Ch 34: When the Wild Goose Returns

Clearly, Qing Yan had already forgotten that she’d murmured about steamed pork with rice flour in her sleep.

She craned her neck, staring at Duan Wucuo as he sliced meat, utterly stunned.

Duan Wucuo placed the sliced pork belly into a deep white porcelain bowl, then methodically picked up jar after jar from the spice rack, pouring various seasonings into the bowl to marinate the meat.

Then he began cutting up the pumpkin.

Pumpkin was easier to slice than the soft, wobbly pork belly, so he worked faster with it.
The sound of the knife hitting the cutting board was rhythmic and precise.

The blade landed so close to the fingertips holding the pumpkin that Qing Yan kept worrying he’d cut himself.

Her small, palm-sized face was filled with disbelief.

How could she believe that His Highness the Ninth Prince, the esteemed Prince Zhan, someone born to luxury, would willingly enter a greasy, grimy kitchen?

And yet, Duan Wucuo’s practiced movements made it clear this wasn’t his first time cooking.

Curiosity pushed Qing Yan to inch closer.

The kitchen was slightly elevated above the ground outside. Qing Yan stood by the window, tiptoeing and gripping the windowsill with both hands as she eagerly watched Duan Wucuo chop pumpkin.

The rhythmic tapping of the knife suddenly stopped. Duan Wucuo looked up at the little head poking in through the window and asked, “What happened to your hand?”

Qing Yan blinked, then looked down at her left hand wrapped in white gauze. Realizing what he meant, she replied, “I accidentally burned it with a candle.”

Duan Wucuo said nothing more. He finished slicing the pumpkin and placed it in a steamer basket.

Qing Yan studied his face carefully.

His expression was calm and distant—no emotions visible between his brows.

Yet somehow, Qing Yan felt his mood seemed better than when he first returned?

She wasn’t entirely sure.

The pork belly needed more time to marinate in the sauce. Duan Wucuo picked up a cloth and began slowly wiping the blade of the knife.

Qing Yan frowned as she watched him wipe the kitchen knife so methodically. It was an ordinary action, yet for some reason, seeing Duan Wucuo do it gave her a strange feeling.

It was vaguely dangerous—chilling—but not quite to a terrifying degree.

When the time seemed about right, Duan Wucuo placed the marinated pork over the pumpkin slices in the steamer and covered it.

Then, knife still in hand, he walked out of the kitchen.

Qing Yan, full of curiosity, followed him through the kitchen and into the garden behind it.

She hadn’t explored much of the residence since moving in—mainly to avoid running into Chang Bai—so she was unfamiliar with the layout. She now realized that behind the kitchen was not only a vegetable garden but also a small poultry coop.

Just as she was wondering what Duan Wucuo was up to, he walked into the flock of chickens, grabbed a plump hen, and with a swift motion, slit its throat. Blood splattered onto the ground nearby.

But his hands remained clean—spotless. His pale blue monk’s robe was also immaculate, untouched by blood or grime.

“Cluck cluck! Cluck cluck!”

“Quack quack! Quack quack!”

The sudden killing frightened the rest of the chickens and ducks. They flapped their wings and backed away, squawking in alarm.

Qing Yan blinked. One moment, the hen had been happily pecking at feed, and the next—dead.

Her lips parted slightly, stunned.

It was just a chicken, but as Qing Yan stared at its lifeless body, head hanging and blood dripping, her vision blurred. For a moment, it wasn’t a chicken’s head Duan Wucuo had chopped off—it was a human’s.

You couldn’t blame her for thinking this way.

After all, everyone in the Yi Kingdom knew—Duan Wucuo liked to kill.

Born and raised in Yi, Qing Yan had naturally heard many stories about him.

People in the kingdom often said Duan Wucuo was the god of Yi.

That saying had two meanings.

One: the current emperor owed much of his secure hold on the throne to Duan Wucuo. In earlier years, Duan Wucuo led military campaigns and achieved stunning victories. Much of the territory of the Yi Kingdom was conquered by him.

Two: he held the power of life and death in his hands.

He not only commanded armies—his orders had sent countless to their graves.

When the current emperor first took the throne, Duan Wucuo oversaw the dark guards of the kingdom. During the time when the eunuch-run Eastern and Western Bureaus held sway, he had taken over the Western Bureau himself, balancing the power and dismantling their grip entirely.

Over the years, far too many had died at Duan Wucuo’s hand.

And his methods were notoriously brutal. It was said that no one who died by his hand had an intact corpse.

Qing Yan shivered. That eerie, skin-crawling feeling now clearly settled in.

Duan Wucuo glanced at her, then looked away, lifting the decapitated hen and walking past her.

As he stepped back toward the kitchen, he instructed a nearby maid, “Go to Fenhe Zhai and buy two jin of pomegranate rice cakes.”

Qing Yan stared at his retreating figure, confused all over again.

When she had first met Duan Wucuo, she could hardly believe that this man in monk’s robes was the same Prince Zhan she’d heard so much about as a child.

Her first impression of him was simply too clean, too gentle—nothing like a ruthless god or demon.

“My lady?” Sui’er gently reminded her.

Qing Yan came back to her senses and quickly caught up with Duan Wucuo.

This time, she didn’t stay outside the window but stepped into the kitchen.

Only then did she realize that although the kitchen seemed plain from the outside, the interior was thoughtfully arranged.

Every container of spices was made of jade or other priceless materials.

Some were even adorned with gold, silver, and precious gems.

Qing Yan suddenly had a guess—this kitchen probably belonged to Duan Wucuo alone.

She moved beside him and watched as he expertly cleaned the hen with hot water.

Carefully, she asked, “Did the Empress Dowager say something…”

Duan Wucuo didn’t respond. Instead, he asked, “How would you like it cooked?”

Qing Yan blinked. “You know how to cook it every way?”

Duan Wucuo turned his face slightly to look at Qing Yan, the corners of his eyes lifting in a silent smile.

Qing Yan’s cheeks flushed for no reason. She said, “I want to eat the kind that’s roasted whole… crispy outside, tender inside. The kind that bursts with juice when you bite in. A beggar’s chicken that’s fragrant and crisp.”

Duan Wucuo gave a quiet nod of assent.

He remained silent, and Qing Yan stayed quiet as well.

She stood nearby, quietly watching him cook.

To her shame, although she loved good food, she had never learned to cook. She rarely entered kitchens herself. This was the first time she realized how pleasing it could be to watch someone skillfully prepare food.

The sleeve of Duan Wucuo’s monk robe suddenly slipped down, and Qing Yan quickly stepped forward to help him roll it back up.

One moved, the other watched—one cooked, the other observed.

Neither spoke again.

After a long time, Qing Yan hesitated before finally asking in a soft voice, “Your Highness, why do you like cooking? I thought you wouldn’t enjoy things like this…”

As she asked, Duan Wucuo was handling a fish.

There was a gentle smile between his brows and eyes, and his tone was just as mild. Leisurely, he said:

“Buddhist vows forbid taking life.
But the rhythm of a blade slicing through meat or vegetables… does feel somewhat like cutting human flesh.”

With that, the knife fell cleanly—he chopped off the fish’s head with practiced ease. The fish tail still flailed as it made its final struggle.

When Duan Wucuo looked at her with that smiling gaze, Qing Yan quickly shut her slightly open mouth—only to bite her own tongue in the process. She winced from the sting, eyes narrowing.

She instantly regretted asking the question.

That night, Duan Wucuo not only made her steamed pork with rice flour.

To be precise, he cooked a whole table of rich dishes.

“Try this, my lady.”

Duan Wucuo sat down.

He had changed into snow-colored everyday clothes, his long fingers pale and clean from repeated washing in cool water.

With his long, elegant fingers, he picked up a piece of steamed pork with silver chopsticks and held it up to her lips.

Qing Yan didn’t have time to refuse. She had to open her mouth and let him feed her.

It wasn’t his first time feeding her, and by now Qing Yan had learned: she had to eat fast, because Duan Wucuo fed quickly.

One piece after another, her lips, normally a pale pink, were soon flushed with color, glistening like ripened fruit.

Her snowy cheeks puffed slightly as she chewed.

Duan Wucuo watched her eat with great interest. A hint of genuine amusement surfaced in his deep, still eyes.

While he paused to pick up the next piece, Qing Yan quickly seized the bowl of sweet soup Sui’er had prepared and took two hurried sips.

The steamed pork was indeed delicious—glutinous yet light, tender but not mushy, crisp and flavorful, rich yet not greasy.

But paired with the cool red bean and purple rice sweet soup, it was even better.

Seeing her drink soup, Duan Wucuo didn’t push her to eat more right away.

He set down the chopsticks and picked up a piece of pomegranate rice cake, holding it up beside his face.

With a teasing smile, he asked, “Does this look like my mouth?”

Qing Yan froze. Her face turned bright red. Then she suddenly choked and sprayed sweet soup all over his face.

Startled, she didn’t even wipe her own mouth, rushing to grab a handkerchief from a maid and stumble toward him, stammering, “I’ll wipe it off for you!”

Duan Wucuo dabbed his tongue at a drop on the corner of his lips and said with an utterly serious expression:

“It would be even better if you licked it off.”

All the maids in the room immediately lowered their heads, not daring to look.

Qing Yan, clutching the handkerchief, stared wide-eyed at Duan Wucuo’s face, now dotted with soup, completely speechless.

After a long pause, she drew a deep breath, composed herself, and forced an affected tone:

“Well… this sweet soup isn’t that good. I don’t want to drink it anymore.”

Her words were firm, but they had no effect on Duan Wucuo.

He grasped her wrist and with a light tug, pulled her into his lap.

With a single word—“Leave”—the maids in the room all hurried out with heads bowed.

Wen Xi glanced worriedly at Qing Yan, but said nothing and followed them out, gently shutting the door.

Duan Wucuo used his fingertip to wipe a trace of soup from the corner of her mouth and said, “You have two choices, madam. Either lick it clean… or eat everything on this table.”

Qing Yan looked at him, then glanced at the dishes still covering the table.

Then, she pushed away his arm at her waist and climbed down from his lap.

Returning to her seat, she pulled the bowl of steamed pork in front of her.

There was still about a third left.

Without a word, she lowered her head and started eating.

The silver chopsticks were slippery. She tossed them aside and picked up a spoon, shoveling food into her mouth.

Next came the whole beggar’s chicken.

She devoured the wings first, then the drumsticks, even gnawing every bit of meat from the ribs.

Then it was on to the steamed fish, the phoenix-tail shark fin, stir-fried pigeon with coriander, and the scallop flower balls, occasionally pausing for a bite of sweet-and-sour lotus root.

She continued with chrysanthemum pork, braised prawns, and salted beef.

Then she picked up the vegetarian mushroom soup and drank straight from the bowl, gulping it down.

Her face tilted upward with each mouthful. When she finished the last drop, she placed the now-empty bowl on the table, looked at Duan Wucuo, and burped.

“Hic.”

Of all the dishes, only the pomegranate rice cakes—bought from outside—remained.

Their snowy-white exterior and bright red filling reminded her of last night’s embarrassment.

Qing Yan swore she’d never eat pomegranate rice cake again.

With a straight face, she declared, “This princess only eats what my husband makes with his own hands. I won’t eat anything bought from outside. Hic.”

Duan Wucuo wiped the soup from his face, looked over the wrecked table, and said slowly, “It’s late. After bathing with me, madam should rest.”

Qing Yan responded warily, “Your Highness can go first.”

Duan Wucuo leaned in slightly, brushed away a sesame seed clinging to her dimple, and said with a smile, “It’s too late. Let’s hurry together.”

Qing Yan stiffened and forced herself to say, “Your Highness… hic… hiccups are improper! Hic!”

“No matter. I have a remedy.”

Duan Wucuo took a clean handkerchief from her waist, unfolded it, and gently laid it over her face.

Then, through the cloth, he kissed her greasy lips.

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