Chapter 70: Hotpot Lamb

When Su Dai spoke, the happiness and excitement she’d felt upon seeing Jiang Yan had faded, replaced by eyes tinged with red.

That children’s room had been prepared in advance when she was pregnant.

At the time, she hadn’t known if it would be a boy or a girl, so she’d decorated it according to her own tastes.

The vibe was a bit girly—soft pinks everywhere, and lots of Barbie dolls.

But then, after an accident, she lost the baby.

And that room had sat unused ever since.

Sun Jingtao knew what his wife was upset about. He squeezed her palm in comfort, then looked sincerely at Ye Qing and said,

“Xiao Ye, things aren’t like they used to be. Who knows when this rain will stop? Besides, we’ve made enemies with those people on the 17th floor today. There’s no guarantee they won’t hold a grudge and come looking for trouble in the future. If we all live together, we can look out for each other.”

Listening to their persuasion, Ye Qing didn’t answer right away.

He glanced at the tightly closed door of 3201, hesitated for a second, then finally said,

“Alright, I’ll trouble you and Sister Dai for a while.”

Hearing him agree to move in, Sun Jingtao and Su Dai’s heavy moods instantly lightened, replaced by relief and joy.

*

Elsewhere, Jiang Yan was putting away the supplies Sun Jingtao and the others had brought her.

The safehouse was damp and chilly, and she couldn’t be bothered to turn on the AC, so she simply entered her space.

Looking at the lush green vegetables growing in the black soil, her appetite suddenly returned—she hadn’t eaten much all day.

She knew exactly what she wanted to eat today.

Old Beijing-style hotpot lamb!

The napa cabbage and greens she’d planted earlier had already grown a hand’s span tall.

Perfect for hotpot—tender, crisp, and sweet.

There were plenty of fresh seedlings in the [Storage Area], too.

But the ones she’d grown herself, just pulled from the earth, would surely taste different.

People always said vegetables like these were “grounded”—good for your body’s energy.

No time like the present.

She grabbed a colorful plastic basin from the kitchen, put on her rain boots, and headed to the garden.

Thankfully, there were no bugs among the vegetables and flowers in her space.

Ever since she was little, the only things she feared more than snakes were creepy-crawlies: caterpillars, cabbage worms, earthworms, any kind of squishy creature.

If she was unlucky enough to touch one by accident, it would probably give her a heart attack.

Thinking of bugs reminded Jiang Yan of the fruit saplings she hadn’t planted yet.

She remembered from an agricultural video that 90% of fruits and vegetables in the world—apples, strawberries, pumpkins, tomatoes, and so on—needed bees for pollination.

Grains like wheat, rice, and oats, on the other hand, relied on the wind, so bees didn’t matter for them.

If she planted these fruits but had no bees, would they still bear fruit?

Or at least, would the fruit taste good?

She could always hand-pollinate—using a cotton swab or a little brush on the flowers—but that would be a ton of work...

Suddenly, she realized the only thing she lacked was a swarm of buzzing bees.

It sounded a bit “off track,” honestly.

If word got out, people outside—starving and struggling to find their next meal—wouldn’t be able to imagine it.

At best, they’d laugh at her; at worst, she’d get a hundred eye-rolls.

But speaking of bees, she remembered Anming had a bee research institute and a bee farm.

She’d seen them while driving before—on the west side of the city, halfway up the mountain, less than a kilometer apart.

It had stuck in her memory because she’d been surprised there were places dedicated to bee research.

The terrain there was higher, so maybe it hadn’t been completely flooded yet.

But with the risk of flash floods and landslides, who knew if the institute or the farm still existed? And with the recent heat, were there any bees left alive?

Jiang Yan thought for a moment, her gaze drifting over the pile of freshly picked, dirt-speckled greens in her hand, and decided eating was more urgent.

She hadn’t eaten all day, after all.

She got up, washed the freshly picked napa and greens in the kitchen, then summoned an Old Beijing hotpot lamb set from her [Storage Area].

Fatty lamb slices, beef slices, hand-cut lamb and beef, beef tendon, lamb tripe, fresh shrimp paste, frozen tofu, lotus root, potato, celtuce, enoki mushrooms—everything you could want.

There were also some of her favorite Old Beijing snacks: glutinous rice rolls with soybean flour, aiwowo, jujube flower pastries, and more.

Just a little of each, but a full spread.

She’d even bought the original hotpot set and dipping sauces that came with the meal.

The pot was a classic copper hotpot, with charcoal in the center and the broth bubbling around the sides.

Supposedly, when camping outdoors, you could even use dried cow dung as smokeless fuel.

For the broth, she didn’t use the restaurant’s.

Instead, she lined the pot with ice cubes, added a few slices of fresh ginger, some red dates, two sections of green onion, a splash of red wine, and finally poured in a bottle of natural mineral water before covering the pot.

She’d first had hotpot this way years ago, in a little private restaurant hidden in a northern residential neighborhood.

A classic mountain spring water base—perfect for preserving the original flavor and freshness of the ingredients.

She used a kitchen torch to light the smokeless charcoal, and while waiting for the water to boil, she mixed two dipping sauces.

One was the classic Old Beijing sesame sauce, with a touch of soul—chive flower paste.

She wasn’t actually a big fan of the taste, but she had to try it for authenticity.

So she also made a local classic:

Chopped bird’s eye chili, fermented tofu, sesame oil, oyster sauce, crushed sesame, crushed peanuts, cilantro, minced garlic, a dash of soy sauce and vinegar, and a big spoonful of the local soul—fish mint (houttuynia cordata). Perfect.

This sauce brought out the best in every ingredient—absolutely delicious.

After eating, Jiang Yan went for a walk outside her apple pod, admiring her flowers and plants, then returned to the second-floor media room to continue studying.

By about ten o’clock, she went to bed.

She listened to soft music and read for a while, then closed the blackout curtains and lay down to sleep.

This kind of time—free, lazy, and beautiful.

But Jiang Yan still felt like something was missing.

Had she just been cooped up alone for too long?

But before she could think more about it, after a day in “battle mode” and a soak in a wine bath, she quickly drifted off to sleep.

In the middle of the night, everything was silent.

Suddenly, a faint rustling sound came from the room.

Jiang Yan, who always relaxed completely in her space, mumbled and turned over, sinking deeper into sleep.

Rustle, rustle...

The sound came again.

Two seconds later—

A palm-sized, serrated, slender leaf quietly lifted the blanket and slowly poked its way out from underneath."