Chapter Forty-Two: Calling Me Fierce? Very Well!

Han Li, moving with difficulty, began making his way back toward the village, intending at first to push through and carry the tree trunk all the way home in one go.

Alas, the world in his mind was always more beautiful than reality, which proved harsh and unforgiving. He was merely a somewhat sturdier young man, not some omnipotent deity.

Along the way, he rolled and shouldered the trunk, pausing countless times to catch his breath before finally arriving at his house.

“Comrade Han, why are you struggling so hard to drag that thing here?” someone called out.

“Heh, I’ll use it as a rack in the yard,” Han Li replied.

“You city folks are really something, using such a thick, rough log for a rack. My family’s got a cart—want me to haul it over for you?”

Han Li smiled. “Something... No, thanks. I’m almost home anyway.”

By now, night had fallen. If not for his strong willpower, it would have taken him even longer to return. Han Li was exhausted, but he knew better than to rest right away in moments like this.

He first sorted and stored the medicinal herbs he'd gathered that day, laying those to be dried in the sun at the front of the house, and placing the ones that needed shade in the back. Next, he organized the wild vegetables, washing and picking them as needed. Finally, he dealt with the wild pheasant—heating water, scalding and plucking the bird, gutting it and discarding the inedible organs.

The kitchen knife danced up and down, transforming the pheasant into pieces just the right size. He placed the chicken chunks in a pot of cold water, added slices of ginger and a splash of baijiu, and skimmed off the scum as the water boiled. Then he tossed in Sichuan peppercorns, star anise, scallions, ginger, garlic, and chili peppers, only adding salt when the meat was nearly cooked.

Since the meal was for himself alone, Han Li could season it however he pleased. In this life, under his mother’s protection, he had never so much as touched a kitchen knife or stove. In his previous life, he’d watched plenty of cooking videos but had rarely cooked himself. Being able to imitate even this much was already a feat—who cared about perfect color, aroma, and flavor in such circumstances?

Still, the idea of partnering with a pretty, talented cook among the female educated youths did have its appeal. But just then, the wood under the stove crackled in the darkness, as if reminding him not to daydream after nightfall.

Sixteen was such a vexing age—his body’s hormones surged endlessly, filling his mind with all sorts of images, not helped by memories of those instructional cooking videos from his past life. On top of that, his martial arts training made his blood run even hotter. These damned hormones were truly intoxicating.

But to be honest, among the current educated youths, only Hao Hongmin and Yang Xiuying caught his eye. Hao Hongmin was attractive, with a good figure and a soft, gentle voice that tickled the ear. Yet she seldom spoke, always seeming weighed down by her own thoughts. She was strong-willed, rarely complaining herself, and constantly encouraged Yang Xiuying, which was probably why they managed to support each other and not fall behind.

Yang Xiuying, on the other hand, was an indifferent cook—even she didn’t like her own food. If they partnered up, who would really be looking after whom? Sigh. Better to stick with the solitary life for now. When troubled, just practice more boxing.

The aroma of chicken wafted from the iron pot. Han Li sprinkled in some salt, set the steamer rack in place, placed a few buns on top, then pulled out the burning logs.

Though he removed the main fuel, the embers in the stove would be enough to finish the job.

(Han Li mused: "In the capital, the rack is called a ‘steamer rack’ or ‘steaming tray’. The word sounds like ‘lice comb’ in the local dialect, which always makes me feel odd when eating buns.")

Han Li went inside, set up the kang table, arranged his bowls and chopsticks, and poured himself a cup of liquor. He was truly worn out today—he’d trekked more than forty li from the county town with a pack on his back, then hiked at least another twenty or thirty li up the mountain and returned with a large tree trunk. A little alcohol would ease his fatigue, get his blood circulating, and help him sleep well.

The next morning, Han Li rose early, baring his torso to exercise in the yard. He dug a pit for the tree trunk, planted it firmly, packed the base with stones, and filled it in with soil. He then built a support to brace it from the side, increasing its resistance to impact.

Only then did he begin training, striking the trunk with his forearms, shoulders, back, and calves—starting slow and light, then gradually increasing speed and force. These were the areas most likely to take blows, or would have to endure them in a pinch. They were also the parts most often used in Xingyi boxing attacks, so they needed to be strong, tough, and enduring.

Slap, slap, slap... The blows came faster and louder, sweat pouring from Han Li, who felt invigorated. While this didn’t offer the all-around training of a wooden dummy, it was plenty for his current needs.

Only when the village bell rang did he stop his seemingly foolish practice.

He lit the kerosene stove to heat up the leftover chicken soup from the night before, then went out to brush his teeth and wash up. Returning, he soaked a bun in the broth for breakfast. The wild pheasant tasted good, though it was far too small to be filling.

But when Han Li arrived at the threshing ground that day, he noticed some odd looks from the others. No matter how he pondered it, he couldn’t figure out why, so he decided to just let it go. Their strange looks didn’t affect his loafing about or his meals and boxing practice.

It wasn’t until work started that Aunt Zhang, who worked with him, asked, “Comrade Han, I heard you dragged a big tree trunk home at dusk yesterday?”

“Yes, I need it to make a rack,” Han Li replied.

“What kind of rack needs such a thick log? Young folks, once you get a wild idea, you don’t think of anything else.”

Han Li was speechless.

No wonder everyone had been looking at him so strangely—they must have thought he was a fool. He’d only run into one fellow on the way back, but who would have guessed that man was a member of the village broadcast team? News had spread like wildfire; by morning, everyone knew.

Meanwhile, in the Shanghe Village committee, the three leaders sat in silence, smoking gloomily. Village Head Zhao tapped his pipe and knocked out the ashes.

“I brought the educated youth back last time. This time, it’s your turn to go,” he said.

Team Leader Liang replied, “I’m not going. We agreed before that I’d focus on production and try not to get involved in other matters.”

Zhao seemed to expect this and turned to Accountant Zhang Dagang.

Zhang grinned, “Uncle Zhao, don’t look at me—I’m just an accountant. I shouldn’t get too involved in other things.”

Village Head Zhao rapped the table with his pipe. “No way. One of you two has to go this time. We’re a team now—I can’t take all the blame myself, can I?”