Chapter 445: Day 10 into the Farming Story

Chapter 445: Day Ten in a Farming Story

Comments section:

"Liu Geer's malatang stall has a long line again today! I can smell it through the screen! The author writes so well!"

"Damn! I'm on a diet! And I already ordered malatang delivery!"

"Hahahaha Master Fu passed by the stall again today and bought a bowl! Says it's for the villagers helping out at the school—who believes that!"

"Just passing through~"

"Stuffy old scholar × Mala Young Widower, I'm shipping this pairing so hard! Fu Cong, that secretly thirsty one, his eyes are practically glued to Liu Geer!"

"Mala Young Widower? Spicy as in literally spicy? Fu Cong does get burned by spice a lot! (For you, my spicy queen.jpg)"

"Hahahahahaha!"

"Fu Cong one month ago: I must not get too close to this widower, lest it invite gossip. Fu Cong one month later: He's already a widower—I can't let him live like one in all but name! (Rose) (Rose)"

"Hahahaha, Liu Geer smiled at Fu Cong, and Fu Cong straight-up bolted."

"Liu Geer's making money fast, I hear he's already looking at storefronts, planning to upgrade from a stall to a shop!"

"Looks good! But I heard the Li family might be scheming something?"

"In your dreams!"

"..."

An Yi's eyes wandered over the pages, his ears catching the lively chatter about Jiang Chiliu's food career and love life, a slight smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

Before long, the commotion next door seemed to come to a lull.

The goods had presumably been delivered and inventoried, and the porters' clamor gradually subsided.

The silk shop's Shopkeeper Ke could be heard effusively seeing off customers, along with the voice of Young Captain Di taking his leave.

Just then, An Yi heard footsteps approaching his own courtyard gate.

The footsteps were steady and forceful, each step landing with a solid thud, with a steady, even stride—clearly someone trained in the martial arts, and full of energy.

The steps stopped outside his gate.

Then came three knocks—"rap, rap-rap"—neither too hard nor too soft.

An Yi looked up from the pages. From the sound and feel of those steps, was this the same Young Captain Di with the hearty voice from next door? He wondered what the man could want.

He set down his teacup and said gently, "Please, come in. It's unlocked."

With a creak, the courtyard gate swung open, and a tall figure walked in against the westering afternoon sun.

The man was strikingly tall and powerfully built, easily over six and a half feet, with broad shoulders and a wide back that stretched his practical traveling garb taut across his frame.

A black oxhide belt a handspan wide cinched his waist, showing off a lean, hard midsection. He wore matching thick-soled ankle boots, the leather dusted with road grime—a clear sign of a long trek.

He exuded a weathered, battle-hardened air—power coiled within, like a sword still in its scabbard, yet already sharp.

His skin was the deep bronze of a man long weathered by sun and storm on the road. His features were sharp and angular: dark, slashing brows that swept upward like blades, a high, aquiline nose, and lips with a sharp, almost severe cut.

At the moment, he wore a hearty, slightly apologetic smile that softened the faintly aggressive pressure of his rugged features and imposing build.

His eyes were bright and keen, his gaze frank and unflinching, and they now rested on An Yi by the stone table, carrying a hint of a smile.

The instant his gaze landed on An Yi's face and bearing, it faltered almost imperceptibly, a flash of pure, undisguised admiration flickering in his eyes.

But he masked it well, quickly reverting to a polite, apologetic demeanor.

"Young master, sorry to disturb you."

He clasped his fists: "I'm Di Qingji. We just finished delivering a shipment of escorted goods to the silk shop next door. While moving the cargo, my men were a bit rough with the goods—a corner of a crate of embroidery knocked against the wall and chipped a brick at the corner of your residence, exposing a bit of the raw clay. My sincere apologies!"

"I've already sent one of my men to gather materials and lime plaster nearby. We'll patch it up shortly and make it good as new, no trace left. But I figured I should at least come and apologize to the owner first, so as not to be rude—hence this unannounced visit."

He explained his purpose clearly and immediately.

An Yi stood up, smiling faintly, his expression calm: "So you're Young Captain Di. It's just one brick—things get damaged over time, no need to trouble yourself. Please, have a seat."

He gestured to the stone stool across from him, his gaze calmly sweeping over Di Qingji's tall, powerful frame and the hands bearing traces of calluses.

That frame, that presence, and the shrewd, seasoned look in his eyes—he was definitely a man of the escort trade, someone who'd spent years on the road, living by the blade.

Di Qingji hadn't expected the owner to be so accommodating, and with such... otherworldly bearing.

He took another quick, polite measure of An Yi.

The young man before him wore a long gown with a matching thin over-robe, standing beneath the old tree whose leaves were beginning to turn. Behind him stood a simple, spotless dwelling of gray-blue brick. Before him, on the stone table, tea steam drifted up and a book lay half-open.

In all his travels across the land, Di Qingji had encountered his share of notable figures—high officials, nobles, martial heroes, and famous scholars—yet he'd never seen anyone with such looks, such bearing.

What was even rarer was that air of his—gentle and serene, as if all the noise, dust, and commotion outside the courtyard had nothing to do with him, yet not the cold arrogance of someone who keeps others at a distance, but rather an untainted, effortless serenity.

To look upon him was to feel the restlessness and weariness of the road swept away as if by a gentle breeze, and you'd unconsciously calm down too.

"You're too polite, young master." Di Qingji readily accepted and took a seat on the stone stool across from An Yi.

"May I ask your name? You look new around here—just moved in?" he asked with a smile.

"My family name is An, my given name Yi. I moved here about a month ago." An Yi took a porcelain cup, warmed it with hot water, poured tea, and pushed it toward Di Qingji.

The tea was clear and bright, its fragrance wafting up faintly with the steam: "It's just plain tea, Young Captain Di. If you don't mind, please help yourself—you've had a long trip, this should quench your thirst."

"Ah, Young Master An. Thank you." Di Qingji accepted the cup and offered his thanks.

The porcelain cup felt warm and smooth in his hand. The tea was so clear you could see the bottom of the cup, and the aroma hit him—a crisp, lingering scent of herbs and wood he'd never smelled before.

He blew on it to cool it and took a sip.

The tea hit his mouth with a slight bitterness that quickly melted away, a clean, sweet, and crisp flavor spreading across his tongue, rushing down his throat and leaving an extraordinary feeling of comfort.

What's more, as the tea went down, a gentle warmth seemed to spread from his stomach, chasing away the last traces of travel fatigue. Even his mind felt sharper, unusually clear and refreshed.

A strange, indescribable surge of vitality seemed to well up inside him.

Di Qingji was momentarily stunned. He'd been around and tasted plenty of good tea in his time—famous regional teas, even tribute teas, he'd been lucky enough to try a few.

But none had ever given him such a strange feeling.

He smiled to himself. Must be my imagination, right?