Chapter 25: The Hardship of Labor

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Jiang Xiaoman’s usually bright, cherubic face was now etched with exhaustion. Her bangs, dampened by sweat, clung messily to her temples. The thick cotton jacket she wore was stained with dirt, and her cotton shoes were dull and dusty.

“Yichen... I’m back...” Her voice was hoarse, a stark contrast to her usual clear and lively tone.

Zhou Yichen looked at her almost disheveled appearance and couldn’t help but chuckle inwardly—so this girl had her breaking point too. But immediately, a pang of sympathy welled up in him.

After all, they had grown up together, practically inseparable since childhood. Although they often bickered, seeing her so worn out stirred his heart.

“You’re back? Go wash your face and get ready for dinner,” Zhou Yichen said, trying to keep his voice light.

Jiang Xiaoman tossed the cloth bag hanging from her shoulder onto a small stool nearby and almost collapsed onto the edge of the kang bed.

She hung her head low, muttering weakly, “Yichen, I’m exhausted...”

“The work today was just inhuman! Cutting wood, bundling it... my back feels like it’s about to break, and I can’t even lift my arms...” She wore a grimace of helplessness, looking utterly pitiful.

Zhou Yichen emerged from the kitchen carrying dishes. Seeing her like this, a faint smile curved his lips.

He knew well that although Jiang Xiaoman complained loudly, she wasn’t truly resentful.

He understood her nature perfectly—beneath that delicate, doll-like face lay a strong spirit, not someone who’d easily give up or complain for nothing.

Pushing the bowls toward the center of the table, Zhou Yichen gestured for her to try the food.

“Stop whining about being tired and eat something to fill your stomach.”

Only then did Jiang Xiaoman notice the two plates of vegetables on the table—one vibrantly green, the other a pale yellow—and a steaming bowl of mixed grain rice.

Her eyes widened in surprise, disbelief written all over her childlike face.

“Yichen, did you... make this?”

Zhou Yichen raised an eyebrow and smiled mysteriously. “Why, doesn’t it look like me?”

Jiang Xiaoman shook her head vigorously, incredulous. “No way! When did you learn to cook? How come I never knew?”

In her memory, Zhou Yichen was the kind who never lifted a finger at home—never cooked, rarely even washed a bowl.

Zhou Yichen shrugged and replied casually, “I didn’t really study it. I just watched my mom cooking so much, it rubbed off on me naturally.”

That, of course, was an excuse. His real advantage was the prodigious learning ability and insight granted by his relentless diligence.

Cooking was nothing—if he set his mind to it, there was probably nothing in this world he couldn’t master.

Jiang Xiaoman blinked, still half doubtful. “Really? You know how to cook?”

Zhou Yichen didn’t bother explaining further and simply pressed the chopsticks into her hand.

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“Try it and you’ll know.”

“Don’t worry, it won’t poison you,” he joked.

Jiang Xiaoman cast him a suspicious glance but cautiously picked up a small portion of stir-fried cabbage and tasted it.

“Huh?”

She paused mid-chew, her eyes suddenly lighting up.

“Hey, this actually tastes... pretty good!”

She then sampled some vinegary shredded radish—tart and crisp, it whetted her appetite.

“Yichen, not bad! I didn’t expect you to have this skill!” Jiang Xiaoman genuinely admired him now, a rare smile blossoming on her face.

A slight grin tugged at Zhou Yichen’s mouth. “Of course, don’t you see who made it?”

Jiang Xiaoman didn’t notice his pride. After a few bites, she suddenly frowned.

“Yichen, you used way too much oil in these dishes, didn’t you?”

The food was fragrant, but the glossy sheen of oil made her wince.

In this era, oil was precious. At home, cooking usually involved just dipping a cloth strip in the oil container and wiping the pan once—that counted as adding oil.

For Zhou Yichen’s dishes, though tasty, the generous oil was obvious.

He knew well that besides talent and technique, good food often depended on quality ingredients—especially the oil.

Being a novice, he compensated for lack of skill with extra oil.

Jiang Xiaoman looked a bit worried. “It tastes good, but it wastes so much oil! We brought very little from home, and if you keep cooking like this, it’ll be gone in days!”

Pouting, she looked at Zhou Yichen seriously.

“No way, I’ll handle the cooking from now on! You’re too extravagant!”

Zhou Yichen laughed quietly.

This girl really knew how to manage a household.

He didn’t argue—if she wanted to take over cooking, he was perfectly happy to have fewer chores.

Their conversation lightened the mood considerably.

As Jiang Xiaoman ate, she eagerly recounted her day cutting firewood in the mountains.

“You have no idea how exhausted I was today!”

“We city youths were split into groups by gender.”

“The guys cut trees and saw logs—heavy labor,” she illustrated with her hands.

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“We girls had it easier—mostly cutting branches, gathering them, and tying bundles with grass rope.”

“Sounds easy, but when you actually do it, it’s so draining!”

“Especially for us newbies—none of us had done farm work before! Just making it through the first day was a feat of will!”

She held out her hand for Zhou Yichen to see. Though the cotton sleeve obscured it somewhat, he could imagine how tender her palms must have suffered.

“We girls are lucky,” Jiang Xiaoman lowered her voice with sympathy, “but the guys like Zhao Weiguo and his friends had it even worse!”

“Aunties who worked alongside them said after just half a day, their palms were covered in huge blisters!”

“Some of the weaker ones could barely walk on the way back, their faces as pale as paper—almost couldn’t make it.”

Zhou Yichen listened, inwardly relieved.

Thankfully, he had the foresight to study medicine intensively before coming here and seized the chance to become the health worker in Xiangyang Brigade.

Otherwise, he might have ended up like Zhao Weiguo—hands blistered, miserable.

Though the title of health worker was nominal, the benefits were tangible.

At least he was spared from the grueling physical labor, leaving him time and energy to pursue what he wanted—improving his medical skills.

As Jiang Xiaoman animatedly described the day’s toil, Zhou Yichen’s lips curved in a faint, almost imperceptible smile.

Jiang Xiaoman looked at him enviously. “After all, you’re the lucky one!”

“See, as a health worker, you don’t have to do all that backbreaking work in the fields every day, enduring wind and sun—it’s practically a life of ease!”

Zhou Yichen smiled calmly, picking up his chopsticks to taste some radish strips, chewing slowly.

Setting them down, he looked at Jiang Xiaoman and said evenly, “That kind of luck doesn’t just fall from the sky.”

“Don’t forget how I burned the midnight oil studying those medical books before coming here?”

“If I hadn’t prepared back then, biting the bullet to learn something, I’d probably be just like Zhao Weiguo now—blistered hands, yelling for mercy.”

Jiang Xiaoman was momentarily stunned by his words.

She couldn’t help but recall how, before going to the countryside, Zhou Yichen had spent countless days and nights poring over that thick barefoot doctor manual, sometimes forgetting to eat.

Back then, she thought he was just daydreaming, cramming at the last minute.

Now it was clear—his efforts had paid off swiftly and effectively.