By the end of the second lunar month, Bianjing was still wrapped in the lingering chill of early spring.
The apricot blossoms lining the Imperial Avenue had bloomed seven or eight-tenths of the way. A morning breeze swept through, sending pale pink petals fluttering onto the bluestone streets below.
Street vendors and laborers hurried south toward the bustling entertainment district with their shoulder poles, while teahouses and taverns had only just removed their wooden shutters. Shop assistants splashed water across the pavement and swept the storefronts clean.
Copper kettles sat atop small clay stoves, water bubbling merrily inside as white steam curled beneath the eaves and drifted across the streets.
Bianjing had never lacked for lively mornings.
Following Mǎháng Street south, past the archway of Taiping Ward and into a narrow, secluded alley, an extraordinary fragrance suddenly filled the air.
It was unlike the perfumed elegance of the famous Fan Tower, and nothing like the heavy, greasy aromas wafting from ordinary restaurants.
The scent seemed to have simmered overnight in a rich bone broth, its deep, mellow foundation layered with the subtle fragrance of Sichuan peppercorns and the warm spice of fresh ginger.
It wasn’t overpowering, yet it seeped quietly into one’s senses, awakening every dormant craving.
“What smells so good?”
Old Huang, the tofu peddler, halted mid-step. His nostrils flared as he swallowed hard.
The charcoal seller walking beside him craned his neck toward the alley.
“Isn’t that the Qin family’s shop? Old Qin and his wife passed away last autumn. The place has been locked up ever since. Why’s there smoke coming out today?”
“Let’s have a look.”
Setting down his shoulder pole, Old Huang rubbed his aching shoulder and headed inside.
At the end of the alley stood a modest storefront with its doors wide open.
Though small, the weathered wooden doors had been polished until their natural grain showed through. Hanging beneath the eaves was a freshly painted wooden sign bearing four vigorous brushstrokes:
Four Seasons Eatery.
Peeking inside, Old Huang found the interior surprisingly simple and elegant.
Against one wall stood a row of pine shelves holding eight coarse earthenware jars, each tied shut with blue cloth, faintly releasing a pleasantly sour aroma.
Four square tables and eight long benches filled the dining area, every tabletop polished until it gleamed.
In one corner, a clay pot simmered atop a brass stove. The lid was slightly ajar, revealing bubbling broth. The intoxicating aroma originated from there.
Beside the kitchen entrance hung three ashwood menu boards.
Old Huang couldn’t read, but the young scholar who had entered behind him read them aloud.
Rain Water — Shepherd’s Purse and Fresh Bamboo Shoot Soup
Awakening of Insects — Spring Chive Omelet
Spring Equinox — Tofu with Chinese Toon Shoots, Apricot Blossom Sweet Brew
After reading them, the scholar smacked his lips thoughtfully.
The grand restaurants of Bianjing always favored extravagant names like Jade Spring in a Golden Jar or Golden Minced Delicacies.
This little shop, however, simply paired seasonal dishes with the twenty-four solar terms.
Plain.
Elegant.
Refined.
“The Apricot Blossom Brew…” the scholar murmured, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Is it wine?”
“It’s a sweet fermented drink, sir.”
A young woman emerged from the kitchen.
She was of average height, dressed in a dark indigo short-sleeved work jacket with narrow sleeves. Around her waist was a faded apron sash, and her sleeves were rolled neatly to her elbows, revealing slender, fair wrists.
Her glossy black hair wasn’t arranged in an elaborate hairstyle—only gathered into a simple bun secured with a plain wooden hairpin.
Carrying two white porcelain bowls with steady hands, she placed them on the nearest table.
The broth was crystal clear.
Finely chopped shepherd’s purse floated alongside snowy strips of spring bamboo shoots.
Looking up, she revealed a pair of bright almond-shaped eyes, clear and lively, their corners naturally curved upward.
A faint smile rested upon her lips—not overly friendly, nor timid.
Simply reassuring.
“Our eatery is reopening today,” Qin Yaoyao said in a calm, refreshing voice. “Please enjoy these bowls of shepherd’s purse soup. They’re complimentary.”
With that, she turned and returned to the kitchen.
Old Huang and the scholar exchanged glances.
Free food?
Who would turn that down?
Old Huang sat down without hesitation, lifted the bowl, and took a hearty gulp.
The moment the soup touched his tongue, his eyes widened.
Fresh.
Not the muddled richness of excessive seasoning.
It was the pure freshness of seasonal ingredients themselves.
The delicate wild aroma of shepherd’s purse intertwined perfectly with the crisp sweetness of young bamboo shoots, all supported by a broth simmered to perfection.
Even after swallowing, a mellow sweetness lingered at the back of his tongue.
Old Huang had sold tofu for over twenty years and endured plenty of hardships in life.
Yet after one bowl of soup, warmth spread through every corner of his body, soothing him from the inside out.
“Wonderful!”
Wiping his mouth with the back of his rough hand, he grinned.
“Miss, another bowl! This time I’ll pay!”
The scholar also set down his bowl.
Using a handkerchief to dab his lips, he looked through the kitchen curtain toward the busy young woman beyond.
He had tasted soups from Fan Tower before.
They used lavish ingredients and extravagant techniques.
Yet this humble bowl relied on only a handful of ingredients, achieving greatness through impeccable control of heat and restrained seasoning.
Effortless mastery.
The highest level of cooking.
No ordinary neighborhood cook could possess such skill.
Inside the kitchen, Qin Yaoyao paid no attention to the commotion outside.
Her cleaver rose and fell rhythmically against the chopping board.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A handful of vibrant spring chives was transformed into perfectly uniform one-inch segments within moments.
Her knife work was astonishingly precise.
Thirty years spent behind a stove had not been wasted.
In her previous life, she had served as the head chef for state banquets.
She had first taken command of a wok at seventeen, preparing the nation’s most prestigious feasts.
Even with her eyes closed, she could judge the temperature of hot oil with flawless accuracy.
Unfortunately, a tragic accident had sent her across worlds.
Now she was the orphaned daughter of a small eatery in Tofu Alley within the Great Liang Dynasty.
Her father had died at the hands of bandits.
Her mother had succumbed to illness.
All they left behind were Qin Yaoyao and her ten-year-old younger brother.
Half a sack of coarse rice.
And this ancestral eatery.
If she didn’t reopen it…
The siblings would soon starve.
“Big Sister.”
The curtain leading to the backyard lifted as ten-year-old Qin Xiaoman entered carrying a bundle of firewood.
His cheeks were red from the cold, beads of sweat clinging to the tip of his nose.
After stacking the firewood beside the stove, he hurried over and whispered anxiously,
“Something’s wrong. A bunch of people are gathered at the alley entrance. They’re all workers from Chen’s Eatery. They’ve been pointing at our shop.”
Without stopping her work, Qin Yaoyao swept the chopped chives into a porcelain bowl and cracked four free-range eggs into it.
“Let them watch,” she replied calmly.
“But…”
Qin Xiaoman’s eyes reddened.
“Aunt Wang next door secretly told me that the owner of Chen’s Eatery said our family has no men left. He said a little girl like you has no right to run a kitchen… and that he’ll make sure we don’t survive the month.”
Qin Yaoyao’s hand paused ever so slightly.
She glanced through the kitchen curtain toward the entrance.
“Won’t survive the month?”
A faint smile tugged at her lips.
She placed a cast-iron wok over the stove and scooped a generous spoonful of snowy white pork lard into it.
The flames licked the bottom of the pan.
The lard melted quickly, releasing delicate wisps of fragrant smoke.
Just then—
Heavy footsteps echoed from the front of the shop.
Three burly men in gray work clothes swaggered inside.
Leading them was a tall, pockmarked man.
Chen Mazi.
The chief thug employed by Chen’s Eatery.
Seeing trouble brewing, Old Huang and the scholar quietly retreated into a corner with their bowls.
Chen Mazi kicked a bench aside.
It scraped loudly across the stone floor.
“So…”
He sneered as he surveyed the shop.
“The Qin family’s little girl finally thinks she can stand on her own?”
“When your father was alive, hardly anyone ate here.”
“And now you think a yellow-haired brat like you can open a restaurant?”
“Careful you don’t poison someone. You’ll end up rotting in Kaifeng Prison.”
Qin Xiaoman rushed out of the kitchen and spread his arms before his sister.
“Don’t insult my father!”
“My sister cooks better than anyone! Get out!”
“You little brat!”
Chen Mazi raised his hand to strike him.
Thunk!
A gleaming cleaver flashed through the air.
It sliced past Chen Mazi’s ear with frightening precision before burying itself three inches deep into a wooden pillar.
The handle trembled violently.
Chen Mazi froze.
His face instantly drained of color.
The kitchen curtain lifted.
Qin Yaoyao emerged carrying a freshly cooked dish, her pace unhurried.
“So this is how Chen’s Eatery behaves?”
Her voice remained gentle.
“Entering someone else’s shop just to hit a child?”
Though her tone was mild, icy determination flickered in her eyes.
Chen Mazi swallowed nervously but forced himself to sneer.
“Don’t try to scare me!”
“You opened for business, didn’t you? Are people not allowed to criticize?”
“I’m here to taste whatever slop you’re selling.”
“Of course.”
Qin Yaoyao casually placed the celadon plate at the center of the table.
“Awakening of Insects.”
“Spring Chive Omelet.”
“Please.”
An overwhelming fragrance instantly exploded through the tiny dining room.
It was the irresistible aroma of free-range eggs fried in premium pork lard, mingled with the sweet sharpness released by fresh spring chives under intense heat.
The omelet was beautifully golden.
Its edges were crisp and bubbly.
Inside remained soft and tender.
Bright green chives were evenly distributed throughout, still sizzling gently.
Chen Mazi’s throat bobbed involuntarily.
Having spent years working in restaurant kitchens, he recognized quality at a glance.
This seemingly simple dish demanded flawless heat control.
Cook it a moment too long, and it became tough.
Too briefly, and the eggs remained fishy.
The plate before him represented absolute perfection.
But he couldn’t afford to admit defeat.
He grabbed his chopsticks, stuffed a mouthful into his mouth, barely chewed, and spat it onto the floor.
“Pah!”
“What garbage!”
“The eggs are overcooked!”
“The chives aren’t even done!”
“Our apprentices at Chen’s could cook better with their feet!”
Old Huang was just about to stand up and argue when Qin Yaoyao unexpectedly smiled.
Walking over, she looked down at Chen Mazi.
“Your restaurant’s signature dish is Three Delicacies Boneless Fish… isn’t it?”
Chen Mazi lifted his chin proudly.
“So what if it is?”
She let out a soft scoff.
“Your owner doesn’t bother bleeding the fish before cooking it, then buries the odor beneath excessive ginger and vinegar.”
“When frying, the heat is too low, leaving the skin limp.”
“The sauce is thick enough to resemble paste.”
“Other than sweetness and fishiness…”
“What exactly is worth eating?”
She leaned closer, locking eyes with him.
“My omelet uses the first purple-root spring chives harvested after Rain Water.”
“The eggs are whisked with warm water.”
“The wok is heated first, then the oil.”
“High heat.”
“Exactly thirteen breaths.”
“If your tongue has stopped working, visit Huichun Hall outside Baokang Gate and buy yourself some medicine.”
“Don’t stand in my Four Seasons Eatery barking like a dog.”
Every sentence struck with surgical precision.
Chen Mazi’s face flushed dark red.
“You…!”
“You dare slander Chen’s Eatery!”
“Get out.”
Qin Yaoyao straightened without another glance.
“Or shall I report this to the Kaifeng Prefecture and let the authorities investigate how your restaurant bullies smaller businesses?”
Chen Mazi looked at the cleaver still embedded in the pillar.
Then at the expressionless young woman before him.
A chill ran down his spine.
She…
She seemed like an entirely different person.
“…Just wait!”
“You’ll be begging for mercy after your shop closes!”
Throwing out one last threat, he fled with his men in disgrace.
Silence returned to the eatery.
Qin Yaoyao retrieved the cleaver from the pillar and smiled apologetically at Old Huang and the scholar.
“My apologies for the disturbance.”
“Xiaoman, pour our guests some more tea.”
At that moment—
A pair of brand-new black official boots stepped quietly across the threshold.
Qin Yaoyao looked up.
The newcomer wore a bamboo-green silk robe beneath a moon-white cloak.
He was tall, strikingly handsome, and carried an icy elegance in his brows.
Standing silently in the doorway, he radiated the quiet authority of someone long accustomed to power.
The atmosphere inside the small eatery suddenly grew colder.
He was the owner of the modest sedan chair that had stopped outside the alley earlier.
Behind him stood a bodyguard in fitted martial attire.
Qin Yaoyao’s sharp gaze briefly swept over the ebony official badge hanging from the guard’s waist.
No ordinary attendant.
“Shopkeeper.”
The man’s voice was as clear and cool as jade striking ice.
“The sign mentions an Apricot Blossom Sweet Brew.”
“Do you have it?”
Qin Yaoyao lowered her eyes in a polite greeting.
“Please have a seat, sir. I’ll bring it right away.”
Moments later, she returned with a warmed pot of the fragrant brew and two white porcelain cups.
The pale golden liquid held two or three preserved apricot blossoms floating upon its surface.
The man made no move to drink.
Instead, his guard stepped forward, lifted a cup, and took a cautious sip.
His expression changed instantly.
His hand flew to the sword at his waist.
“You dare!”
“What did you put in this drink?”
Qin Yaoyao stood her ground without flinching.
“The damp chill of early spring aggravates old injuries.”
“Your master is pale, and when he coughed just now, he instinctively pressed his left side.”
“He clearly carries an old wound.”
“I merely added a little aged tangerine peel and cinnamon to warmed rice wine to warm the stomach and dispel the cold.”
“It’s nothing more than a medicinal brew.”
She met the man’s eyes steadily.
“Or are honored guests lacking even this much courage?”
The gentleman raised a hand, stopping his guard before the sword left its sheath.
For the first time, he truly looked at Qin Yaoyao.
A trace of curiosity flickered across his dark eyes.
“Four Seasons Eatery…”
His long fingers traced the rim of the porcelain cup.
“Who would have thought a humble little shop would house someone capable of recognizing my old arrow wound at a glance?”
He lifted the cup.
And drained it in one swallow.
Setting it down, he placed a ten-tael silver ingot on the table before rising to leave.
“This establishment…”
“I’ll protect it.”
“I’ll return tomorrow.”
Watching the gleaming silver left behind, Qin Yaoyao’s eyes darkened thoughtfully.
The waters of Bianjing ran far deeper than she had imagined.
But no matter who stepped before her stove…
Once they entered Four Seasons Eatery, they would eat according to her rules.