They called it a feast, but it was really just half a pot of sorghum rice, a few steamed cakes made from dried vegetables, and a scrawny little chicken.
Never mind anything else; just looking at the chicken, Zhou You could roughly imagine the kind of brutal abuse it had suffered in life. Though it had been stewed for quite some time, its eyes still seemed to accuse the world of the hunger it had endured and the injustice of its fate.
Looking at the meager spread, the village chief looked deeply embarrassed.
"I'm terribly sorry. The village is poor, and the members of the caravan we were supposed to host don't really need to eat grain, so we didn't prepare anything particularly good. I hope you can forgive us, young brother."
Zhou You glanced at the old man's sallow face, then at the child behind him—probably his grandson—who was sucking his thumb and drooling, yet didn't dare come closer. He sighed silently to himself.
Nothing particularly good?
They'd probably scraped together everything they had at home.
Why go this far for someone they'd just met?
Zhou You shook his head, then beckoned the frail child over.
The village chief furrowed his brow.
"...What are you doing?"
Zhou You didn't answer. Instead, he picked up the plate of chicken and put it in the child's hands.
"Be good and take it to eat. Remember, don't eat it all. Leave some for your grandpa."
From the cloth pouch at his waist, the Old Daoist spoke in a voice only Zhou You could hear, his tone dripping with mockery.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. I never thought my disciple would be so kindhearted. He can barely feed himself, yet he's still thinking of others..."
"Shut up," Zhou You said flatly.
Only then did he