At the market, I bought twenty kilograms of pork and headed back, thinking that if Feng Wushuang and Feng Shiqiao didn’t return home in the evening, they’d probably stay in town. I checked out two inns specifically for long-haul truck drivers on the highway, picked a few decent rooms, and booked them temporarily so they’d have a place to stay.
After all, with Yi Miao and Lian Xiaoyao already staying with us, squeezing in a few more people just wasn’t feasible. I glanced at the time—it was already 3 p.m. The day had flown by. Everything that had happened felt like a dream.
Back home, my mother had already tidied up the messy courtyard. A few helpers from the Zhe family’s restaurant had taken their things back. I returned the borrowed tables and chairs to the neighbors, and finally, the place was quiet. All those officials, big and small, with their various faces, had long since taken off.
Feng Shiqiao sat with a pot of bitter tea in front of him—the kind that cost five yuan per pound. He wasn’t used to it, and with each sip, his brow furrowed tighter. My mother sat in her chair, saying little. Siblings usually bond because they grow up eating together, fighting, and spending years building that connection.
But apart from the name Feng Qingyu, my mother’s memories and experiences had nothing to do with Feng Shiqiao. Sitting together, they had almost nothing to say to each other.
My mother’s world was just our small village and our little family—simple, unsophisticated, never one for schemes.
Feng Shiqiao was a businessman, used to all kinds of social settings, smooth-talking to whoever he met.
The only thing that sparked any conversation was Feng Wushuang. She had met my mother in Jiangcheng before, though neither had expected things to turn out this way. My father’s joke back then had somehow become reality.
I asked, “Feng Wushuang, are we really cousins?”
Feng Wushuang replied, “Absolutely. Medical proof doesn’t lie. Oh, I even brought the report.”
My mother hurriedly put on her reading glasses as Feng Wushuang explained. Neither of us fully understood, but after all that talk, I now had a cousin.
Feng Shiqiao suddenly called out, “Sister. Our father is in the U.S. right now—it’s still nighttime there. Maybe you could give him a call later?”
My mother said coldly, “Mr. Feng, I don’t want to call him.”
Feng Shiqiao looked awkward, lifting the bitter tea to his lips. He took a sip and immediately coughed. The tea was too harsh, too strong—nothing like the refined Da Hong Pao or Longjing he was used to.
“Sister,” he tried again, “Father has made it clear many times that if we found you, you’d receive a substantial inheritance. It could give you a life ten times better than now.”
My mother raised a finger and shouted, “Get out! Get out right now!”
Feng Shiqiao didn’t understand why she was so angry.
My father, hearing her words, grabbed a broom and started sweeping the floor aggressively. “You heard her. Leave.”
Feng Shiqiao called “Sister” twice more, but my mother ignored him.
I gave him a slight push. “We’re doing just fine as we are, Mr. Feng. Please go.”
Feng Shiqiao and Feng Wushuang were practically swept out of the house. They lingered in the courtyard, but with no resolution, they eventually left by car, saying they’d visit again later.
Feng Wushuang sent me a helpless text: *Xiao Qi, please try to talk some sense into Auntie.*
I didn’t reply.
Despite her anger, my mother still saw Feng Shiqiao off before returning to preparing for the New Year. With everything settled, it was time to make pastries, roast peanuts, and prepare tofu. She acted like nothing had happened, but I knew she was hurting inside.
Yi Miao told me, “Feng Shiqiao might seem honest, but inviting your mother back is no good deed.”
I thought it over and suddenly understood.
The worst part was that Feng Shiqiao had already painted my mother as greedy—as if she’d only return for the inheritance.
*No merchant is without deceit.* That saying held true.
Feng Shiqiao was far more cunning than he appeared. For someone like him, dealing with a family like ours would be child’s play. TV dramas are full of inheritance battles—royal families fighting for thrones, commoners suing over money, relationships ruined forever.
In this case, my mother was right.
She didn’t want anything to do with them.
Turns out, the older ginger is, the spicier it is.
By nightfall, we roasted peanuts—grown in my father’s fields. A large wok heated over a wood fire, filled with half a bucket of fine sand. Yi Miao volunteered, claiming to be an expert at roasting peanuts.
I was happy to let him do it. Once the peanuts were done, he could continue his story about what really happened behind the Sanqing Mountain Taoist temple.
That night, as he told the tale, I munched on peanuts. Nothing could be better.
Roasting peanuts requires skill. The first batch of two jin went in, but before long, they were burnt. My father shook his head. “This is an old man’s job.”
Yi Miao just laughed. “No worries. We’ll serve these burnt ones to the story listeners.”
Having wandered for so long, Yi Miao rarely celebrated the New Year like this. He’d promised to spend it with us and threw himself into every task. After helping roast peanuts, he went to watch my mother make tofu.
The soybeans had been planted in May, harvested in September, dried, and stored in jars upstairs. Though thieves had stolen our rice, they’d left the beans. After soaking them in well water, my mother, amused by Yi Miao’s curiosity, let him help with the small hand mill.
The well water was warm, not cold at all, and Yi Miao washed everything meticulously.
Once the beans were ready, they were ground by hand. Since it was just for us, they didn’t need to make much. My mother poured water while turning the mill, and Yi Miao fetched more water from the well.
The ground beans were wrapped in clean cloth and pressed, yielding white soy milk and leftover pulp. Then, gypsum was added to the milk, turning it into tofu pudding. Placed in a wooden frame, wrapped in cloth, and pressed under a heavy stone, it soon became firm tofu.
Lian Xiaoyao and Xie Xiaoyu bustled inside, with Xiao Jian and the kitten watching. Lian Xiaoyao, clever with her hands, quickly cut out beautiful paper window decorations, earning Xie Xiaoyu’s admiration.
Once the peanuts were done, my mother served everyone a bowl of tofu pudding with fine white sugar—delicious.
With everything ready, Yi Miao resumed his story about Sanqing Mountain.
I munched on fragrant peanuts, sipped sweet tofu pudding, and listened to the tale—this was what the New Year should feel like.
Yi Miao straightened up. “To finish the story of Jiangxi’s Sanqing Mountain is no simple task. I’ll push through and tell you everything that happened next. But don’t be shocked—because the real excitement is just beginning.”
…
Last time, Yi Miao mentioned discovering a thatched hut behind one of Sanqing Mountain’s peaks. Built of wood, it had a neglected vegetable garden and withered pumpkin vines that had been dead for years.
After calling out a few times with no response, he entered and found an overturned alchemy furnace—similar to the one belonging to the Taoist immortal Lao Jun. Since the famous alchemist Ge Hong had once practiced on Sanqing Mountain, Yi Miao assumed this furnace was his, steeped in history.
The furnace was massive—big enough for a person to crawl inside.
For some reason, Yi Miao’s brain misfired. He saw the furnace’s size and thought, *Hey, I could fit in there.*
And since he *was* a person…
He climbed inside.
The moment he did, something strange happened.
The open lid suddenly slammed shut.
And the toppled furnace righted itself.
Sounds rustled around him.
Yi Miao pushed against the lid with all his might, but it wouldn’t budge.
Then he remembered—most alchemy furnaces had two lids: one on top, another on the side, like a window. He groped around but found nothing.
Just then, footsteps approached.
Yi Miao shouted, “If you’ve got guts, face me like a man! Hiding while I’m trapped in here—real brave!”
His voice boomed inside the furnace, the echoes deafening.
Then he heard something else—movement.
*Wait… are they lighting a fire?!*
Yi Miao suddenly realized he might suffer the same fate as Sun Wukong in *Journey to the West*—being roasted alive.
But unlike the Monkey King, who survived by hiding in the “Xun position” (a safe spot in the furnace), Yi Miao wasn’t made of indestructible copper skin and iron bones. Half an hour in a blazing furnace, and he’d be cooked.
Humans, like animals, don’t fare well in fire.
First, body hair burns to ash.
Then, moisture evaporates.
Then, fat renders out.
And after that… well, anyone who’s eaten roast duck, suckling pig, or barbecued goose knows exactly how it ends.
Yi Miao was about to become the main course.
Talk about bad luck—getting roasted just because he crawled into a furnace.
Yi Miao yelled, “Hey! Buddy! Boss! Grandpa! You’re not making elixirs here—you’re roasting a person!”
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