The Entire Mountain Is My Hunting Ground

I’d mentioned before that hunting has its rules.

One of them is that Mountain Wealth cannot be kept for oneself.

Even if you’ve bagged some game and are dragging it home, should you run into someone on the road—whether you know them or not—if they so much as say a word, you must cut off a piece of meat and give it to them.

If you come across a roe deer caught in someone else’s snare, you can kill it and take a leg or two. That’s perfectly fine.

But if it’s a wild boar snare, since boars are difficult to kill, anyone who passes by and finishes it off can take half the animal.

If the person isn’t too concerned with etiquette, they might just hack off two of the boar’s legs, hang them on a nearby tree for the snare’s owner, and drag the rest away. That’s not entirely out of the question, either.

However, there are two things you absolutely cannot do.

First, you can’t take the snare. That’s how the owner makes a living. This is especially true for boar snares, which are made of finger-thick Steel Wire Rope. That stuff costs a lot of money nowadays.

Second, no matter what kind of game it is, you must leave something behind for the owner. You can never, ever take it all.

These are the rules.

Growing up, Zhao Chun had heard countless hunting stories from the adults, so she knew these rules well and was worried that Zhao Jun might have made a mistake regarding the boar meat.

After all, both the Zhao family and the Zhou family were respected families in the area. If one of their children broke a tradition passed down for generations over a piece of meat, they’d be the talk of the town, and not in a good way.

"Don’t worry, Sis. I get it," Zhao Jun said, getting up from the heated brick bed.

Just then, his gaze fell on the area behind the room’s door.

A rifle was hanging there.

Zhao Jun pulled the door halfway shut to create some space, then lifted the rifle off the wall and began to caress it.

It was a Type 56 semi-automatic rifle, which fired 7.62mm rounds. According to all the books and manuals, the gun had a ten-round capacity.

But Zhao Jun knew that if you forced a round into the chamber, you could squeeze in one more, for a total of eleven.

You could fire it in rapid succession, emptying all the rounds in under fifteen seconds. It was arguably the most powerful weapon a mountain hunter could ever hope to use.

After all, hunting in the mountains wasn’t the same as marching to war. The more advanced Type 56 assault rifle had a pistol grip that the semi-automatic version lacked, which tended to snag on grass and branches, making it inconvenient for trekking through the forest.

And the Type 56 machine gun was even more out of the question. Who would use a machine gun for hunting? Are you trying to hunt, or massacre the entire mountain?

Zhao Chun saw Zhao Jun toying with the rifle but didn’t think much of it. The gun wasn’t loaded, after all. Besides, guns weren’t prohibited back then; they were a common sight in the villages around the Forest Farm.

Combined with certain special regional factors, villages and hamlets all across the Divine Land conducted annual militia training. The Forest Farm had its own guard patrol, and work sections had their security departments.

Even ordinary people could buy a gun, as long as they were willing to spend the money.

Take the semi-automatic in Zhao Jun’s hands, for example. It wasn’t cheap. A new one would cost around a thousand yuan. A used one, however, was a different story.

But don’t forget, Zhao Chun’s father-in-law, Zhou Chunming, was the second-in-command of a factory with a thousand workers. If he wanted to borrow a rifle from the factory guard detail to take home, who would dare refuse?

"Young man, come have some persimmons." Just then, the door was pushed open again, and Hu Sanmei walked in carrying a plate of what the locals called "foreign persimmons"—tomatoes.

In the Northeast, especially in rural areas, it was rare to find the sweet, sometimes slightly astringent persimmons common in the Southern Region. The local crop was actually tomatoes.

Over time, people in the region had shortened "foreign persimmons" to just "persimmons," a habit that often confused visitors from the Southern Region.

"Thank you, Auntie," Zhao Jun said. He took the plate of tomatoes with one hand, the rifle still in the other, and set it on the low table on the bed. He was in no mood to eat; his attention was completely focused on the weapon.

Hu Sanmei smiled. "Don’t you go anywhere for lunch, young man. Stay and eat here. I’ll fry up some fish for you. Your brother-in-law caught them fresh this morning. They’re delicious!"

"Sounds great, Auntie! I’m looking forward to it," Zhao Jun replied with a smile.

Everyone has their own hobbies. Zhao Jun’s brother-in-law, Zhou Jianjun, loved to fish, both with nets and by angling, and he was famous for it in all the surrounding villages.

As she spoke, Hu Sanmei went out. A moment later, the SIZZLE of frying fish came from the outer room, quickly followed by its fragrant aroma.

Just then, Zhao Jun’s little nephew began to cry again. Zhao Chun picked him up, cooing softly to soothe him. Figuring he must be hungry, she unbuttoned her shirt and began to nurse him.

Zhao Jun tactfully turned away, busying himself by looking down and fiddling with the rifle in his hands.

When Zhao Chun finished nursing, the two siblings started playing with the baby. Seeing the infant gurgle with laughter, Zhao Jun even cast the rifle aside.

Meanwhile, in the outer room, Hu Sanmei was busy at the stove. A large platter sat beside it, neatly arranged with rows of fine-scaled fish, fried to a perfect golden brown.

Once the fish were done, Hu Sanmei carefully poured the used cooking oil into a separate jar.

In those days, no one would dream of throwing out oil after just one use. Common folk relied on ration tickets for their cooking oil; how could they afford such a luxury?

This oil, now carrying the smell of fish, had to be stored apart from the rest and saved for the next time she made a fish dish.

Next, Hu Sanmei rinsed out the wok with water. After waiting for the residual moisture to burn off, she ladled a spoonful of oil into it.

As the oil was heating, Hu Sanmei cut off a piece of the wild boar meat Zhao Jun had brought. By the time she had sliced it into small pieces, the oil in the wok was hot.

Hu Sanmei tossed the wild boar slices into the wok first, stir-frying them until the fatty pork belly had rendered its lard. Then, she added the prepared green beans, chunks of potato, and pieces of squash.

She stir-fried everything together for a moment, then added enough water to cover the meat and vegetables.

Next, Hu Sanmei grabbed a small, ladder-like wooden rack and set it directly over the simmering stew.

The ends of the rack fit perfectly against the sides of the wok, preventing it from falling in.

Then Hu Sanmei picked up a white porcelain bowl filled with washed rice. Her son’s brother-in-law was visiting, which certainly called for a proper serving of white rice.

She began adding water to the bowl, constantly dipping her right index finger in to gauge the water level—a traditional method for measuring the perfect amount.

Once she decided there was enough water, she set the porcelain bowl on the small rack inside the wok. This way, she could stew the main dish on the bottom and steam the rice on top, all in one go.

Finally, all that was left was to cover the wok with its lid and feed more firewood into the stove pit.

As the fire grew stronger, the delicious aroma of the cooking food steadily wafted into the inner room.

When Zhao Jun smelled the rice cooking, he knew the meal was almost ready. "I’m going to help Auntie set the table," he said to Zhao Chun, then headed for the outer room.

Watching Zhao Jun’s retreating back, Zhao Chun felt a growing sense of relief. ’My little brother has really grown up,’ she thought. ’The Zhao family will have a pillar of support from now on.’

By the time Zhao Jun and Hu Sanmei had finished setting the table with all the dishes, bowls, and chopsticks, Zhao Jun’s little nephew had fallen asleep again.

The child’s nap was the perfect opportunity for the adults to have their meal.

Hu Sanmei beckoned Zhao Jun to come up onto the heated bed to eat. Without ceremony, Zhao Jun climbed up, sat cross-legged, and casually placed the Type 56 semi-automatic rifle beside his leg.

Just then, Hu Sanmei came in with a bottle of liquor and a glass. "How about a little drink with lunch, young man?" she said with a smile.

"Mom, he doesn’t drink," Zhao Chun interjected before Zhao Jun could answer.

Hu Sanmei just smiled. Zhao Chun could say that, but she couldn’t simply take the liquor away. Even though Zhao Jun was her junior, he was also a grown young man. Local custom dictated that when a guest came for a meal, you had to offer them a drink. Whether they accepted was their own decision.

So, Hu Sanmei placed the bottle and glass in front of Zhao Jun. "We’re all family here," she said. "If you want a drink, just pour it yourself."

"Alright, Auntie," Zhao Jun replied, taking the bowl of rice his sister offered him. Before this, Zhao Chun had already served a bowl for Hu Sanmei.

Hu Sanmei sat down, adjusted her bowl, and glanced at the rifle resting by Zhao Jun’s leg. "So, you like guns, do you, young man?" she asked with a smile.

"I do," Zhao Jun said with a grin. "Auntie, do you think I could borrow this rifle for a couple of days?"