Chapter Three: Provide for Yourself with Your Own Hands

"County Magistrate Yue, you’ve finally arrived." As Magistrate Yue pushed open the door and entered, his mustache bristling with urgency, Zhuge Fang and Madam Fang Tian hurried to greet him, anxiety etched on their faces.

Magistrate Yue smoothed his own mustache, his wrinkled face drawn tight with worry. The Zhuge family was one of the wealthiest not only in Sumen Town but in several neighboring counties as well. If the young master of the Zhuge family were to hang himself, he, as the county magistrate, would be blamed for mismanagement.

In two days, Princess Jiangmen would arrive in Sumen Town to visit Zhuge Buliang. If news reached her, not only would Magistrate Yue lose his official cap—he'd be lucky if his entire family wasn’t executed.

“Brother Zhuge, don’t be anxious. What prompted your son’s attempt on his own life?” Though Magistrate Yue’s heart burned with urgency, his years as an official served him well; he forced himself to remain composed and inquired about the cause.

Madam Fang Tian was once again unable to hold back her tears, weeping as if her sorrow might drown her. Zhuge Fang could only sigh and, hands clasped behind his back, recount the events leading to his son’s suicide attempt.

As Magistrate Yue listened, his brows knit in concern. “Sister-in-law, please don’t cry. Brother Zhuge, where is your son now?”

At this question, Madam Fang Tian’s wailing grew even louder, making one wonder how such a slight woman could produce so many tears.

Zhuge Fang looked even more distressed, as if he thought perhaps his son's death would be easier to bear.

“He’s in the kitchen. He said he wanted to cook for us, to show us what food should be. How could the young master of the Zhuge family lower himself to the kitchen? If word gets out, how will I ever face anyone again?”

In ancient times, the kitchen was the domain of servants—so much so that officials and nobility would avoid entering it entirely. Unless a royal chef was singled out and honored by the emperor, his status would not even equal that of the lowest-ranking official.

Now Ming Tian had gone into the kitchen, his parents were convinced he’d lost his mind.

“Oh, what are we to do?” Zhuge Fang sighed again.

“Brother Zhuge, don’t worry,” Magistrate Yue urged in reassurance. “As long as your son hasn’t harmed himself, let’s wait and see what he brings out. Compliment him, help him get through tonight, and tomorrow I’ll consult with my colleagues at the Imperial Medical Institute.”

The Imperial Medical Institute of Sumen Town was a renowned establishment, its head a retired royal physician. Each apprentice admitted to the Institute was exceptionally talented, and by imperial decree, every disciple was granted the rank of Scholar of the Eighth Grade—a testament to the Institute’s prestige.

Though the Institute’s physicians were only of the eighth grade, their skills far surpassed those of ordinary doctors—a comforting thought for Zhuge Fang.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Ming Tian could only sigh.

What kind of kitchen is this? There isn’t even a stove—just a stone frame on the ground, with an assortment of what passed for “utensils” in this era: earthenware pots, and not even a single spoon.

Having lived alone for thirty years with no girlfriend, Ming Tian was a decent cook—in fact, his own meals could rival those of small diners. But faced with this kitchen, his confidence evaporated.

Perhaps starving to death really was a better option.

He wasn’t a history buff, but he knew the basics. This dynasty seemed to fall somewhere between the Han and Tang. Since it was taboo to ask the emperor’s name, and he had only been here for four days, Ming Tian could only deduce the era from daily details.

There were no iron pots—those were invented in the Song, so stir-frying was impossible. But there was flour, and some sixth-rank officials could obtain “foreign” foods like pepper and carrots, indicating the Silk Road was open and the era was after the Wei and Jin.

Chairs and stools were found only in the homes of the wealthy and officials, so it was likely pre-Tang.

The most plausible guess was the Southern and Northern Dynasties—but it was just a guess.

In this era, only wealthy families like Ming Tian’s could afford earthenware.

He had never been a chef, just an executive assistant to a CEO—earning six thousand a month, a poor wage. In such a primitive environment, making anything edible felt impossible.

He glanced at the leftover steamed buns from dinner and the sourdough starter in the corner’s earthen jar and felt nauseous.

The steamed buns here were nothing like he remembered. Without yeast or baking soda, the flour was naturally fermented, resulting in sticky, sour buns that tasted like someone had steamed spoiled dough soaked in the urine of a feverish man.

His family used sourdough, which was less foul, but he couldn't imagine what the commoners’ buns must taste like.

He craved biscuits, roast duck, roast goose, hand-pulled noodles—anything but this.

Surrounded by the stench of the kitchen, reminiscent of a latrine, Ming Tian thought back to his previous life. Even as a poor wage-earner, those days seemed blissful now.

Having not eaten a bite in four days, Ming Tian suddenly felt a jolt—whether from inspiration or hunger-driven survival instinct, he remembered a story from middle school.

Wait—that’s it!

In the main hall—

“Here, Brother Zhuge, this is tea I received as part of my official salary. It’s a rare thing—ordinary folk never taste it. Only scholars and officials can enjoy it,” Magistrate Yue said as he poured Zhuge Fang a cup. The scene was somewhat spoiled by the use of a coarse pottery bowl.

Tea was a luxury at this time; in the Han, it was an imperial beverage, and even now only those with official rank could partake. Though Zhuge Fang was wealthy, tea required connections and was a rare treat even for him.

But Zhuge Fang had no mind to appreciate tea. He sat silently, head bowed in worry.

“Hmm? Brother Zhuge, what is that aroma?”

Just then, through the foul air, a peculiar fragrance drifted in, catching the attention of both Zhuge Fang and Magistrate Yue.

Something smelled burnt, yet there was an indescribable richness to it.

Zhuge Fang started, suddenly fearing his son had set the kitchen on fire.

“Master, master!” At that moment, a maid rushed in, out of breath.

Zhuge Fang panicked. “What is it? Has my son burned down the kitchen?”

“No… no…” The maid was so winded she could barely speak.

In his anxiety, Zhuge Fang pressed the tea Magistrate Yue had given him to the maid’s lips. “Don’t panic. Tell me—what happened to my son?”

After a sip—the first tea of her life—the maid was stunned into silence.

Before she could respond, Ming Tian’s voice echoed into the hall.

“Father, look at you—do you really think your son is foolish enough to set the kitchen on fire?”

Ming Tian entered the pavilion carrying a platter of strange, flat dough cakes.

The aroma that had attracted Zhuge Fang and Magistrate Yue emanated from these yellowish, flattened pieces.

“Son, what is this…” Zhuge Fang stared at the unfamiliar objects Ming Tian brought in.

But the enticing aroma made both Zhuge Fang and Magistrate Yue’s mouths water.

“Young Master Zhuge, what is this you’ve made?” Magistrate Yue asked, unable to take his eyes off the dish.

Ming Tian wondered if the translation system in his head was faulty—everyone’s words still sounded oddly stilted and literary.

“This is a snack I invented. You may call it a biscuit,” Ming Tian said, with a hint of anticipation.

In truth, calling it a biscuit was generous—he’d simply flattened salted sourdough on a large tile, baked it over the fire, then smoked it with tongs over the wood flame.

“Try it, Father, Magistrate Yue.” Ming Tian gestured for them to taste.

He didn’t dare eat the biscuits himself, traumatized by the local food. Since he dared not eat them, he figured he might as well use his father and the magistrate as test subjects.

Following his suggestion, the two men exchanged a glance, then, driven by instinct, each reached for a piece.

Crunch.

The not-very-crispy biscuit still made a satisfying sound as they bit in.

The roasted aroma of flour burst in their mouths, flooding from taste buds to nose, finally lighting up the brain. In that instant, the hippocampus engraved this novel flavor as a lifelong memory.

“Brother Zhuge…this taste…”

“Magistrate Yue, I have never eaten anything so delicious!”

Though baking was humanity’s oldest cooking method, it was mainly used for meat. Baking flour-based foods did not arise until the late Tang, and twice-baked biscuits were only invented around the fifteenth century by South American explorers, with no relation to China.

At this moment, Zhuge Fang and Magistrate Yue were so delighted their very veins seemed to stand out.

Though both had just eaten, they fell upon the dozen or so biscuits like starving men.

And these were merely salted and slightly sour from lack of yeast.

Zhuge Fang, eating and mumbling through his mouthful, said, “Son, how did you ever think of this? It’s delicious!”

“Is it good?” Ming Tian, seeing their reactions, finally relaxed, took a piece, and tasted it himself.

The moment it touched his tongue, his face turned ashen.

He nearly gagged, forcing himself to chew the so-called biscuit.

This was no biscuit—it was dried, sour rice cake, more like hard bread than anything else.

Though the salt made it savory, there was a faintly nauseating tang.

Still, it tasted better than anything he’d had in the last four days.

Not that it could be called food—the “rice” was a mix of unhulled millet and rice, and the “dishes” were all pickled vegetables or boiled greens, supposedly prepared by people with severe foot rot—a process he couldn’t even imagine.

If the past four days’ meals were filth, then these biscuits at least rose to pig feed.

If Gordon Ramsay were served these, he’d probably flatten him with a frying pan.

Watching Magistrate Yue and his father devour the biscuits with delight, Ming Tian could only suffer in silence.

Really? Is it that good? Aren’t you adults? Have some dignity!

Enduring the stench in his mouth, Ming Tian frowned and forced himself to swallow.

At least it was something he could barely choke down.

How was he supposed to survive here?

Looking up at the star-studded sky, unspoiled by technology, Ming Tian had only one thought left in his mind.

I have to escape this wretched era!

…