“What’s wrong? Is it that bad?” Song Nianchu noticed Mu Shi’an’s reaction and immediately reached out, holding her hand near his mouth. “If you can’t eat it, just spit it out.”

Mu Shi’an shook his head, paused for a moment, and swallowed it down. Then he quickly walked over to the water vat, scooped up a ladle of water, and gulped it down in big swallows.

“Are you… feeling the spice?” Song Nianchu finally realized.

Mu Shi’an drank several more mouthfuls of water before finally suppressing the burning sensation in his mouth. He nodded.

“Is it really that spicy? It tastes fine to me.” As she spoke, Song Nianchu took another bite.

The crispy fish pieces were perfectly seasoned—without the spice, they wouldn’t have the right flavor.

“Not exactly. I just wasn’t paying attention earlier and choked a little,” Mu Shi’an finally managed to say.

“Do you want to try another piece?” Song Nianchu still wanted to hear his opinion.

Mu Shi’an glanced at the bright red fish pieces, then at Song Nianchu’s expectant gaze. In the end, he picked up his chopsticks again and took a smaller piece.

This time, prepared for the spice, the heat wasn’t as overwhelming.

The fish had likely been deep-fried—crispy, fragrant, and completely free of any fishy taste. Yet, compared to freshwater fish, it had a firmer bite, making it more addictive with each mouthful.

Mu Shi’an helped himself to several more pieces.

“Don’t just eat—give me your thoughts!” Song Nianchu pressed down on his chopsticks, stopping him.

“Good,” Mu Shi’an said softly.

Song Nianchu waited, but no further elaboration came. She was stunned.

“That’s it? Just two words?”

“Very good,” Mu Shi’an added after a moment’s thought.

Song Nianchu: “…”

“If you were a food critic, no one would hire you.” She took the chopsticks from his hand.

“What kind of review do you want?” Mu Shi’an had written critiques for countless academic papers but had never considered reviewing a dish.

But if Song Nianchu wanted one, he could learn.

“Never mind. As long as you like it, that’s enough.” Song Nianchu knew Mu Shi’an wasn’t much of a talker and didn’t expect a detailed analysis.

“Extremely good!” Mu Shi’an added one more word.

Song Nianchu finally burst out laughing. “Typical science guy—vocabulary so limited.”

“Science guy?” Mu Shi’an looked puzzled.

“Never mind. I’m heading into town later to deliver some goods. I left rice for you in the pot, and this is the only side dish. If it’s too spicy, eat more rice and less fish.” As she spoke, she carefully sealed several small jars and packed them into a bag.

Mu Shi’an didn’t ask questions, assuming she was taking them to share with friends. He simply nodded.

“Alright.”

“Take care of the house while I’m gone.” Song Nianchu lifted the bag, waved at him, and left.

After she was gone, Mu Shi’an went to the stove and lifted the lid—inside was a steaming bowl of white rice.

Now he understood what Song Nianchu had meant when she said, “Only good food is worth savoring.”

She certainly didn’t compromise when it came to eating well.

In these times, most people ate coarse rice. Being able to have white rice at every meal was a luxury few could afford.

Song Nianchu’s clothes and belongings were ordinary, so she must have spent all her money on food.

Mu Shi’an took a bowl and ate the rice with the crispy fish.

With the rice, the fish tasted even better.

As he looked at the fish in his bowl, a thought occurred to him. He picked out some of the chili peppers and mixed them with the rice, eating it quickly.

By the time he finished, a light sweat had formed on his forehead.

He then washed the bowl, took half of the remaining fish, and set it aside.

Song Nianchu had said the dish was for him to eat with rice, so he assumed half was his to do with as he pleased.

Mu Shi’an carried the small bowl of crispy fish out the door, heading toward the Mu family home.

Meanwhile, Song Nianchu had arrived at Wu Zhenggui’s house.

“Uncle Zhenggui, is everything packed?” she called out as soon as she entered the courtyard.

“All ready for you.” Wu Zhenggui stepped out of the house and pointed to the massive bundle in the middle of the yard—taller than a person.

Song Nianchu walked over, lifted it with one hand, and even gave it a few testing hefts.

“Feels lighter than last time.”

“Yeah, one less net this month.” Wu Zhenggui had seen this many times before, but it still amazed him.

How could a young girl have such strength?

“Alright, I’ll be off then.” With a swing of her arm, she slung the enormous bundle over her shoulder.

What would take five or six grown men to carry felt lighter than cotton in her hands.

“Be careful on the road, A-Chu. Come back early,” Wu Zhenggui reminded her.

“Got it.” She waved and left.

Song Nianchu’s extraordinary strength meant she could carry large loads alone, so the village always sent her to sell fishing nets and gear.

With her around, there was no fear of her being bullied, and the saved manpower could be put to better use elsewhere.

As Song Nianchu walked out of Wu Zhenggui’s house with the heavy bundle, she spotted Mu Shi’an walking toward the village center with a bowl in hand.

That was the direction of his family’s home.

What was he carrying?

Could it be the food she’d left for him?

The thought made sense—after all, he’d once sold himself for 200 yuan to help his family.

Taking his meal to share with them wouldn’t be out of character.

Song Nianchu didn’t approach him, deciding to talk about it when she returned from town.

——

The walk from Qinghe Fishing Village to the county town took over two hours.

Luckily, Song Nianchu’s strength made the journey effortless, even with the heavy load.

Once in town, she went straight to the fishing gear factory.

The workers were used to her strength by now and immediately led her to the warehouse.

With a single motion, she swung the bundle off her shoulder.

“A-Chu, if I had your strength, this factory would treat me like royalty,” said the young man in charge of the warehouse, about Song Nianchu’s age.

“Aren’t you already treated well? Easy job, good pay,” Song Nianchu teased.

“Well, yeah.” He Zhiyuan scratched his head sheepishly.

His aunt’s marriage to the factory’s deputy director had secured him this cushy position.

“Check the count. There’s one less net than last month,” Song Nianchu said.

“On it.” He Zhiyuan began tallying the items.

Once everything was accounted for, he wrote out a receipt, stamped it, and handed it to Song Nianchu.

“Same as usual—take this to accounting for payment.” Since he still had to organize the goods and Song Nianchu was a regular, he didn’t bother escorting her.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep