aircannonsinc Chapter 147 147
Chapter 147 147
The chickens would tilt their heads to look at the rabbits, scrutinizing them with an air of scorn for aliens. But most of the time, they went about their own business, undisturbed by each other.
Su Peixue opened the bamboo gate, the hinges creaking as they turned. She stepped inside, startling the chickens, who scattered and ran to the sides, their wings flapping loudly, a few feathers flying up and floating in the air. She crouched down and waited a few seconds to quiet them down again—chickens are timid but easily calmed; as long as you don't move, they'll quickly resume pecking at their food. Sure enough, soon several chickens were pecking at the bran again, as if nothing had happened. She slowly stood up, her gaze fixed on the fattest speckled chicken in the corner. The chicken was standing by the earthenware pot, pecking intently, its red comb completely unaware that it was being watched.
She lowered her center of gravity and moved slowly and lightly in that direction, each step making a barely rustling sound on the dry straw. The speckled hen raised its head alertly, and she immediately stopped, remaining motionless in a half-crouching position. The speckled hen tilted its head and looked at her with one eye, seemingly assessing whether this two-legged creature posed a threat. She held her breath. The speckled hen tilted its head again, then lowered its head again to peck at its food. She moved forward another half step—the distance was right—and suddenly bent down, reached out, and accurately grabbed the hen's leg with her right hand, lifting it up in one swift motion. The hen squawked and flapped its wings, several feathers flying and landing on her sleeve. The hen's body swayed a few times in the air, its wings flapping forcefully a few times before it gave up struggling. She carried the hen upside down by its leg out of the henhouse, and the hen gradually quieted down, occasionally letting out a low clucking sound. She closed the fence gate, the sound of the bamboo gate closing particularly crisp in the morning courtyard.
A basin of hot water, an empty bowl, and a knife were already prepared on the wooden table in the courtyard. The water in the basin had been boiled on the stove and was still steaming, the steam rising slowly in the morning light. The empty bowl was for catching chicken blood; a pinch of salt was placed at the bottom, the salt grains glistening in the porcelain and reflecting the morning light. The knife was the narrow, sharp knife from the kitchen, its blade sharpened so that a very thin white line could be seen when held up to the light. Next to the wooden table was a basin of cold water, for rinsing after the feathers had been removed. Everything had been prepared in advance.
Su Peixue held the chicken wing and head in her left hand, turning the chicken's neck horizontally. She parted the fine feathers on the neck with her fingers, revealing the skin underneath. There was a small, featherless area around the chicken's throat; the skin was thin, revealing dark blood vessels beneath. She paused for a second, her gaze lowered, her lips moving slightly, as if she were reciting something—not fear, but a faint gratitude for the life of her food. Then, she placed the blade against the chicken's neck and made a gentle cut. The blade encountered almost no resistance as it sliced through the skin, like a knife cutting into soft tofu. Blood gushed out, flowing into the bowl. The stream of blood hit the salt at the bottom of the bowl with a muffled thud, then quickly dissolved in the salt, turning into a pool of deep red liquid. She moved the bowl slightly, allowing the blood to continue flowing, while gently pressing the chicken's head with her fingers to hold it still. The flow of blood into the bowl gradually slowed, from a trickle to a drip, and finally stopped. The chicken kicked its legs a few times in her hand, then gradually became still.