Broth Feeding

### Chapter Thirty-Five: Broth Nourishment

When the morning mist was dyed a pale gold by the rising sun, Chen An startled awake beside the stone table.

In the fire pit, the last bundle of firewood had burned out, leaving only a floor of gray-white ash. Yet beneath that thick layer of ash, a faint, stubborn warmth still seeped through, like a tenderness unwilling to disperse from the depths of the earth. Chen An's gaze passed over this remnant heat, and almost instinctively, holding his breath, he looked toward the old straw mat in the corner.

On the mat, the pitch-black hound still lay curled in the same position he had carefully arranged for it last night, a heavy, condensed mass of darkness.

Its body was almost entirely wrapped in thick, softly tanned deerskin bandages, especially around the hind legs and lower abdomen, wound tightly and densely, with only a few patches of dark fur showing through the gaps.

Yet the dark stains from the herbal medicine were still visible, emitting a faint, bitter, and refreshing scent of medicinal herbs.

What made Chen An's heart tighten most was the rise and fall of its chest.

Last night, that rise and fall had been as faint as a candle flickering in the wind, like a deep pool disturbed by a thrown stone, barely stirring a ripple.

It seemed as if it would fall silent at any moment. But now, by the faint light filtering through the gaps in the wooden window, mingled with floating dust, he could see clearly.

The bandaged chest was rising and falling steadily, slowly, yet with an unusually calm and powerful rhythm, like the long, tireless breathing of the seashore after the tide had receded under the moonlight.

It carried the exhaustion of a narrow escape from death, and also the resilient calm inherent in life itself.

He crept closer, crouching to observe. A faint herbal scent seeped from the gaps in the bandages, mixing with the dry smell of wood ash.

The fatal penetrating wound on its neck was rimmed with dark, hardened scabs, and the translucent membrane covering the wound was thicker than last night, like moss quietly growing beneath a layer of ice.

"The self-healing rate is accelerating..." Chen An scribbled quickly in the Hide Notebook, pausing his pen to add another line, "Energy replenishment needed to maintain metabolic rate."

He turned and walked toward the kitchen.

The coarse clay pot was firmly set over the rekindled fire, filled with clear well water.

The flames licked the pot, sending a stream of fine bubbles rising from the bottom, producing a soft, lively "gurgling" sound as steam billowed upward.

Chen An turned and took a piece of dark red, distinctly textured smoked Green Mane Beast jerky from a leather pouch hanging on the wall.

The jerky was hard and dry, exuding a rich smoky aroma and the salty fragrance of time.

He placed it on a flat, smooth bluestone, gripped the stone knife he had used for years—its edge worn smooth and comfortable—and began to cut it with force, one stroke after another.

The blade rubbed against the fibers of the jerky, producing a solid, rhythmic "thud, thud" sound, until the jerky was chopped into uniform, fine granules.

Next, he opened a small bundle carefully wrapped in broad leaves, containing the Polygonatum rhizome powder he had prepared earlier, ground into a fine, pale yellow dust.

He pinched a bit between his fingers; the powder was dry and delicate. Then, from a clay bowl nearby, he grabbed a handful of washed wild vegetable leaves still glistening with water droplets. The leaves were a vivid green, exuding a fresh, wild mountain air.

He dropped the minced meat, Polygonatum powder, and wild vegetable leaves one by one into the already boiling clay pot.

The minced meat tumbled in the boiling water, and the fragrance of fat and Polygonatum's sweetness mingled with the fresh scent of the wild greens.

When the broth began to thicken, Chen An scooped up half a spoonful, blew on it to cool it, and brought it close to the black hound's lips.

Just then, the dark figure on the straw mat stirred ever so slightly.

That always wet, cool black nose began to twitch rapidly in its sleep.

The small nostrils flared and contracted quickly, like the keenest hunter desperately trying to catch some invisible signal in the air, each contraction carrying an urgent, faint tremor.

Its brown-black pupils were dilated and hazy like frosted glass, reflecting the rising steam.

Chen An carefully brought the wooden spoon filled with warm meat porridge closer. When the cool edge of the spoon just touched the dry lips, the long-silent hound seemed to awaken a deep instinct from this familiar touch.

It didn't open its eyes immediately, its eyelids still heavy with exhaustion, but a pink tongue, marked with fine cracks, instinctively and somewhat slowly extended.

The tip of his tongue first touched the food on the spoon very lightly, a drowsy probe, as if confirming whether this sudden warmth was an illusion or reality.

Once, twice, then it began to lick slowly, with a weak but stubborn rhythm.

The rice soup mixed with minced meat moistened its tongue. It paused for a moment, as if confirming safety, then began to swallow in small sips. Each swallow pulled at the wound on its neck, causing its body to tremble slightly, but it didn't stop.

Chen An continued to scoop the broth, moving extremely slowly.

Holding the wooden spoon, maintaining the feeding posture, his gaze was suddenly drawn to a strange phenomenon floating on the surface of the soup.

Amidst the steaming vapor, countless tiny, pale golden specks were rising and sinking, like dust dyed by the morning light, or fireflies awakening in a summer forest, drifting gracefully with every slight movement of the soup.

The membrane at the wound on its throat shimmered with the faintest silver patterns under the infusion of spiritual energy, like twinkling starlight.

When the last spoonful of warm broth was carefully fed, the clay bowl was finally empty.

Chen An gently set down the bowl, his gaze soft as it fell on the hound's face.

He saw a few remnants of soup wetting the dark fur at the corners of its mouth, leaving dark traces, and a few tiny bits of minced meat clinging to its lips.

He reached for a piece of prepared leather—especially soft.

Pinching the corner of the leather with his fingertips, he moved with a gentleness like brushing away a morning spiderweb, and began to wipe it clean.

The leather first carefully pressed against the corner of its mouth, absorbing the excess soup. Then, with the lightest pressure, he traced along the outline of its lips, back and forth, ensuring no stains remained and never pulling at any possible injuries.

Throughout the process, the hound let out a barely audible, contented hum from its throat, but its body remained relaxed against the straw mat, silently allowing and enjoying this meticulous care.

The hound closed its eyes wearily, but its breathing was longer than before. Just as he was about to stand up, the bandaged front paw suddenly lifted a few inches, its claws trembling slightly as they rested on the back of his hand.

The rough, warm touch came, and Chen An froze in place. The hound didn't open its eyes, but a long, drawn-out whimper escaped its throat, the tail of the sound trailing off like a sigh.

Then, a wet, soft tongue gently licked the scratch on the knuckle of his index finger—an old wound from being cut by gravel while dragging it yesterday. The warm, rough touch was clumsy yet gentle, like the most primitive form of healing.

Morning light streamed through the window gap, casting dappled spots on the straw mat. Chen An turned his hand over, lightly covering the hound's paw pad, feeling a faint but steady pulse beating beneath his palm.

"Live," he whispered, "In the wilderness, a mouthful of hot broth is also a chance at life."