Delicate, Yet Shamelessly Freeloading [Quick Transmigration] Chapter 54

Chapter 54: The Snobbish Black Moonlight (3)

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Shui Que didn’t understand the Overseer’s snide, sarcastic remark.

 

Besides, it wasn’t a holiday—who would be praying to Bodhisattvas?

 

“Why is it you?” he asked, surprised, while lowering his head to push both bamboo doors inward. He gave a light kick to the stone in the corner used to block the door so the wind wouldn’t blow it shut again.

 

A rough voice answered, “Wu Chun.”

 

Shui Que looked up and realized he was stating his name.

 

“I’m Shui Que,” he replied, exchanging names. Since the visitor was a guest, he naturally invited him, “Come in, there’s some plain tea in the courtyard if you’re thirsty.”

 

He hadn’t been here many days, but already carried himself like the master of the place—like a magpie that had taken over someone else’s nest.

 

The man was still dressed in brown clothes, narrow pants, and the same conical hat. Muscled back and waist carried a hunting bow, and it seemed he had just come down early from the mountains. The legs of his pants were wet with dew, and his hemp shoes were still slightly muddy.

 

Hesitating for a moment, Wu Chun, worried about dirtying the clean courtyard, rubbed his shoes dry on the grass and stones near the door.

 

Then he slowly stepped into the yard.

 

Shui Que came out of the main hall with a bowl of coarse tea. Not seeing anyone, he almost thought the man had left.

 

Luckily, Wu Chun came back into the courtyard just in time.

 

He handed him a rough porcelain bowl filled with tea. There were two rattan stools in the courtyard, and Shui Que gestured for him to sit. “Were you looking for Qi Lang?”

 

“Bad timing—Qi Lang’s out. He won’t be back until around noon.”

 

Wu Chun silently shook his head. He had caught the pheasant on the mountain and tied its feet with hemp rope, wings bound as well. Even thrown on the ground, it couldn’t flutter away.

 

Now with his hands free, he tilted his head back and drank the tea in one gulp.

 

It was made from dried honeysuckle and fish mint—perfect for cooling off in the summer heat.

 

Yesterday, he had only spoken three words—Shui Que hadn’t noticed. But today, when he said a bit more, Shui Que realized his accent didn’t quite match the local dialect.

 

Wu Chun’s hawk-like eyes stared directly at him without any hint of restraint. His voice was rough and gravelly as he said,
“Not looking for him. I’m looking for you.”

 

Shui Que was startled.

 

Whenever he was surprised, his eyes would unconsciously widen, the corners round and soft, making him look even more innocent—softening the otherwise striking beauty of his features.

 

Shui Que asked: “Why are you looking for me?”

 

He wasn’t exactly close to this man—they had, at most, only met once in passing.

 

“My right elbow, it’s dislocated.”

 

Wu Chun’s features were nothing like those of people from the Central Plains or the Jiangnan region. His appearance was deep and defined, but what should have been a sharp, cold face looked dull and slow-witted, making his temperament seem at odds with his looks.

 

With a blank expression, he said, “That kid said… you’re a divine doctor.”

 

Shui Que quickly realized who he meant—it must’ve been Huzi, the boy who came looking for Qi Chaojin yesterday and ended up getting his arm patched up with cactus. He had no idea how such exaggerated childish nonsense had made its way to this man’s ears. The thought left him both amused and helpless.

 

Still, when it came to treating a dislocated elbow, he did actually know what to do.

 

Shui Que hurried to explain, “What Huzi said was just childish nonsense. At most, I only know a little bit. But if you trust me… please, come inside.”

 

Wu Chun followed him into the main house, and Shui Que gestured for him to sit on the wooden chair.

 

The seat was wide enough.

 

Even after Wu Chun sat down, there was still some space left. Shui Que took hold of his wrist.

 

This man—whatever he’d been eating to grow like that—had wrists so thick that Shui Que couldn’t even wrap his entire right hand around one. He had no choice but to say, “You’ll need to hold yourself steady.”

 

Wu Chun obediently nodded.

 

Then Shui Que stepped up onto the chair with his left foot, pressing his knee into the crook of Wu Chun’s elbow while using his left hand to pull at Wu Chun’s upper arm. At the same time, he gradually bent the forearm to draw it back into place.

 

Normally, after a dislocation, the elbow would swell and throb with pain, and the repositioning process would be quite unpleasant—especially in a time like this, where they didn’t have modern anesthetics to ease the pain. Shui Que worried that Wu Chun might not be able to bear the pain and would jerk his arm away mid-process.

 

But Wu Chun’s face remained just as blank as ever. His skin was dark, and if you weren’t paying close attention, you wouldn’t even notice the flush creeping up on his face.

 

Shui Que glanced at him and assumed he was silently enduring the pain—his face was turning red from holding it in.

 

Wu Chun clenched his teeth, but not because it hurt.

 

Xiao Langjun was probably feeling hot. Instead of wearing long-sleeved undergarments, he had on a sleeveless summer inner shirt called a “chen,” which was currently popular in the Darong Dynasty. It wasn’t much different from a thin vest with a single button.

 

Over it, he wore a wide-sleeved robe made of patterned gauze. The material was already known for being soft and sheer, and this one was in a light color. From a distance, it didn’t seem so noticeable, but with them sitting so close now, even without meaning to look, Wu Chun could see right through the gauze to the skin beneath.

 

The inner shirt was cut low, exposing large swaths of skin pale as spring snow. Through the gauze, Shui Que’s soft pink shoulders were just visible. His slender arms beneath the wide sleeves looked as delicate and pale as lotus roots. His waist was barely half as wide as Wu Chun’s—so thin it seemed fragile.

 

What kind of water and rice had raised someone like this? Warm and fragrant like jade, and when he applied force to reset the arm, his body heated up. His lips parted slightly, pink and soft, and every breath he exhaled carried a faint sweet scent that surrounded Wu Chun.

 

Had he hidden a scented sachet in his clothes?

 

Wu Chun had heard that not only the sons and daughters of nobles, but even some scholar-officials, liked to “cultivate temperament through scent”—burning incense to perfume their clothes, wearing scented sachets, or even buying those fragrant balls that some shops in town had started selling lately, which they’d place in their clothes or bedding to add fragrance.

 

But the young man before him, with his sweeping wide sleeves made of thin gauze, clearly wasn’t hiding any scented ball.

 

Then where was it?

 

Wu Chun’s expression didn’t change, but his hawk-like eyes shifted, landing on the sleeveless summer garment.

 

Could it be hidden underneath, close to the skin?

 

If that were the case, then even the slightest sweat would trap the fragrance against his soft skin, making him smell sweet all over and his body glow with a rosy warmth.

 

Wu Chun, whose bloodline carried more Hu heritage, didn’t follow the Han customs of the Darong natives when it came to modesty. He stared directly at people without shyness, his hawk eyes bold and intense, as if they could stick to someone.

 

Once Shui Que finished putting his arm back in place, he looked up to see Wu Chun staring at him, the expression on his face fierce and unreadable. A chill ran through Shui Que, and the foot he had braced on the chair dropped back to the floor.

 

“D-Did I press too hard? Did I hurt you?” Shui Que asked in a soft, tentative voice.

 

The way Wu Chun was staring at him made him wonder if this man was about to assault his doctor.

 

Wu Chun shook his head and asked seriously, “Did you hide a scented ball in your clothes?”

 

“Huh?” Shui Que blinked in confusion. He had never heard of such a thing. “No… What’s that?”

 

Wu Chun looked at his face. He didn’t seem to be lying.

 

Still, he couldn’t figure it out—if there was no incense, why did this person smell so good?

 

His eyes scanned the furnishings in the main house. The windows were clean and bright, bamboo blinds half rolled up. There was a round table, bamboo stools, wooden chairs—all arranged simply and neatly. Wu Chun noticed that the items clearly in use were all in pairs, even the bowls and chopsticks on the table.

 

In his rough, gravelly voice, he asked, “You and Qi Chaojin—what’s your relationship?”

 

If they were brothers, their interactions didn’t resemble what he’d expect from siblings. He had seen clearly yesterday—what kind of brother would wash another’s underwear?

 

Shui Que’s throat tightened, and a trace of unease flickered across his face. Trying to stay calm, he said, “Qi Lang is my distant cousin. I’m the son of a merchant. My parents were killed by mountain bandits, so I came to Qinghe Village to seek refuge with my cousin.”

 

In this world, Shui Que had no official household registration. Qinghe Village was backward and remote, and the census in Changzhou County wasn’t strictly enforced. Most officials turned a blind eye to refugees. But if someone reported him and the authorities wanted to investigate, they couldn’t pretend nothing had happened.

 

Qi Chaojin had taught him to say they were distant cousins. The people in Qinghe Village wouldn’t question it too much.

 

Wu Chun didn’t reply. It was hard to tell if he believed it or not.

 

Then System 77 suddenly spoke up: [Host, the auxiliary system has calculated that this is the “wild man” character from the plot…]


[Your task is to ask him for his pheasant. That’ll count for two soft rice points.]

 

Since coming to this world, Shui Que had only earned around 30 soft rice points—mostly from the money the male lead had spent on him here and there: his clothes, shoes, stir-fried meat, everything he’d eaten. By his estimate, the system calculated soft rice points at a rate of 1 point per 100 copper coins.

 

Which meant that pheasant could sell for 200 copper coins in the market.

 

That was nearly two days’ wages for an average farmer in Darong. Was being a hunter really that profitable?

 

Shui Que silently did the math.

 

Still, it wasn’t easy money. Hunting in deep forests came with its risks—like dislocating your elbow, for instance.

 

System 77 faithfully reminded him of his assigned personality:
[Host, remember to act a little more green-tea while doing missions.]

 

Shui Que: [Oh…]

 

His understanding of “green tea behavior” was still stuck on some cringey internet memes from two worlds ago.

 

“Brother Wu Chun…” he said softly, curling his toes from embarrassment because the other man couldn’t see him. His voice turned delicate and timid, “You’re amazing. Can you really catch such big pheasants every day? They’re so big… Can you finish one all by yourself?”

 

He stammered and blushed as he spoke, “I’ve never had one before… But I get full from just a little…”

 

As he talked, he made a small gesture with his fingers.

 

System 77 realized something: this world’s mission script was ruthless, but its host was absolutely precious. The little mechanical ball practically radiated heat—it wanted to rush into the mountains right now and catch a pheasant for its sweet, pitiful host.

 

Wu Chun quietly listened, his eyes never leaving Shui Que.

 

Already embarrassed, Shui Que avoided his gaze.

 

No wonder he was so thin—he only ate that much.

 

Wu Chun stood up, slung his hunting bow over his back, and said in his gruff voice, “That one’s yours—as payment. I can hunt another.”

 

System 77 chimed in to confirm: Two soft rice points added.

 

“Really?” Shui Que’s eyes lit up. “But your elbow was just put back in place. You should rest for a couple of days.”

 

For an average person, they’d need a sling and at least a week of rest.

 

But Wu Chun had shown no abnormal signs during the realignment. His physical condition was clearly far better than average.

 

He rotated his arm a bit, the muscles beneath the coarse hemp clothing shifting and outlining his strength.

 

He proved he was fine and said blandly, “It’s nothing.”

 

Then he slung his bow and went back into the mountains.

 

He hadn’t been gone long before Shui Que, sitting idly in the courtyard, began counting the thin bamboo shoots growing beside the main house.

 

A peasant woman arrived, smiling warmly, and brought him three farm eggs.

 

Turned out, she was Huzai’s mother—the villagers called her Aunt Liu.

 

She said that after checking on Huzai today, his swollen cheeks had indeed gone down quite a bit, and asked Shui Que if she could have another piece of cactus.

 

The cacti in Qi Chaojin’s courtyard didn’t have any particular use anyway, so to help out a neighbor, Shui Que took a small knife and cut off two segments from the top for her to take back—one to apply to the affected area, and the other to plant.

 

He tried to refuse several times, but eventually accepted the three free-range eggs that Auntie Liu had brought. Her kindness was hard to turn down. He put them in the kitchen along with the pheasant.

 

As Auntie Liu was leaving, she suddenly asked about his relationship with Qi Chaojin. Shui Que repeated everything he had told Wu Chun before, word for word.

 

But Auntie Liu just smiled and said warmly, “Good, good. You two handsome young men should live a good life together. Qi Er* already has academic honors, and once the mourning period is over, he’ll still be sitting for the imperial exams. Young man, your good days are still ahead of you.”

Note: Qi Er is same as Qi Erlang all refer to second Qi.

 

Academic honors didn’t typically spread through distant cousin relationships, did they?

 

Shui Que looked utterly confused.

 

Auntie Liu wasn’t originally from the area—she came from farther south. Where she came from, distant cousins often married. To keep things discreet before marriage, they would use those vague and distant family ties as a cover for how close they really were.

 

She assumed these two had that kind of relationship as well.

 

And once she returned home—well, Qinghe Village wasn’t exactly large. By the time she finished washing clothes, the entire village had already heard the news.

 

———

 

Qi Chaojin had returned from Changzhou County.

 

His skills in painting were on par with his calligraphy. Before the day market opened, he had painted thirty round fans—most with landscapes, flowers and birds, and scenes of immortal peaches. The more expensive ones had black lacquer handles inlaid with mother-of-pearl and could sell for eighty coins apiece. The simpler ones with bamboo-patterned edges still fetched forty coins. On average, each fan sold for sixty coins. Not long after the market opened, they were all gone.

 

One of his former academy classmates happened to be a regular customer at that shop. The moment he saw the fresh fans on the street, he knew it was Qi Chaojin’s work. He even asked curiously if he had been short on money lately.

 

Qi Chaojin nodded calmly, neither arrogant nor servile.

 

The shopkeeper paid him fifteen coins per fan for the artwork, which meant he earned four hundred and fifty coins that day.

 

The shopkeeper even gifted him a bamboo-patterned fan as a bonus.

 

He took the day’s wages to the grocery shop next door and bought a “Bamboo Lady.”

 

The Bamboo Lady—also called a Bamboo Servant or Bamboo Leg Pillow—was a type of cylindrical pillow that had originated in the capital during the previous dynasty. About a meter long, it was woven from bamboo strips, hollow and breathable. On summer nights, with the curtain rolled halfway up, the breeze would flow into the room, and the Bamboo Lady would help circulate the wind, making it perfect for cooling off.

 

There were many types, varying in price. The rougher kind, made of bitter bamboo, cost only fifty coins.

 

Qi Chaojin didn’t even need a moment to consider. If Shui Que slept against something that coarse, he’d be covered in red marks the next day.

 

So Qi chose a version made from soft, flexible water bamboo. It cost four times as much.

 

The shop assistant, afraid he wouldn’t buy it, praised the water bamboo version to the skies. Once Qi Chaojin handed over the copper coins, the assistant beamed with joy.

 

Qi Chaojin suspected he’d been overcharged.

 

He left the grocery store with a frown.

 

Then he bought a bowl of icy sweet dumplings from a dessert stall at the end of the street.

 

As he passed, some villagers from Qinghe greeted him with teasing smiles. Qi Chaojin didn’t understand at first.

 

But after listening closely, he realized they were joking that he’d hidden a handsome, fair-skinned Xiao Langjun in his courtyard—and now he’d even brought home a luxurious bamboo pillow, maybe as a betrothal gift.

 

Indeed, it had become fashionable lately to include a Bamboo Lady in a betrothal set.

 

Even though the Darong dynasty frowned upon weddings and imperial exams during mourning, it didn’t forbid sons and daughters in mourning from engaging in romantic discussions. There were plenty of cases where a grand wedding would take place soon after the mourning period ended—people even praised it as turning white into red (mourning to celebration).

 

But the crucial point was: as the subject of the gossip, Qi Chaojin had never considered anything of the sort.

 

He still thought of himself as Shui Que’s so-called cousin—there wasn’t anything unusual about it in his mind.

 

When Shui Que saw him return with a strange look on his face, he thought h  had gotten overheated.

 

As he took the bowl of icy dumplings, he even asked, “Qi Lang, aren’t you going to eat?”

 

Qi Chaojin avoided those round, shiny, innocent eyes. “…I don’t like sweet things.”

 

He put down his things and went into the kitchen.

 

“These eggs and pheasant…?” he called out to Shui Que in the courtyard.

 

Shui Que explained, “The eggs were from Auntie Liu. The pheasant was from Wu Chun.”

 

Qi Chaojin’s eyes narrowed slightly.

 

He had heard of Wu Chun, mostly from idle village chatter. Qinghe was such a small place—even moldy old gossip could make the rounds again and again.

 

They said Wu Chun had been adopted by an old bachelor who lived at the foot of the mountain at the edge of the village. The boy had floated downriver one day, covered in scars and bleeding all over. He was already over ten at the time, but no one knew his name or background.

 

The old bachelor had asked the county official to give him the name Wu Chun, and also invited a Taoist priest to exorcise any evil spirits. He spent quite a bit of money on it, which the villagers thought was a waste.

 

But Wu Chun had a strong sense of gratitude. He learned how to hunt and brought back wild goods from the mountains every day to support the household.

 

The old man passed away not long after, leaving behind a thatched hut and a full set of hunting gear for his foster son.

 

Wu Chun didn’t mix much with the villagers, and his hut was far from everyone else’s. He came and went through wind and rain, always roaming the mountains. The villagers joked he was no different from a wild man.

 

Qi Chaojin asked, “Why did he give you a pheasant? Did he come by today?”

 

No wonder there were mud prints on the stones and grass outside the yard.

 

Shui Que, chewing on a small rice ball, replied, “His elbow was dislocated. He came to me for help. I set it back for him, and he gave the pheasant as thanks.”

 

“Mm.”

 

Qi Chaojin had no further doubts.

 

Since he had come back late, it wasn’t a good time to boil water and kill the bird. It’d be better to butcher it in the morning—it could last two meals that way and wouldn’t spoil overnight.

 

That evening, Qi Chaojin cooked scrambled eggs with fragrant toon shoots, using the eggs Auntie Liu had given them.

 

Shui Que remembered that he was supposed to be taking care of the male lead.

 

He picked up some of the eggs from the wooden table and placed them in Qi Chaojin’s bowl. “Qi Lang, you’ve worked hard. I don’t need to eat these—it’s okay. You should eat more.”

 

Qi Chaojin didn’t keep that cold, distant look like he had in previous days. When he saw Shui Que putting eggs into his bowl and heard those warm words, his expression became even stranger.

 

He didn’t have that kind of intention, but what if Shui Que didn’t see him the same way?

 

Otherwise, why had Shui Que insisted on following him back when the bridge had been so crowded that day?

 

Qi Chaojin shook his head and didn’t think any further. “I’m not eating. You eat it.”

 

Shui Que, who had just been tender and considerate, seemed to have increased the male lead’s favorability a little—the storyline seemed to have progressed.

 

He happily took the eggs back from Qi Chaojin’s bowl and told System 77 in a slightly smug tone: [Sigh, I knew he wouldn’t eat it. He gave me all his stir-fried meat yesterday too. He must be avoiding meat because he’s still in mourning.]

 

As he kept eating, Shui Que added: [No food waste allowed. I’ll help him finish it all.]

 

———

 

There was now a Bamboo Lady on the bed. At night, the little curtain was half rolled up, and with the breeze blowing through, the bamboo outside rustled, and the bamboo inside cooled the whole room with an autumn-like chill.

 

Shui Que loved it and slept right next to the Bamboo Lady between them.

 

Qi Chaojin, however, didn’t dare face him.

 

Because Shui Que had complained about the heat, he had rushed to finish sewing two sets of sleeveless summer clothes for him the night before, using a piece of fine cotton cloth he had originally set aside for New Year’s clothing. The pants were also made shorter.

 

If he turned over in bed, he would see, under the silvery moonlight, that pale, almost glowing soft skin.

 

He hadn’t noticed it while sewing, but now he realized the position of the buttons on that single-button summer shirt was too low—his collarbones and chest were bare and white, and if Shui Que’s sleeping posture shifted a bit, even the slightest hint of pink might peek through.

 

Qi Chaojin lay on his side with his back to Shui Que, unable to fall asleep.

 

Half-asleep, Shui Que suddenly slapped his arm and mumbled, “Qi Lang… there’s a mosquito biting me… quick, bite it back…”

 

Qi Chaojin: “……”

 

He sat up, pulled aside the fabric canopy, got out of bed, and groped his way in the dark toward the cabinet in the hall to find a fire rope.

 

The fire rope was made last autumn by twisting together mugwort and wormwood that had already gone to seed. Once dried, they were saved for use this summer to repel mosquitoes.

 

One was hung beneath the window, another tied by the door. When lit, they released a thin, curling trail of smoke.

 

The other half of the bamboo mat suddenly sank—Shui Que knew it meant Qi Chaojin had lain down. Still groggy with sleep, he mumbled softly to the other person, “Qi Lang, fan me with the fan… If you fan me, the mosquitoes won’t dare to bite.”

 

Qi Chaojin: “……”

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Huge shoutout to @candycorns2 on Discord for commissioning this! The chapter will be posted regularly, show your support for Ciacia at Kofi.

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