That day, Master Wang dragged himself out of the warm, inviting bed early in the morning, leaving behind the woman's clinging embrace. After getting properly dressed, he drove his jeep out to the outskirts of the city. The hardworking people had already risen, and thin wisps of cooking smoke curled up from every household as they began another day of work and life.
Even without making preparations beforehand, Master Wang still bought a plump old hen at a high price. Then he went to the hospital pharmacy and purchased Chinese medicinal herbs such as ginseng and deer antler before returning to the residence in Shichahai.
Stewing old hen soup was both a simple dish and not a simple one. When ordinary people made it, the soup was overly meaty, the chicken dry and tough, and it did not look particularly appetizing either. Master Wang had studied it deeply.
Bare-chested and wearing loose shorts to take advantage of the morning coolness, Master Wang unhurriedly carried out the preparations he knew by heart.
By the time the water on the stove was bubbling and steaming, he had finished preparing the ingredients. He rummaged out a whetstone from a kitchen cabinet, moistened it under the tap, and began sharpening his iron cleaver with a clang-clang sound.
Master Wang's heart was as still as an ancient well. The old hen, its legs bound as it lay sprawled by the door, was filled with despair, yet did not dare let out its clucking cries of sorrow.
At last, it met the end of its life.
Master Wang picked it up, set a bowl beneath it, and with one sweep of the blade slit its throat. Bright red blood gushed into the bowl.
It beat its wings, only for them to droop helplessly in the end.