiving steel. He studied Zhou Yinuo with a sharp, piercing gaze that made the younger man shift under its weight.

Wang Qianhu, his voice rough and seasoned by years of war, broke the silence. "General," he began, his tone edged with admiration and curiosity, "I always thought this rattan armor was nothing more than lightweight baggage, good for lugging supplies. But who would’ve guessed it could actually stop a blade?"

He gestured to Zhou Yinuo, letting his words hang for emphasis. "I tested it myself—straight up. Sure, a blade might scrape it, but it doesn’t break through. Not even close."

The old general’s sharp eyes flicked to the blood-streaked armor, his gaze intense and probing. He finally spoke, his voice low and steady, each word deliberate. "With something this effective, why didn’t you report it sooner?"

Zhou Yinuo didn’t hesitate. Dropping to one knee, he declared, his voice firm and ringing with conviction, "This rattan armor," he held it aloft, the bloodied evidence gleaming in the dim light, "was woven by my wife’s own hands. She treated it with tung oil, swearing it would make the rattan impenetrable. A gift for my service, yes—but I never dared to bring it to the battlefield until now. I doubted its strength, fearing to boast without proof. Today, it has proven its worth."

Wang Qianhu let out a hearty chuckle, his face lighting up as he clapped a hand on a nearby soldier’s shoulder. "This man here," he said, grinning, "is the kind of treasure you stumble on during a campaign and never let go. Remember those hellish nights on the march? When setting up camp felt like a cruel joke, the wind biting so hard it left your bones aching? We were all dead on our feet, too tired to even think about cooking. And this guy—he pulls out a pouch of dried shrimp, seasoned with ginger powder, like it’s nothing. Toss it into a pot, and bam—instant warmth, instant relief. That ginger aroma hit the air, and suddenly, the cold didn’t feel so deadly."

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, "Let me tell you, that ginger powder? It’s not just seasoning—it’s a damn lifesaver. Got us sweating even in the bitterest winds, chased off chills, kept colds at bay. I pushed for it to be used across the whole army after that. A small thing, sure, but it made a hell of a difference on those long, brutal marches."

Zhou Yinuo added with quiet pride, "The ginger powder, fried with dried shrimp, was prepared by my wife as well. She warned me before I left: ‘The northern winds are fierce enough to kill. Eat this often, and you won’t catch your death.’ She was right, as always."

The tent fell silent for a moment, the weight of their words settling. The old general gave a small, knowing nod, his eyes glinting with newfound respect.

The old general's eyes crinkled at the edges, a flicker of mischief dancing in their depths. His voice, rough and low, rolled out like thunder. “Intriguing,” he drawled. “This wife of yours—she’s no ordinary woman, is she? Clever, sharp, and far-sighted enough to even gift you your name, if I’m to believe what Wang Dong says.”

Zhou Yinuo bowed his head, the gesture reverent yet firm. “Indeed, General. She didn’t just name me; she molded me. She took the time to teach me the written word, piece by painstaking piece. It’s her persistence that pulled me from the shadows of ignorance and placed me before Wang Daren’s gaze.”

A flicker of emotion warmed Zhou Yinuo’s expression, his voice carrying both gratitude and pride. “Wang Daren saw what others ignored—a soldier without letters but brimming with potential. He took me under his wing, guided me, and shaped me. Thanks to him, and the foundation my wife laid, I now wield the pen as surely as the sword. I’m no longer at the mercy of others to read or write for me.”

The old general’s laugh was a deep, throaty rumble. “With a wife like that,” he teased, his grin sharp, “it’s no surprise Wang Dong thinks you’ll soon be a literary general.”

Wang Qianhu interjected with an approving smirk. “Not just literary, General. Zhou Yinuo’s strength is unmatched. He handles a cleaver like an extension of his arm, and I’d wager the blood on him now isn’t his own. And let’s not forget—this man once camped on a mountain for three days to bring down a tiger, all to win the hand of that wise woman. Strength and wit? He’s destined for greatness.”

The old general nodded slowly, his expression hardening with a mix of respect and determination. “In times like these,” he said, voice gritty, “valor and cunning are what rise to the top. A man who fights with heart can reach any height—even general. Literacy isn’t the deciding factor here—it’s what you spill on the battlefield that counts. Zhou Yinuo, these are hard times. Our coffers are empty; supplies are scarce. Yet, that rattan armor your wife crafted has proven invaluable.”

Zhou Yinuo leaned forward, his tone urgent. “General, the rattan armor may be light and comfortable for everyday use, especially with its quick-release buckle. But in a fire attack, it’s vital to shed it instantly. That buckle is our saving grace.”

The old general ran a rough hand over the armor, his fingers lingering over the weave. His voice dropped, laced with admiration. “A remarkable design,” he murmured. “Production might take some adjustment, but rattan is plentiful, and this lightweight armor gives us an edge. An entire army outfitted like this—flexible, quick, unencumbered? Unstoppable. With warriors like Zhou Yinuo wearing it, victory would be assured.”

Wang Qianhu dropped to one knee, his voice ringing out with passion. “My congratulations, General, on acquiring such a brilliant young leader in Zhou Yinuo.”

The old general chuckled, a gruff, satisfied sound. “Well-deserved praise,” he said, his voice booming with approval. “But don’t let it swell your head, boy. This is just the start. You’ll earn your rank under Wang Dong’s watchful eye. Keep your humility—it’ll serve you well. And rest assured, your courage won’t go unnoticed. I’ll see to it the Emperor himself hears of your deeds.”

Wang Dong, grinning, crossed his arms. “As long as the old general doesn’t think I’m just some flashy braggart,” he quipped, “I’ll take that as a victory.”

The old general let out a deep, throaty chuckle, his gaze cutting sharp as his finger pointed with playful intent at Wang Dong. "Ah, still sore about *that*, are we?" His booming laugh filled the air, rich and unrestrained, as if he could peel away your defenses with its sheer warmth.

Zhou Yinuo’s hands traced over the familiar ridges of his rattan armor, now returned after a thorough two-day inspection. His fingertips lingered on the faint white scars, subtle yet permanent. That worn texture carried him straight back—back to her. The image burned sharp in his mind: his wife, steadfast and waiting, her patience unshakable. Even now, in the thick of duty, she was there with him. Silent. Steady. An unspoken promise that wrapped around him like a balm.

But something else simmered beneath the surface, unexpected and intoxicating—the thought that men like him, who spent their lives under military command, could carve out something more. Could earn merit. Could rise. And if that were true… if he could climb those rungs high enough…

Then maybe, just maybe, Dingxiang could hold her head high, free from the scornful eyes and loose-lipped judgments of those who never looked past the grime of a soldier’s life.

The thought burned in his chest, searing and undeniable. His every instinct—fierce, possessive—roared to prove to her, to the world, that marrying him was no sacrifice. No burden. No chains.

No. Marrying him would be her triumph. The doorway to a life they’d never dared dream of—a future brighter, bolder, and worthy of the fire she had always given him.

*

Song Dingxiang sneezed sharply, irritation curling through her like a bad habit as she kicked the blanket off and sat up.

Summer’s final, sticky grip hadn’t loosened its claws, twisting autumn into nothing but a pathetic aftertaste—heat still humming heavy in the air, stripped of all its charm. There was no cool reprieve, no crisp breeze to brush against her skin. Instead, the weight of it pressed in like a hand on her throat, smothering, maddening.

And the mosquitoes? Those bloodthirsty little bastards thrived in this hellish limbo. Mugwort smoke, once a reliable savior, lay in thin gray ribbons, mocking her with its failure. It didn’t matter how many coils she burned; those winged demons still feasted on her like she was their last meal. Red, angry bites marred her skin—her arms, her neck, even the delicate curve of her cheek—ruthlessly claiming territory that wasn’t theirs.

She’d always been the mosquitoes’ favorite flavor, and apparently, that hadn’t changed. It was as if her skin carried some secret allure—a delectable promise that turned her into a full-course meal under the stars. Summers had always been a battlefield for her: closing the windows meant suffocating in the stagnant heat, sweating and swearing her way through sleepless nights. Leaving them open? An open invitation to winged invaders and buzzing misery.

But this world was crueler still. There was no air conditioning here, no sweet hum of a fan, not even a cheap tin of mosquito repellent to give her an edge. No, that luxury was far beyond their meager reach. She had fought and suffered this entire summer—tossing and turning, slick with sweat, scratching herself raw, and cursing every mosquito that dared hum near her ear.

Finally, she sighed—a slow, heavy thing that seemed to drain the last bit of patience from her bones—and rose with a languid grace, stretching her arms overhead like a cat. The satisfying creak of the wooden chair beneath her was almost comforting, a small, familiar sound in a world that gave her so little.

Sunlight streamed in through the streaked windowpanes, catching the clay pots lined up like soldiers on the nearby table. In one of them, her prize awaited: weeks of waiting, stirring, and tending now distilled into something beautiful. The soy sauce.

With quiet anticipation, she approached, leaning over to peer inside. A few days ago, she’d dared a taste, and the memory still lingered on her tongue. It had been sharp, complex, and utterly intoxicating—an earthy, savory depth that made every market-bought bottle seem like a pale joke.

Today, though, it was no longer a rough draft of brine and bean. The transformation was complete. The surface shimmered in the sunlight, dark as mahogany, deep as the evening sky just after sunset. The aroma that rose up hit her like a lover’s kiss—thick, rich, and full of promise. It swirled in the air, all toasted wheat and brine-laced sweetness, laced with the kind of depth only patience could achieve.

It was the scent of success. Of triumph over mediocrity. A small smile played at her lips as she ran a finger along the rim of the pot, her satisfaction blooming as deep and slow as the sauce itself. This was her work, her magic—a world away from the cheap and lifeless sludge sold in shops. This was hers.

And it was damn good.

This—oh, this was no mere taste; it was an orchestration, a symphony that played wild and unruly across her tongue. The first bite was a kiss—sharp, clean salt crashing like waves on her senses. But that was just the overture. From there, the flavor sank deeper, richer, unfurling into something meaty, complex, and lingering long after the swallow, leaving its mark like a lover’s touch.

It was the kind of reward earned only through hours of care, patience, and quiet, stubborn devotion—each stir, each day nurturing her creation into a small-batch masterpiece.

Fang Shi had scoffed at her efforts in the beginning, chiding her for wasting good ingredients. But oh, how sweet it was now—seeing the flicker of reluctant admiration in his gaze as he stepped forward to lend a hand. Each slow, deliberate stir of those jars spoke volumes: his critique had simmered into respect.

But the soy sauce was only half the story. Song Dingxiang had worked her magic yet again, conjuring three hulking jars of chili bean paste—fiery, pungent, and unmistakably alive. The air in her kitchen was thick with its heady scent, a blend of raw heat and savory depth so rich it hung there like the promise of sin.

The chilies had been defiant, thriving where nothing else would, bold little things that rose from barren, rocky soil to deliver a harvest to be reckoned with. She’d spent weeks grinding those peppers down, her hands red with effort, coaxing their fiery bodies into a coarse, sultry paste. The fermentation, slow and deliberate, married the soybeans to the chilies, creating something irresistible—something primal.

The result? A thick, glossy crimson paste freckled with hints of earthy brown. One taste promised it all: sweetness that teased, fire that commanded, and a depth that made you close your eyes just to savor it. From that crimson glory, some was transformed into garlic chili sauce—an explosive condiment so bold it had become the reigning star of the Song family table.

It sat there at every meal like a centerpiece of unapologetic decadence, a red so vivid it blazed against the porcelain bowls. Song Zhiyuan, the boy who once wept at the mere scent of spice, now swiped his steamed bun through it with a grin, smearing it on thick, unbothered and cocky. Each bite was fireworks—garlicky, sweet, burning—but perfectly balanced, the kind of heat that made you crave more. How far he’d come: from scrunched-up noses and tear-filled eyes to finding comfort in the fire.

Maybe it was more than just food. Maybe it was a reflection of them all—tradition colliding with youthful rebellion, the old ways simmering with something fiery and new until they blended, harmonious and whole.

Outside, the world hummed with the rhythm of autumn, cool air sharp and clear as it swept across fields painted gold and amber. Farmers had sewn their winter wheat with meticulous care, rows carved into the earth like prayers whispered into the soil. The summer sun had been kind—too kind, perhaps—leaving granaries swollen and hearts full of hope. Now, with the scent of a bumper crop on the wind, there was a collective breath held in anticipation.

Old hands, weathered and wise, gripped tools with a familiar confidence, their knowing smiles breaking the lines of their faces. The promise of harvests yet to come hovered like the aroma of freshly baked bread, warm and inviting—a prelude to winter’s comforting embrace.

And in the midst of it all, the Fourth Old Song household pulsed with an energy that matched the season. While others turned inward, ready for the quiet of winter, this family buzzed with purpose. Their kitchen was a battlefield, their storeroom a treasury, their hands never idle.

Winter wasn’t for hibernation here. It was for creation. And oh, the world would taste what they had to offer.

Song Zhiyuan’s pork shop is back in action, its doors swinging wide to meet the sizzling demand for hearty winter feasts.

It’s been a bustling day for the family, with everyone rolling up their sleeves to tackle the labor-intensive process of straining. Picture this: vats of soy sauce, fiery garlic chili sauce, and douban chili sauce being carefully filtered to perfection. The air must’ve been thick with the tantalizing aromas of bold spices and fermented goodness.

Three jars of each, methodically strained—clearly, this isn’t their first rodeo. Could their secret weapon be some mysterious ingredient or a time-honored fermentation twist? Whatever it is, it’s working.

At first, chili sauce was treated like the underdog—seen as a spicy gamble compared to the trusted soy sauce. Yet, against all odds, it shattered expectations and blazed its way to becoming the hottest seller. The surprise hit proves one thing: these daring customers are hungry for bold, unapologetic flavors that don’t hold back.

--- T/Note: 豆瓣辣椒酱 (dòubàn jiāoliàjiàng) is a type of Chinese chili paste made from fermented soybeans, chili peppers, salt, and other spices.

It is a staple ingredient in Sichuan cuisine and is used in a variety of dishes, such as mapo tofu, kung pao chicken, and dan dan noodles.

The word 豆瓣 (dòubàn) literally means "fermented soybeans" and 辣椒酱 (jiāoliàjiàng) means "chili paste".

Doubanjiang is made by fermenting soybeans with a mold called koji, which gives the paste its characteristic umami flavor.

The chili peppers are then added to give the paste its spiciness. Other spices, such as garlic, ginger, and Sichuan peppercorns, may also be added.

Doubanjiang is a thick, paste-like condiment that is reddish-brown in color. It has a strong, savory flavor with a hint of sweetness and a moderate amount of heat.

Doubanjiang can be used to add flavor and depth to a variety of dishes. It is often used as a base for stir-fries and sauces, or it can be added to soups and stews. Doubanjiang can also be used as a dipping sauce or spread.