Green Food

Be optimistic. Be positive. Every situation has a good side. You must stay positive, think about the best possible outcome, the bright side...

Using the methods taught by the psychological counselor during nighttime training, Wu Qingchen tried hard to motivate himself, and finally found the silver lining.

The benefit was: one less problem to solve—no need to worry about finding a room of his own. In this medieval world, the concept of a “room” in his family simply did not exist.

“Anu, Los, Linkde...”

Wu Qingchen lowered his head. The little girl, holding an empty plate in one hand and tugging at Wu Qingchen’s arm with the other, made no effort to explain herself. Unable to guess her intentions, he simply retreated a few steps in the direction she pulled.

That must have been her request. Wu Qingchen stepped aside, clearing the blocked path, and the girl walked out of the room with her plate.

Standing outside wouldn’t be proper, nor would blocking the doorway—clearly, he was meant to enter.

Gritting his teeth, Wu Qingchen stepped through the “house” door.

The room was permeated with the conflicting odors of smoke and dampness. Thankfully, though unpleasant, it wasn’t overpoweringly foul—much better than what Wu Qingchen had anticipated.

He took a few steps in. The light dimmed considerably. The middle-aged woman who had greeted him earlier was busy with crops in the depths of the house. Two children, whose gender was difficult to determine, rolled around on the bed wrapped in tattered cloth. The father sat on a pitch-black, battered chair. The elder brother was beside him, drinking water from a wooden bowl. The little girl who had just left returned, carrying a plate of beans.

Looking around, Wu Qingchen sat beside the elder brother, found a wooden bowl, poured himself half a cup of water, inspected the color, sniffed it, and shook it to watch a few bubbles rise.

He poured it back.

The bowl was dirty, the water full of floating bits.

But these weren’t the main issues.

This was uncooked stream water.

Another major crisis in the medieval world.

The person who explained this to them was a Lieutenant Zhou. Wu Qingchen remembered him vividly. He didn’t need to close his eyes to recall Zhou’s scar-covered hands, crisscrossed with deep grooves, and Zhou’s earnest, booming voice echoing in his ears:

“Drinking this kind of water can easily cause colds, but more importantly, bacterial infections leading to diarrhea and dehydration. In the absence of medical care, this is a troublesome illness, and severe cases can even be fatal.”

But he was so thirsty.

Despite his thirst, Wu Qingchen neither drank the raw water nor tried to fetch some boiled water from the big pot in the “kitchen.”

In the medieval world, all labor ultimately aimed at food—food was the most precious resource.

The contents of the big pot—he certainly didn’t have the right to help himself yet.

Parched and restless, Wu Qingchen sat uneasily on the chair. Not long after, the room’s light dimmed again as a tall figure entered.

“Idra, Syarun.”

“Syarun.”

Who was this?

Wu Qingchen looked up slightly. The newcomer was tall, with a dark complexion and features somewhat similar to those of the “elder brother” and “father.” He held a long wooden tool and had a wooden bucket slung over his right shoulder.

“Idra, Syarun”—that was what the father said as the tall man entered.

Idra must be his name, and “Syarun” probably meant “You’re back.” Was he another member of the “family”? Another “elder brother”?

It had to be said—after less than a day, Wu Qingchen’s ability to observe and guess had improved to levels he’d never imagined.

Sure enough, Idra went to the depths of the house, set down his tool and bucket, quickly came over to sit beside Wu Qingchen, and patted his shoulder, saying something.

The sentence was complicated; Wu Qingchen couldn’t understand, so he mumbled a few vague syllables in response. Idra seemed unsure, but the father pointed to Wu Qingchen’s throat and explained on his behalf.

Around the dark wooden table, Wu Qingchen found himself seated with three men in a semicircle. They showed clear signs of fatigue, barely spoke, and occasionally drank water in silence.

After some time with the crops, the middle-aged woman went to the “kitchen” to work with the teenage girl. Soon, several large wooden bowls were placed on the dark table.

Food had arrived.

Wu Qingchen was surprised yet again.

Staring at the “food” in the large wooden bowl before him, he searched for words to describe it.

It was indeed...

Purely natural...

Green food...

Very green—green soup, green pods, green mush...

That was it. Each bowl held only a shallow portion.

Three wooden bowls were placed before each of the four men. The middle-aged woman served everyone a bowl of soup, a bowl of beans, and a bowl of mush.

Clearly, her distribution was not equal. The bowls in front of the father and Idra were fullest, those in front of Grace a bit less, and for “Los”—Wu Qingchen—all three bowls were only half-filled.

After these four servings, the three large bowls were left with only a thin layer at the bottom. The woman expertly tilted them, scraping out the last bits of green food into two small bowls, giving one to the little girl who had been waiting, and taking the other for herself, sitting at the wooden stump beside the “kitchen.”

And then... was that the start of the meal?

---

Listening to his father and two brothers eating noisily with wooden spoons, Wu Qingchen stared at his three small bowls, completely devoid of appetite.

The three contents reminded him instantly of the poisonous concoctions brewed by witches in animated films.

Even without such references, the mush itself... could it really count as food?

Gurgle gurgle... Reality would not yield to Wu Qingchen’s will. Not eating clearly violated the logic of medieval life.

After five hours of hard labor, his stomach was already rumbling.

He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and reluctantly lifted the bowl of green soup.

Ten minutes later, Wu Qingchen finished his dinner, eyes rolling back in agony.

The meal was unforgettable.

Its taste was indescribable.

In short, the moment he put the bowl down, Wu Qingchen vowed never to recall the flavor. Even those accustomed to drinking herbal medicine daily would find these green foods a cruel punishment.

More terrifying, everyone else in the house seemed to relish it. The little girl even licked her lips, looking eager for more.

Wu Qingchen couldn’t help but suspect that either his bowl was especially different, or he and the others were simply not the same species.

The middle-aged woman collected his last empty wooden bowl. Dinner was over.

“Los, Delas, Ierchang qici...”

Suddenly, his father turned and spoke a string of syllables to Wu Qingchen. He quickly recalled the points taught by linguists, psychologists, and behaviorists, guessing the sentence was either asking how he ate or how his throat felt.

Wu Qingchen inadvertently touched his throat, nodded slightly, and mumbled a vague reply, covering both possibilities.

His father nodded, said something else, got up and headed deeper into the room. The two brothers followed.

What was happening?

Wu Qingchen hurried after them.

At the corner, before a pile of tools, his father stopped, pointed to a long farm implement, a hook-shaped tool, and a wooden bucket, said a few words to Idra, then pointed to a hand rake, a wooden shovel, and two wooden sticks, and spoke to Grace and Wu Qingchen.

Was this... live-action role-playing? A team game at night?

But he liked to play Venom, not the Panda with sticks.

Accustomed to only this activity after dinner, Wu Qingchen couldn’t help but imagine.

Of course, there were no internet cafés in the medieval world, nor did his father have any intention of gaming. After giving instructions to his three sons, the father left the corner and lay down on the bed near the left side’s wooden wall...

Idra and Grace followed, lying down on another bed...

Was it bedtime already? It couldn’t be past 7 o’clock.

Wu Qingchen understood—there was little entertainment at night in the medieval world, and after a day’s work, his father and brothers were exhausted.

But eating and sleeping immediately seemed excessive.

Looking around, his father and brothers were already asleep. The middle-aged woman was still tidying up, the teenage girl helping, the two toddlers rolling on the bed, the hens, goats, and cows making occasional noises.

He glanced outside—the sun had set, no light remained.

What could he do?

Helpless, after observing the arrangement of the beds, Wu Qingchen lay down beside Grace.

---

Medieval world, five hours later. Earth time, ten minutes later.

In the room next to where Wu Qingchen rested.

A dozen medical observation devices and monitors lined the wall, their terminal sensors directly connected to the bed where Wu Qingchen lay.

All the instruments and screens were switched on, flickering in turn, displaying Wu Qingchen’s physiological data, which fluctuated subtly.

Three doctors in white coats stood by each device. Every thirty seconds, one doctor in each group would press the communicator in their right hand and report: “All normal,” or “Blood pressure fluctuating, all departments take note,” and so on.

In front of these instruments, by a three-meter-long metal table, more than ten doctors had just finished another discussion.

“That’s all, then?” Professor Zhang, leading the meeting, glanced around. The doctors he looked at nodded in agreement.

“Good, final confirmation...”

Without wasting more time, Professor Zhang turned to the screen, carefully reading the conclusion that had been revised several times: “Date, time, thirty-seventh observation result, no abnormal changes, target heart rate 57-61, blood pressure 85-125, muscle response... brain activity... physical activity... In summary, the medical team believes the target remains fatigued, in shallow sleep. Medieval world sleep has no direct impact on the target’s real body... Not recommended to wake.”

“Any further comments?”

Having finished reading, Professor Zhang looked around once more. After confirming there were no objections, he pressed the keyboard’s confirmation button, sending out the finalized report.

---

One second later.

The medical team’s report reached the Intelligence Analysis Center.

Three officers responsible for preliminary screening read the whole report carefully, each adding their own opinion.

---

A minute and a half later.

With three officers’ opinions, one supervisor’s and one team leader’s, the report reached a higher-level intelligence department.

---

Two minutes later.

At a certain military academy’s analysis division.

Taking the report from the officer, Yang Dan glanced at the title, skimmed through the heart rate and blood pressure data, and jumped quickly to the conclusion, grabbing a pen to sign his name.

“Send this to Staff Department Two...”

The officer took the report. Yang Dan pressed his head hard; after seven hours of intensive work, his head throbbed, the veins in his forehead tangled into a mess.

Just like the piles of chaotic, countless files before him.

They came from every corner of the earth, from named and unnamed military departments and research institutions, recording all sorts of intelligence, data, analysis results, proposals, and so on—most impossible to distinguish between important, secondary, or irrelevant.

Worse still, these reports often contradicted each other, clashed, and the only certainty was their ever-growing number and speed.

“Beep...”

Another document emerged from Fax Machine No. 23.

This was an analysis report from France, Europe.

After years at this desk, Yang Dan knew the numbering system by heart.

The officer on duty in Section Four quickly skimmed the report, signed off, and passed it to Yang Dan. The translated content was brief and clear:

French Shared Intelligence (confirmed): Medieval World Year 01, January 01, 18:47, Subject One’s behavior was to assign the next day’s labor.

Analysis Result (confirmed): Key characteristic of the serf class: uncertain labor, i.e., at night, the next day’s work is unknown. Subject’s family status, confirmed not to be serf class.

---

The next day arrived quickly.

“Los... Los...”

Get up... so sleepy... Wu Qingchen rolled over, pushing away the hand tugging at his arm.

“Los... Los!”

So noisy... Wu Qingchen squinted his eyes open, blinked groggily, then suddenly shot up.

Oh no! The alarm didn’t go off... I’m late! Phone, phone, damn, where’s my phone?

He grabbed at the bed, searching frantically, then his hands froze.

Beneath him was not yellow sheets, but hard wood covered with straw. He wore not soft pajamas, but a coarse inner robe.

Why couldn’t this just be a dream... I’m still stuck in this damned place...

Turning around, Grace stood by the bed, staring at Wu Qingchen’s odd behavior with a puzzled expression.

Wu Qingchen touched his face to wake up further, coughed, and mumbled, touching his throat.

Grace didn’t ask anything, waiting quietly for Wu Qingchen to slowly put on his outer robe, following the steps he remembered from last night, then pointed to the two wooden sticks slanted against the bed.

“Ilaha, Deserxide...”

Wu Qingchen could already understand this: “Here you go, let’s go.”

Just as his father had pointed to those sticks last night. Wu Qingchen looked up to see Grace holding the hand rake and wooden shovel their father had indicated.

Grace beckoned, leading the still-groggy Wu Qingchen to the door. Their father was already outside, and as the two came out, he nodded and walked ahead.

Was it time to get to work?

“Big brother...”

Stepping out of the wooden house and looking into the distance, then up at the sky, Wu Qingchen’s eyes filled with tears, unable to suppress his feelings.

He turned to Grace, who had stayed to wake him, and for the first time called out clearly, “Big brother.”

“Everywhere’s pitch black, stars are still in the sky! Big brother, you’re my brother! You’re even worse than Huang Shiren, and Zhou the Skinner never called the chickens at midnight as cruelly as you!”