Storing Winter Supplies

Chapter 29: Stocking Up for Winter

The late autumn wind carried a hint of chill as it crept into the small yard. Chen An stood by the vegetable patch, eyeing the faint yellow creeping along the leaf edges, a flicker of alert rising in his heart.

The seasons in the Primordial World seemed to shift faster and more violently than he remembered. Just a few days ago, while patrolling the edge of the Safe Zone, he'd noticed the insect nests beneath the cliff growing quieter, and the birdsong in the woods carried a desolate note—all signs that winter was approaching.

"I need to stock up on supplies before the cold snap seals the mountain passes." Chen An rubbed his slightly chilled hands, his gaze sweeping over the animal hides drying in the yard, the freshly pickled vegetables in clay jars, and the bundles of firewood stacked against the wall.

He knew that winter in the Primordial World was no gentle "cooling off"—it was a protracted war testing one's will to survive. As a transmigrator, he understood better than anyone the importance of reserves: without a stable food source, even the sturdiest Safe Zone would become a cold, lifeless cage.

The first priority in storing food was processing the recently hunted game.

Since building the Safe Zone, Chen An's hunting efficiency had improved dramatically. Using traps and torches, he'd caught three deer-like herbivores (which he tentatively named "Green Mane Beasts"), two agile tree-dwelling fox-types (tentatively called "Crimson Flame Foxes"), and even once risked injuring a smaller "Ironback Lizard."

Though these kills weren't on the level of Demonic Beasts, they were still a precious source of protein.

He dragged the two freshly caught Green Mane Beasts into the backyard. The carcasses were still warm, their fur gleaming with an oily sheen under the autumn sun. Chen An pulled on gloves woven from beast sinew, picked up his stone knife, and began to butcher them. It was a delicate task: he had to precisely remove the innards (some parts could be pickled), separate the lean meat, and scrape the bones clean of any remaining flesh.

The bones weren't wasted either. He smashed them with a stone hammer, planning to boil them for broth or make a simple "bone fertilizer" to nourish the garden.

The processed lean meat was cut into strips three fingers wide and half a palm thick. Chen An recalled modern methods of smoking meat, but he lacked salt and spices.

Still, the Primordial World had its own solutions. He'd found several bushes at the edge of the garden with a pungent fragrance—their leaves, when crushed, smelled similar to Sichuan pepper. He'd also picked a few white flowers from cracks in the cliff face; grinding their roots released a faint salty taste.

He mixed these "natural seasonings" with the meat strips, threaded them on vines, and hung them in a ventilated spot near the pottery kiln to air-dry for half a day, removing some moisture.

The key to smoking was heat control and fuel. Chen An dug a shallow pit outside the kiln, lined the bottom with damp clay, and layered in dry pine needles, cypress branches, and peach pits.

These were tinder he'd collected earlier, chosen for the thick smoke they produced when burned. He hung the meat strips above the pit, covered the opening with a stone slab, and left only a narrow gap for the smoke to seep out.

"Crackle—"

As the pine needles burned softly, smoke began to churn inside the pit.

Chen An stayed by the pit, adding fuel from time to time. He knew smoking required patience: too short, and the meat would spoil; too long, and it would turn bitter.

After about two hours, he lifted the stone slab. The meat strips had turned a deep brown, their surfaces coated with a thin layer of oil, giving off a mixed scent of resin and spice. He took one down and bit into it. The meat was firm and chewy, salty and fragrant with a clean, herbal undertone—easier to preserve than raw meat and capable of providing longer-lasting energy.

Over the next three days, he repeated the process, turning all his game into dried meat. These dark brown strips were carefully packed into clay jars, sealed with clay, and stacked in a cool corner of the main house.

The jars were new vessels Chen An had fired in his kiln. Their tight seal effectively kept out moisture—the closest thing he could think of to "vacuum packing."

Besides meat, storing fruit was equally important.

Though his vegetable patch produced greens, he hadn't yet succeeded in growing fruit crops.

But the Primordial World's wild plants were far more generous than he'd expected. On the slope at the edge of the garden grew low bushes laden with red-and-yellow berries (which he named "Warm Sun Berries"). By the stream at the cliff's base, a few old plum trees bore greenish-red fruit (tentatively called "Winter Plum Fruit").

Some of these wild fruits were sweet and tangy, others slightly astringent, but all were rich in vitamins and sugar.

Chen An knew that during winter, when fresh produce was scarce, these dried fruits could supplement nutrition and prevent scurvy.

He picked up a bamboo basket (woven from vines and soaked in resin), grabbed his stone knife and a cloth, and set out. He was careful while picking: Warm Sun Berries had thin skins and needed gentle handling; Winter Plum Fruit had hard pits that he had to avoid breaking.

Back in the yard, he dumped the fruit onto a stone slab, picked out any rotten or damaged ones, and rinsed the good ones in clean water.

Drying fruit required plenty of sunlight and ventilation.

Chen An strung up several vines in the open space in front of the main house, creating a simple drying rack.

He cut the Warm Sun Berries in half and laid the Winter Plum Fruit whole on the vines, no more than one layer thick. Over the next half month, he turned the fruit every morning to ensure even drying.

Though the autumn sun wasn't as intense as summer's, it was steady. After half a month, the fruit had dehydrated and hardened, turning deep brown or dark red, releasing a concentrated fruity aroma.

He packed the dried fruit into clay jars and animal-hide pouches.

The clay jars were airtight and moisture-proof, ideal for long-term storage; the hide pouches were lighter and easier to carry on future trips. Looking at the colorful dried fruit, Chen An could almost picture himself sitting by the fire pit in the dead of winter, gnawing on dried meat and fruit.

With food stored, Chen An turned his attention to the house.

This little shelter, built from stone, wood, and mud, had held up decently through past storms, but it clearly wasn't sturdy enough for a Primordial World winter.

First, the roof. The original thatch covering kept out rain but couldn't block the wind.

Chen An cut several bundles of dry reeds (gathered from the stream) and mixed them with the thatch to re-cover the roof. Reed fibers were tougher and trapped heat better. He also added an extra layer at the ridge to prevent snow from collapsing it.

Next, the walls. He mixed leftover clay into a thicker paste and replastered the walls.

He added crushed grass and animal hair to the mud to increase adhesion and insulation. For the cracks, he scraped them open with a stone blade, filled them with fresh clay, and pressed it tight with a wooden slat.

Finally, he nailed (tied with vines) a layer of fine wooden lattice to the outer walls, creating an air-insulation layer—an idea borrowed from modern building insulation principles.

The most critical part was the doors and windows. The gaps in the plank door were wide, so Chen An cut strips of animal hide soaked in resin and stuffed them into the cracks around the door and window frames. The hide was soft and flexible, blocking the wind without completely cutting off light. The window was originally just a simple wooden grid, so he added a curtain woven from beast sinew—rolled up during the day for light, lowered at night for warmth.

Reinforcing the house took a full week. Chen An cut his hands on stone shards and got splinters from wood, but looking at the transformed little hut, he felt a deep sense of security. It was no longer just a shelter from the elements—it was a fortress prepared for winter.

Beyond material reserves, Chen An also made two "soft" preparations: organizing fire-starting materials and recording his notes.

He ground pottery shards from the kiln into flint-like pieces and mixed them with sulfur (collected from cliff minerals) to make several boxes of tinder.

This tinder was dry and highly flammable, able to quickly start a fire even in damp winter conditions. He also sorted the firewood in the Safe Zone by type: twigs for kindling, thicker logs for warmth, and oversized blocks stacked in a corner as emergency fuel.

Additionally, he began recording his survival experiences on animal hide.

From how to set traps and identify edible plants, to methods for smoking meat and drying fruit, even techniques for reinforcing the house. He used charred wood as a pen, carving his notes into the inner side of the hide.

This wasn't meant for anyone else to read—it was so that during the long winter, he wouldn't forget the hard-won wisdom earned through sweat and mistakes.

On the night before the winter solstice, Chen An stood before his reinforced hut, gazing at the moon growing round on the horizon. The Safe Zone's barrier shimmered faintly silver in the moonlight. Though the vegetables in the garden had stopped growing, they still held their vibrant green. From under the eaves hung