Chapter Seven: Mushrooms, Deer, and Bamboo (Please leave a comment!)

By midday, the sun had reached its zenith. Hidden in the forest, searching and wandering, he hadn't noticed, but once he stepped out, he was struck by the dazzling brilliance above. The March sunlight could not be called scorching, but compared to the harsh winter, it already bore a trace of warmth. Fortunately, his vantage point was high, and the breeze atop the mountain scattered the heat from his face.

Thanks to his persistence in recent months, his martial skills might not have shown much progress, but his constitution had grown sturdier. His complexion was now rosy and healthy, finally resembling a young man. He no longer looked as he once did: blood depleted, breath weak, the fragile appearance of someone barely recovered from a serious illness.

Resting atop a large blue stone on the mountaintop, Chen Yu caught his breath. Though the dense forest shielded him from the sun, it was still somewhat stifling. Navigating around branches, thorns, and shrubs, he’d worked up quite a sweat—his back was soaked as if it could be wrung out.

Still, it was all worth it.

Pulling the basket closer, he saw that what had been empty was now filled with a thick layer. Reds, yellows, and whites mingled together—some mushrooms were pristine and snow-white, others still bore traces of earth and dew, but all exuded a natural, subtle aroma, blending the scent of mushrooms with the earth and vegetation.

Chen Yu sifted through them, rubbing two mushrooms between his palms, utterly satisfied. The basket was not large and certainly not full, but by his rough count, there was at least three or four pounds—enough for several meals.

It had been ages since he’d tasted wild mushrooms.

A parade of steaming dishes flashed through his mind—recipes from his past life in his rural hometown, and the local flavors of Qingtai he’d sampled in this life. Just the thought made his mouth water.

"Let's go—time to brew a pot of Hundred-Flavors Soup!"

He had to admit, the forest after rain was truly abundant. He had left behind plenty along the way, choosing only those he remembered as delicious or easy to cook, yet still managed to gather a good haul.

Not bad—he’d have to come again.

It was a pity he hadn’t found the ingredient for White Cloud Dispersal. He’d secured the main herb, the Silver Tangerine Fruit, and hoped to chance upon the rest in the forest. But perhaps because he was near the forest edge, too many gatherers had already passed through—he didn’t see a single stalk.

Well, not exactly—he did see half of one.

He was just a moment too late to save it.

"Come to think of it, are there really spotted deer in this forest?"

Chen Yu glanced back toward the woods, as if he could still glimpse the little fawn with smoke-brown fur and dappled spots beneath the green canopy.

It was young and graceful.

Looking back, it hadn’t seemed afraid of people at all—hopping right up to him, tilting its head to peer at him with those big, dark eyes, and then, right before his eyes, plucking the herb just a few feet away and chewing it contentedly. After swallowing, it even burped with lingering satisfaction.

It gazed at him a while longer, sniffed him a couple of times, and finally, deciding that this upright creature was quite boring, swished its fluffy tail and sauntered off.

"It felt more like a silly roe deer than a spotted deer," he mused, amused by its endearing clumsiness.

He laughed, letting the matter drop. Getting so close to such a dopey little deer was a rare delight—enough to lift the spirits.

As for the lost herb—well, it was eaten, and that was that. What else could he do?

Fortune favors, and fate decides.

He felt his state of mind had indeed matured lately—all those readings of the Daoist texts had not been in vain.

"Down the mountain, then!"

…

At the front courtyard of Cloud Crane Temple.

He dragged over a chair and sprawled across it, his robe loose and casual, in no way resembling the upright image of a Daoist disciple.

Not that he cared. All his attention was on the washbasin before him.

The mushrooms soaked in water as he sorted and cleaned them, setting the washed ones beside him. Once he was done, he’d light the stove and cook a fragrant pot of Hundred-Flavors Soup.

Of course, despite its name, the soup in his hands would hardly contain a hundred flavors. The only meat in the temple was half a dried chicken hanging in the kitchen—no pork bones, lamb kidneys, deer antler, or any other exotic supplements.

Yet to Chen Yu, the essence of Hundred-Flavors Soup lay not in all those miscellaneous ingredients, but in the word "fresh."

Today, he planned to use mushrooms combined with white roots, Lanting berries, and greens from the garden to create a broth so fresh it would make one’s mouth water.

You might doubt his martial arts, but you could never doubt his culinary skill.

At least, Chen Yu himself was confident.

Against the wall, a bamboo pole lay in the shade. The fishing rod he was crafting from mottled bamboo would still need time—he had initially thought to make it haphazardly, but since he was free these days, he might as well do it properly.

Not aiming for perfection, but it should at least be sturdy.

So it needed to be air-dried first, followed by roasting and shaping. Recalling his past life, when his grandfather had crafted fishing rods while he scampered about as a restless child, he now planned to do it himself, step by step.

This meant, of course, that his wild fishing trip would be postponed.

"Five days to air-dry, two days to roast and shape…so at least eight days before it's ready," he calculated. That would leave some time before the ‘Duckweed Rain’—so he might still be able to try his luck at the deep pool.

The period around ‘Duckweed Rain’ was crucial. All the weeding and ditch-digging beforehand was in preparation for this. If fishing clashed with these farming chores, he would have no qualms about giving up fishing to tend his half-acre mountain field.

After all, it concerned his food supply for the next half year.

There might be drizzles during these days, but nothing heavy—at most just enough to dampen the ground, not soak into the soil. The ‘Duckweed Rain’ would be different—heavy rains, fierce winds, possibly even mountain floods.

As his thoughts wandered, his hands found the basin empty—all the mushrooms had been washed clean, lying in the wooden bucket, ready for the pot.

"Still need to wait a bit," he muttered.

He headed to the backyard and stopped by the vegetable patch, pulling up two large white roots—tuberous, snow-white, with three or five slender rootlets at the base. They looked much like white radishes, though not the usual conical shape, but rather tapered like a water droplet.

Down in the village, these were called white sticks—good for clearing heat, but unrivaled when stewed in soup.

Next, he walked carefully along the earthen ridges to a corner of the garden, and beneath a cluster of green leaves, he rummaged for a bit before withdrawing a handful of red berries, each just a little bigger than his thumb.

Lanting berries—the origin of the name was unknown, but they were tart and sweet. Chen Yu had given them a nickname: little tomatoes.

There had been a similar fruit in his past life, but it was nowhere near as delicious. Contrary to their tiny size, these Lanting berries were juicy, with thin flesh—biting into one felt like sipping from a soup dumpling.

He picked a handful of green leaves and plucked the last piece of jade beetle leaf, arms full as he returned to the courtyard.

After another round of washing, it was finally time to begin.

Whoosh!

Flames leapt up, and the bottom of the pot began to glow with heat.