Chapter 4

The surrounding small village looked just like any other normal village, with thatched huts—some small, some big—mixed in with a few wealthier-looking wooden houses.

The men were working in the fields, while the women were engaged in various tasks, some washing clothes, others chatting with each other.

On the roads, children ran around in groups, playing cheerfully.

Then, Chen Ping's vision shifted, and he found himself standing in front of one of the relatively large thatched houses nearby.

Before he could react, he was suddenly inside, as if he had walked through the walls.

Once inside, he found that he could move around but couldn't leave the house for the time being.

He explored the different rooms—bedroom, kitchen, and lobby—but nothing in them stood out as particularly interesting or important.

Finally, he reached the door leading to the last room. As he got closer, a faint scent of blood lingered in the air.

Curious, he quickly stepped inside. This room was the largest of them all.

Inside, he saw two people—a broad-shouldered, middle-aged man and a small boy, around 8 or 9 years old, whose face resembled the man's.

At that moment, the man was holding a chicken by its neck with his large hands. The bird's legs were bound with straw grass, struggling slightly but unable to break free.

"Now, I will show you how to handle a chicken. Although it looks easy and boring, an excellent butcher knows how to work on everything—from small animals like rabbits and chickens to large ones like pigs and cows. Watch carefully, boy."

The boy quickly and attentively replied, "Yes, Father."

The butcher tightened his grip around the chicken's neck and, with a swift motion, pulled out a sharp knife from his side.

Holding the bird firmly, he positioned it over a wooden stump. "The first step is to make a clean cut to drain the blood properly," he explained.

With practiced ease, he sliced through the chicken's neck. The bird flapped wildly for a few moments before going limp. The boy flinched slightly but kept watching attentively.

Once the bird had stopped moving, the man placed it into a pot of hot water for a short while. "This makes it easier to pluck the feathers," he said. After a minute or so, he took it out and began pulling out the feathers. They came off effortlessly, revealing the pale skin underneath.

After plucking, he laid the bird on the wooden block and used the knife to carefully remove the head and feet. Then, he made a precise incision along the belly, reaching inside to remove the internal organs. "Be careful not to puncture the intestines, or it'll ruin the meat," he warned.

Finally, he washed the cleaned carcass, placed it on a cutting board, and swiftly divided it into pieces—the wings, thighs, breast, and back—each separated neatly.

"That's how you properly prepare a chicken," the butcher said, wiping the blade clean. The boy nodded seriously, committing every step to memory.

After finishing with the first chicken, the butcher pulled out another one from a nearby cage.

"Today is the village chief's grandson's birthday, so he told me to prepare two chickens for him. I've already handled one—now it's your turn," he said, placing the tied-up chicken on the butchering table.

"M-me?" the boy stammered.

"Don't blabber like a woman. Just get over here and do as I told you," the butcher said, giving the boy a light slap on the back of his head.

The little boy hesitated but slowly made his way to the table. He picked up a knife from the side and wiped it clean with a cloth. Then, following his father's example, he reached for the chicken's neck—but as soon as he tried to grab it, the bird jerked its head, making him flinch.

"Grab it swiftly, boy," the butcher instructed.

"Um..." The boy nodded and quickly grabbed the back of the chicken.

As soon as his fingers wrapped around its neck, the chicken panicked, thrashing wildly. The boy almost lost his grip but tightened his hold just in time. Taking a deep breath, he moved his other hand to secure the bird's head. The chicken flapped even harder, but he didn't let go.

Then, with a swift motion, he brought the knife down on its neck. A spurt of warm blood splashed onto his arm, making him shudder slightly. He quickly dropped the severed head into a nearby basin while the body flailed for a few moments before falling still.

Following his father's steps, he dunked the chicken into hot water and plucked it clean. Then, he placed the bare carcass on the table, sliced it open, removed the organs, and carefully divided the body into several parts. Though not perfect, the cuts were decent for a first attempt.

Finishing the process, he set the butchering knife down and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Good work," his father said from behind. His usual stern expression softened for a brief moment, a hint of approval flashing across his face before his serious demeanor returned.

Looking at the scene before him, Chen Ping was certain that the Butcher Template was connected to what was unfolding.

As he watched, the scene fast-forwarded, revealing glimpses of the boy assisting his father in handling various animals. He progressed from working with small chickens to butchering larger animals like pigs and deer brought in by hunters.

The boy, who had once hesitated to kill a mere chicken, grew from a timid 7–8-year-old into a healthy 11–12-year-old who could now handle even large animals with practiced ease.

Finally, the scene slowed, stopping at a familiar place—the butcher's home. The father stood in front of the boy, his face beaming with pride.

"You've finally learned all the tricks and techniques I've compiled throughout my life. Now, you can truly call yourself a qualified butcher," he said with satisfaction.

"Thank you for teaching me, Father," the boy replied, a silly grin spreading across his face.

Then, everything went black.

Just as Chen Ping wondered if the vision had ended, a new scene appeared before him.

The same village—but this time, it was bleak and desolate. The lively hustle and bustle from before had disappeared.

The once-thriving fields were now barren, the ground cracked and lifeless. Even weeds struggled to grow in the parched land. The villagers, who had once looked strong and cheerful, now had sunken cheeks. Some had numb, hollow eyes, while others carried expressions of anxiety and despair.

Inside the butcher's home, the boy—now around 13–14 years old—stood before his father, his face filled with worry.

"Father, our food is running out. We have barely a week's worth left. What should we do?" he asked anxiously.

The middle-aged man sighed. "Haah… What can we do? It hasn't rained for three months. The government has raised taxes again. If we can't pay, we'll be reduced to slaves," he said, his voice carrying both exhaustion and helplessness.

"But didn't the village chief mention something about heading to Qinghe City? He said they could provide food for now."

"It's not that simple," the father replied. "It takes about a week to reach there on horseback. If we go on foot, it could take up to three weeks."

"But Father, if we don't go, we'll have nothing left to eat!"

The butcher looked at his son, his heart heavy with helplessness. He pondered for a long moment before finally sighing.

"Well then… let's go with the others," he decided.