Qu the Hunter sat dazedly in the ox cart home, carrying big bags and small bags.
The cart driver didn't dare to ask Qu the Hunter about Qu Jing's condition.
Oh my, how serious must the illness be, buying white flour—it's not the customary luxury for someone at death's door? Better not ask, better not ask.
Out of sympathy, the cart driver gave the black steamed bun he had saved to Qu Jing, but Qu Jing refused it and returned it.
The cart driver felt even more pity; if he can't eat even black steamed buns and must eat white flour, then he probably doesn't have long to live. No wonder Qu the Hunter seemed absent-minded, as if his soul had left his body. The cart driver gritted his teeth and pushed the ox harder, traveling day and night to shorten the journey home by a whole day.
In reality, Qu the Hunter was distracted because he was trying to memorize the recipe given to him by the young man.
