Chapter 140 Day 4 of Transmigrating into an Imperial Examination Novel

Chapter 140: The Fourth Day of Transmigrating into the Imperial Examination Novel

An Yi did not approach, nor did he say anything more to comfort or inquire. He simply stood still, calmly accepting the other man's wary gaze.

He knew that for a youth like this—prickly and guarded, accustomed to malice—any excessive attention or sympathy might be misinterpreted as ulterior motives.

After a brief silence, Qin Cang seemed to confirm that the frail scholar before him posed no immediate threat, or perhaps he had truly reached his limit. His body gave an almost imperceptible sway.

With extreme difficulty, he forced out two hoarse, dry words through gritted teeth: "...Thank you."

An Yi barely nodded, acknowledging the awkward thanks. He hadn't expected a warm response anyway.

"Go tend to your wounds," he said flatly, then without lingering, he turned and walked unhurriedly back along the path toward his own rundown little courtyard.

The sunlight stretched his shadow long and thin across the dust. His steps were steady, his back gaunt but straight.

Qin Cang remained motionless, still standing there. His disheveled black hair obscured his eyes, leaving only his tight, blood-streaked lips to betray his inner turmoil.

He stared fixedly at An Yi's retreating figure until it vanished completely around the corner of the wattle fence.

Only the faint rustle of wind through the haystacks and his own heavy, uneven breathing remained in the air.

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Back in his sparsely furnished room, An Yi let the brief confrontation slip from his mind.

The interior was still pitifully bare. The lingering bitter smell of herbs in the air seemed heavier than when he had left, weighing on his chest.

He did not sit down immediately but paced slowly in the cramped space. The near-empty rice jar, the pitifully small amount of salt in the jar, and the few packets of coarse paper-wrapped herbs in the corner, giving off a strong bitter smell...

Their very existence silently spoke of the struggle and helplessness of the original owner's final days. Now, there was no need to brew them anymore.

An Yi stopped in the center of the room and, after a moment's thought, turned to the low cabinet whose paint had peeled away to reveal the base wood.

He pulled open the drawer. Inside were a few neatly folded old clothes, bleached white from repeated washing, with frayed edges and densely stitched patches, though the needlework was surprisingly tidy. There were also two thin old cotton quilts, so meager one could imagine how cold they would feel in winter.

At the very back of the drawer lay a string of copper coins threaded with hemp rope, not many—felt light in his hand. If the medicine was no longer needed, they would barely sustain the original owner for about half a month at the most basic level. Any spare money had been used for his mother's burial.

The original owner was a scholar, steeped in pride and a sense of decency. Even in such destitution, he kept his room as tidy as possible. These patched garments were likely the last presentable clothes he had to wear outside.

He couldn't help but sigh—this was the poorest he'd ever transmigrated into.

Finally, his gaze fell on himself.

He was wearing a set of gray homespun clothes, also heavily patched, but washed clean and carrying a faint scent of soap.

He had originally planned to change into the original owner's most intact and slightly darker coarse-cloth jacket, to at least somewhat conceal his overly shabby appearance.

But after a second thought, he chose instead to take from his vast space a piece of his own old clothing—the plainest, least eye-catching he could find among his countless garments.

The clothes hung loosely on his current gaunt frame, making him look even more frail, as if a gust could knock him over. Only his eyes were calm, like an ancient well, sharp as a gleaming blade—an almost jarring contrast to his bookish appearance.

As he adjusted the slightly oversized sleeves, there came from outside the yard the hesitant sound of footsteps, stopping at the makeshift wattle gate.

An Yi paused, listening.

The footsteps had a faint unsteadiness, clearly from someone hurt and still weak.

In a moment, he knew who it was—Qin Cang.

He walked to the window and peered through the gap in the wooden planks.

Sure enough, outside the wattle gate, the youth who'd come back stood frozen.

He had apparently cleaned himself up somewhere, wiping off most of the dirt and blood from his face, revealing his skin beneath. But the bruise on his lip and the split wound were still glaring. His faded, coarse-cloth tunic still had mud and grass stuck to it that hadn't been fully brushed off.

He stood straight, even overly stiff, his body slightly rigid. One hand was clenched behind his back, as if holding something important.

His eyes still held their habitual wariness. His lips pressed together, his eyes fixed on the rickety gate.

An Yi raised an eyebrow slightly.

What's he up to?

Qin Cang had returned, with such an expression. To give a formal thanks? After that stiff and awkward exit, not likely.

To cause trouble? Even more impossible. His fierceness was aimed at outside threats, and toward someone who had just helped him, he didn't seem like the type to bite the hand that helped him.

An Yi did not immediately speak or show himself. He simply observed from behind the thin window lattice, watching the conflicted figure out there.

Qin Cang stood frozen for another moment. His chest rose and fell with an almost imperceptible breath. He raised the hand not hidden behind his back and hesitantly pushed open the creaky wattle gate, which seemed ready to fall apart at any moment. His movements were cautious.

He stepped into the courtyard, his steps light, his gaze alert and scanning every corner. Finally, his eyes settled on the closed, equally battered wooden door.

His lips pressed into a thin, pale line. The bruise on his face grew more distinct in the slanting afternoon light.

Then An Yi saw him bring his tightly clasped hand from behind his back to his front—in that hand, bearing fresh scrapes, was clutched a dead gray rabbit.

A clear strangulation mark circled the rabbit's neck, and its fur was still dotted with soil and grass, indicating it had been caught with a skillful trap.

The youth bent down, intending to place the rabbit gently on the threshold of An Yi's door.

So it was indeed a thank-you.

A slight smile curved at the corner of An Yi's mouth.

Seeing this, An Yi unhurriedly walked to the door, reached out, and with a creak, pulled open the wooden door.

The sudden sound of the door opening made Qin Cang, who had been setting down the rabbit, freeze. His whole body tensed like a startled bowstring, and his head snapped up.

His wolf-like eyes sharpened on An Yi, a caught-off-guard look of panic flashing within them.

"...I..." He swallowed dryly as he tried to speak, but only a fractured sound came out.

His face showed little expression, but the tips of his ears uncontrollably turned a faint pink—whether from embarrassment or anger.