Chapter 12: The Little Fish Pond

Seeing that the militia had begun to skillfully wield their slings, Leo decided it was unwise to linger in such a dangerous place any longer. He called for Little Mouse to come along, and together they made their way upstream.

He was heading to the little fishpond he had built that morning to collect his catch!

Arriving at the pond, Little Mouse circled it twice, searching several times in the shallow, crystal-clear water before fixing her gaze on Leo and asking, "Where are the fish?"

"Yes, where are my fish?" Leo echoed in disbelief. Not a single fish remained in the small pond, which spanned several square meters.

Seeing the disappointment and dejection in Little Mouse's eyes, Leo felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment.

Something was off—this wasn’t how it went on television.

As he pondered, his eyes fell on Little Mouse.

She instinctively took a step back, but it was too late; Leo caught her under his arm and fished out a small piece of bread from her pocket.

It was a bit of food she had secretly set aside for breakfast the next day.

Little Mouse stood helplessly, wringing her hands as Leo took her bread, yet she made no move to resist, even prepared for a scolding.

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay you back double later!” Leo reassured her, crumbling the bread into tiny pieces and scattering them into the pond.

“Come on, let’s go eat. Olivia said there’s thick soup tonight. I’ll get you a big bowl!”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, smoke curled up from the campfires, and villagers scattered across the wilderness gradually made their way back, drawn by the shouts. The camp grew lively in an instant.

In the center of the camp, three large cauldrons simmered outside the kitchen tent, filling the air with the aroma of thick soup.

Leo snuck two large ceramic bowls from Olivia’s wagon and stationed himself in front of the cauldrons. Not only did the villagers nearby step aside, but even the woman ladling out food handed her large spoon to Leo without protest.

Unlike before, when the villagers’ gazes were filled with disdain, discontent, or warmth, now their eyes brimmed with suspicion, scrutiny, and even awe.

Whispers rippled through the crowd: “He’s been possessed! He’s been possessed!”

Leo ignored them, his eyes fixed on the thick soup. He stirred the pot, searching for the richest morsels.

To Leo, calling it soup was generous—it was more like porridge, made mainly of hulled wheat, with pickled vegetables, radish, acorns, peas, dried mushrooms, and even a snow hare caught by a militia scout, all stewed together into a “delicacy” over the afternoon.

By appearance alone, it was indistinguishable from the slop fed to pigs by rural families in the nineties.

Yet to these villagers, who seldom had their fill, this was a rare treat—far better than the hard, coarse, and tasteless bread they usually ate.

A meal like this felt as festive as a New Year’s feast.

In Leo’s fragmented memories, his village had always upheld the tradition of communal meals—a custom dating back to the days of the northern clans.

Whenever the bitter cold of winter set in, the village chief would haul out the great cauldron and set it in the village square, kindle a fire, fill the pot with snowmelt, and throw in whatever food was at hand.

Every household head would add something—no matter what, no matter how little.

Once the cauldron was full and the food cooked, the chief would distribute it among all the villagers.

This was not only mutual aid and solidarity, but also a convenient way for the chief to tally how many families had succumbed to the cold each week.

In good years, there might be some meat or bones to be found; in lean years, only thin, watery broth.

But in any case, it was better than starving.

As a child, Leo had always looked forward to the communal meal—on those days, he wouldn’t have to beg or hunt mice in the snow for food.

But as he grew, the excitement faded. The grown-up Leo had become an outcast, but he had also learned to survive, and more often than not, he was the one feeding the villagers.

Most villagers truly did dislike or fear him, but there were some who only got through the winter because he’d occasionally toss in a rabbit or a haunch of venison.

Little Mouse wasn’t the only one in the village who longed to call him “Papa”!

At the start of their migration, everyone still ate separately, but as supplies dwindled and efficiency became a priority, Ulyan revived the tradition of the communal pot—now a daily event.

By the time they reached the riverside frontier, the remaining families had all but exhausted their stores, and the cauldron was filled mainly with whatever Ulyan could provide.

Those with anything left quietly handed it over to Olivia to manage.

At this point, there was no choice but to trust, unconditionally.

The three hundred settlers at the frontier had, for the time being, reverted to the public-ownership days of the old clan society.

Sipping his otherworldly “eight-treasure porridge,” Leo idly bragged to Little Mouse:

“Have you ever seen a pie the size of a millstone? Covered with almonds, walnuts, raisins, dripping with cream—one bite and the juices burst in your mouth!”

“And fragrant roast suckling pig, its skin crisp and crackling, the meat so tender it falls off the bone—just grab a leg, give it a gentle suck, and all the meat slips right into your mouth!”

“Fresh, fatty lamb sliced paper-thin, rolled up and dipped in the hot soup…”

“…”

Little Mouse, clutching a ceramic bowl nearly as big as her head, stared in a daze as Leo described the feast, drool trickling down her chin.

After enjoying the most sumptuous meal of the month, Leo took Little Mouse along once more, sneaking off at dusk with a large wooden bucket to check on the fishpond.

As soon as he reached the pond, he saw the water rippling with movement. In two quick strides, he blocked the gap leading from the pond to the river.

Still, one large fish leaped over his arm and vanished into the river.

“Fish! There’s fish!” Leo shouted excitedly, jumping into the pond and startling the wild fish into a frenzy. He managed to grab a big, struggling fish, nearly moved to tears.

At last, some proper meat to eat!

Ulyan had been right—there really were fat fish here, practically begging to be caught!

“Fish! There’s fish!” Little Mouse echoed, leaping into the water with glee—only to sit down hard on the bank and spit out a mouthful of thick porridge.

The soup had been so delicious at dinner that she hadn’t wanted to waste a single drop, licking the bowl clean right up to her throat.

Watching the thick porridge slowly dissolve into the water, Little Mouse fell into deep thought, as if seriously considering whether she should scoop it up and eat it again.

Leo gave her a light smack on the back of the head. “Hurry up and catch fish—they’re getting away!”

The little dam they’d built earlier was not very high, and the startled fish were strong enough to leap; several had already jumped back into the river.

Leo had no time for niceties—whenever he caught a fish, he slammed it hard against a stone.

Little Mouse, unable to catch anything in the water, obediently climbed ashore to gather the stunned fish into the wooden bucket.

A whole bucket, full to the brim!

Carrying the bucket home, Leo warned Little Mouse along the way, “Tomorrow I’ll grill fish for you—and there’ll be fresh fish soup too, so don’t you dare eat any raw fish!”

That night, as Leo drifted into a sleepy haze, he could still hear Little Mouse mumbling, “Papa, will we have grilled fish tomorrow?”

“Mmm, grilled fish.”

“Papa, will there be fish soup tomorrow?”

“Mmm, fish soup.”

“Papa, does roast suckling pig taste good?”

Just as Leo was about to snap, he felt a gentle nip at his calf. It turned out Little Mouse had already fallen asleep—she was talking in her dreams.