WSMTATMC C4

Chapter 4

Clutching the blade of grass in his hand, Wang Ying walked back in deep thought.

If last night hadn’t been a dream, then… had his experimental field somehow travelled with him into this world?

Though the idea seemed utterly absurd, he had already experienced returning to life in another’s body — what point was there in talking about “science” now?

He attempted, once more, to silently chant the words “experimental field” in his mind — but there was no reaction at all.

Could it be that access was only possible at certain times?

I’ll try again tonight, he resolved.

“Little Master,” came a voice from behind, making Wang Ying jump. Turning, he saw it was Chen Bo — the elder servant who attended to Chen Qingyan.

“You’re up this early, Elder?”

“When you’re old, you don’t sleep much.”

The old man had a favourable impression of Wang Ying; only yesterday when the Second Master’s branch came sponging, it had been this new young husband who stepped in to resolve the matter — otherwise, they would have suffered another loss.

“Why is Little Master standing out here, instead of going in?”

“Ah— it’s nothing.” Wang Ying pushed the door open, and the two went in together.

Inside, Chen Qingyan was already awake, his expression darkened at the sight of Wang Ying. Without speaking, he motioned to Chen Bo to carry him to the back latrine.

When they returned, he began his toilette — washing, changing, binding his hair. The series of small acts left him short of breath, his face pale to the point of translucence.

Tsk, Wang Ying thought to himself. This sickly and he still insists on all these formalities.

Breakfast was brought by a serving-woman: two bowls of millet porridge, several “grey flour” steamed buns, and a dish of pickled vegetables.

They called it “grey flour” because milling technology in this era was still primitive — the flour came out full of bran and impurities, greyish-white in colour. Thus, the buns were not the snowy white of modern times.

But even grey flour was already a luxury most commoners could not afford. From the original owner’s memories: in the Wang household, they had only ever eaten bean cakes or bean rice — which caused bloat when eaten in excess — and could only have a meal of grey-flour buns during New Year or major festivals.

Wang Ying polished off three buns and a bowl of porridge in one go. Looking to the side, he saw that even after all this time, Chen Qingyan had not finished a bowl — just sipped a little rice broth before waving it away.

“Master, please eat a little more,” Chen Bo urged. “If you don’t eat, how can your health improve?”

“Bring me my book.”

Chen Qingyan’s stubborn nature meant that, once he’d said he was done eating, he rarely touched another bite.

Chen Bo sighed helplessly and turned to fetch a book from the shelf.

At that moment, Wang Ying suddenly stood, picked up the half-bowl of untouched porridge, and followed him to the bookcase.

Chen Qingyan looked at him in puzzlement. “What are you doing?”

“This porridge — will you still eat it?”

“No.”

“If you won’t eat it, I’ll feed it to your books.”

“?!” Chen Qingyan’s eyes widened, evidently not comprehending what he meant.

Before the words could sink in, Wang Ying reached for the copy of The Doctrine of the Mean he’d leafed through yesterday, opened it, and tipped the porridge toward the pages.

“Outrageous! Put that book down! Cough, cough…”

Chen Bo was stupefied on the sidelines, breaking into a sweat. “Master, Little Master—!”

Seeing one book already defiled, Chen Qingyan’s face darkened to a frightening blue-grey, and he nearly fainted with rage. But then Wang Ying pulled out another — The Analects. “Will you eat?”

“I’ll— I’ll eat…”

“Chen Bo — go bring Master another bowl of porridge.”

“Ah? Yes!”

The old man hurried to refill the bowl, soon returning with steam rising from the millet porridge. Watching Chen Qingyan take one sip after another, Wang Ying at last set The Analects safely aside.

Dabbing his hands with a kerchief, he smiled. “See? Not so hard to eat, is it?”

Chen Qingyan ignored his gloating, snatching back the earlier book to check for damage — but Chen Bo, peeking inside, realised no harm had been done. The little master had simply tucked a sheet of blank paper between the pages; the porridge had only touched that.

Chen Qingyan’s newly fed energy turned into fury; pointing at Wang Ying, he snarled, “Get out!”

“Tsk. Already louder after a full meal. Next time you refuse to eat, I really will feed your books.”

“OUT!”

Wang Ying laughed heartily, slipping out and pulling the door closed just as the bowl came flying toward him, leaving Chen Qingyan to fume at the bed’s edge.

Chen Bo, struggling not to smile, murmured, “If there’s nothing else, I’ll go as well.”

Chen Qingyan waved him away with irritation, but when he tried to read, he could not take in a single line. Every time he shut his eyes, Wang Ying’s triumphant grin flashed before him.

Hateful! He’d write a divorce letter later — he would definitely send him packing!

Outside, Chen Bo was full of cheer. “Little Master’s method worked wonders — young master hasn’t eaten that much in ages!”

“Crude as it was, if it gets him to eat more, it’s worth it.”

“That’s true enough.” Chen Bo picked up the broom and began sweeping the courtyard.

Wang Ying, still puzzled, asked, “I don’t think he’s physically unable to eat — so why does he always just take a few bites?”

Chen Bo glanced toward the bedchamber and lowered his voice. “This isn’t my place to gossip… but since you two are married now, it needn’t be hidden from you.

“Last autumn, young master caught a chill, and his health worsened badly. By year’s end he could no longer rise from bed; one day, something he ate upset his stomach…”

Even with Chen Bo tending to him with utmost care, the result was that an accident befell — in bed.

For a boy whose pride outweighed his life, it was a shattering humiliation. Family members had soothed him, saying it was no great matter — but Chen Qingyan could not move past it. For days, he refused food or drink, and his life hung in the balance until Lady Li threatened to follow him in death if he continued.

Since then, he had only eaten sparingly at each meal, determined never to suffer the same disgrace again.

Man may be made of iron, and rice his steel, but to go on like this was no solution.

Wang Ying suddenly thought of something — a wheelchair.

Not the great-wheeled heavy sort, but one like a child’s pushcart.

In his last life, when his grandmother’s legs had weakened with age, he had bought her just such a little pushcart; she could be taken to market in it, and rest whenever she tired.

With such a thing, Chen Bo would no longer have to carry him to the privy, and life would be far more convenient for Chen Qingyan.

“Chen Bo, do you know a carpenter?”

“I do. What would you like made, Little Master?”

“I want to make a small cart with wheels. I’ll draw the design for you.”

“All right — give me the drawing when it’s ready.”

When Chen Sanlang came to the rear courtyard, he found his sister-in-law crouched over a drawing.

“You need something from me?”

“Mother… Mother says I’m to accompany you for the return-to-door⁶ visit.” The boy flushed as soon as he spoke.

Wang Ying looked up. “Return-to what?”

Scratching his head, Sanlang explained, “It’s where you go back to your family home for a visit.”

Wang Ying then recalled the local custom — on the day after a marriage, a bride or ge’er was to return to their own home with the new spouse to pay respects.

Naturally, with Chen Qingyan too sick to manage the journey, Lady Li intended for her third son to accompany Wang Ying instead.

“I’ll go speak to Madam — I won’t be going today.”

“Why not?”

“You wouldn’t understand even if I told you.”

After finishing the drawing and blowing the ink dry, Wang Ying handed it off to Chen Bo, then went to the main room.

Lady Li was there, supervising the packing of gifts for the visit.

For all her delicate manners, the woman was generous in her preparations: half a dressed pig, four boxes of pastries, two bolts of coarse cloth and one bolt of fine — altogether worth four or five guan⁷.

She’d said yesterday the landlord’s house had no surplus grain — yet even a dying camel was bigger than a horse.

“Perfect timing, Ying’er — see if we’re missing anything, and I’ll have it bought.”

“Mother, you needn’t prepare anything. I’m not going back.”

Lady Li was taken aback. “How can that be? It breaches propriety.”

Wang Ying stepped forward, looking at the goods on the floor. “My father and mother are even less scrupulous than Second Uncle — they’d sell their own son, let alone angle for a wealthy in-law.”

Lady Li understood at once, paling in alarm. One Chen Biao was trouble enough — if she took on another such family, life would be unlivable.

“Well… do as you think best. You’ll have to make the visit at some point, though.”

“I do intend to go,” Wang Ying mused. “But I won’t take the gifts. I’ll go alone.”

The original owner had suffered greatly in that household; now that Wang Ying had taken his body, he owed him at least some “payback.”

“Have Chen Bo take you — go early, come back early.”

“Very well.”

The Chen family kept a few mules, and in those days, the mule-cart was the daily conveyance of the well-to-do. Chen Bo handled the reins skillfully, delivering them to Wangjiazhai Village in just two hours.

Wang Ying had him stop outside the village, saying he would walk in alone.

At the gate of the Wang family compound, he looked upon the place with a strange blend of familiarity and distance, and a sour pang welled up inside.

In his memories, the original owner had lived here for eighteen years — rising earlier than the chickens, sleeping later than the dogs, serving an entire household without thanks, and in the end, being driven to death for ten guan.

The thought alone set his anger churning. Patting his chest, he muttered, “Don’t fret, Little Wang Ying — I’ll help you get justice.”

He mussed his hair, scooped a clod of dirt from the road to smear on his face and clothes, and strode inside, raising his voice: “Ohhh, Mother—! I can’t go on living~~~”

His voice was naturally loud, and drawn out like a funeral wail. Inside, the Wang family matriarch — just feeding her grandson — jumped so hard she nearly threw the bowl.

“Who’s making such a racket out there?!”

Wang Ping came running in. “Second Brother’s back!”

Footnotes:

1. Little Master (少郎君) – A respectful term for a young gentleman, often used by older servants.

2. Grey flour – Coarse, unrefined flour full of bran, typical before advanced milling.

3. Mule-cart – A common conveyance for wealthier rural households in late imperial China.

4. Wheelchair concept – Here, not historically accurate; the “pushcart” inspiration is taken from modern experiences, adapted to the ancient setting.

5. Return-to-door (回门) – A traditional custom where a married woman or ge’er returns to their natal home shortly after the wedding, usually the next day, often bringing gifts.

6. Guan (贯) – A string of 1,000 copper coins (~1 tael of silver in value, exchange varied by era).