Less than half an hour after the master and servant left, the small eatery had barely had time to process the ten-tael ingot of silver before trouble came knocking.
The leader of the group was a brawny man named Chen Hu. He was a hired guard for the Chen Family Restaurant at the end of the street and moonlighted as a butcher. He had a hulking, barrel-chested build, and around his waist hung a grime-stained, dark-gray apron, spotted with dried blood and grease. His large, calloused hands rested on his belt, and the rolls of fat on his face twitched menacingly.
Trailing behind him was Chen Mazi, the man who had scurried away earlier. Currently, he was cowering behind Chen Hu’s massive frame, pointing at Qin Yaoyao and acting tough. “Brother Hu, that’s the shrew right there!”
“Who’s the manager here?” Chen Hu stepped over the threshold, his thick-soled, black cloth boots hitting the stone floor with a heavy, dull thud.
The idlers who had followed him in immediately fanned out, completely blocking the small eatery’s front room. A few local neighbors, who had been enjoying the free bone broth, dropped their earthenware bowls and slipped out along the wall, heads bowed, not even daring to breathe loudly. In Taiping Ward, everyone knew that the Chen Family Restaurant was the undisputed tyrant of the neighborhood.
Qin Yaoyao took off the plain white cloth draped over her shoulder and casually wiped the flour from her wrists. She straightened her back and, looking past Chen Hu’s broad shoulders toward the weeping willows swaying in the wind outside the alley, said in a flat, indifferent tone, “I am. If you gentlemen are here to eat, only yangchun noodles are left for today. If you’re here to collect protection money, you’ll have to wait until the end of the month for the accounts.”
Chen Hu chuckled, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth. He strode over to the central square table and slammed his palm onto it. The force caused an empty porcelain dish on the table to fall to the floor, shattering into several pieces.
Qin Xiaoman rushed out from behind the stove, shielding Qin Yaoyao. “What are you doing! Is there no law in this world, even in broad daylight?”
“The law?” Chen Hu sneered. His hand, as large as a palm-leaf fan, reached out to grab Qin Xiaoman’s collar. “In this Taiping Ward, Manager Zhou of the Chen Family Restaurant is the law! You little brat, not only do you refuse to pay, but you also dare to threaten our men with a knife? Let me teach you a lesson about what the law really is today!”
Seeing that rough hand about to touch Xiaoman, Qin Yaoyao moved.
She didn’t retreat; instead, she stepped forward by half a pace. Her right hand darted to her waist, pulling a long, slender boning knife from beneath her apron strings. The blade was thin as a willow leaf and polished to a chilling, icy gleam. Without any apparent exertion, she merely flicked her wrist. With a dull thud, the knife sliced past Chen Hu’s thick fingers and buried itself deep into the solid wood of the table. The handle vibrated violently, emitting a low humming sound—missing Chen Hu’s index finger by a mere fraction of an inch.
The room went deathly silent. The idlers took a step back.
Chen Hu remained in his reaching posture, cold sweat instantly beading on his forehead. As someone who had slaughtered pigs and sheep for years, he knew a pro when he saw one. The speed of the draw and the precision of the strike were far beyond what a typical kitchen maid could achieve.
Qin Yaoyao nudged Qin Xiaoman behind her and reached out to grasp the trembling knife handle. “This blade is seven inches and two points long. It’s made of refined steel, designed specifically for deboning.” Her voice remained calm, devoid of any panic. “Brother Chen, you’re an expert; you know how difficult it is to strip the fascia from the bone. My hand is steady—I can strip meat without nicking the bone. I wonder what it would be like to strip human bone.”
She raised her eyes, her gaze clear and cold, landing on Chen Hu’s face. There was no arrogance, no aggression—it was as if she were discussing a simple cut of meat on a chopping board.
Chen Hu swallowed hard, feeling a chill run down the back of his neck. But as the head bouncer for the Chen Family Restaurant, if he were scared off by a teenage girl, he wouldn’t be able to show his face in Taiping Ward again.
“You sharp-tongued shrew!” Chen Hu, flustered and angry, whipped out his broad-backed butcher’s cleaver. “I’m going to smash this shop to pieces today!”
Before he could finish, a faint, cold scoff came from outside the door, and a black shadow vaulted down from the roof eaves. Before anyone could see what happened, a crisp snap echoed—a knife scabbard, imbued with force, struck Chen Hu’s wrist heavily. The butcher’s cleaver flew from his hand, clattering against the wall with a deafening noise. Clutching his wrist, Chen Hu began to howl like a stuck pig.
Chang An landed steadily in the hall. He was still wearing his simple, unranked cyan martial arts attire. His narrow sword remained sheathed at his waist, and he stood tall as a pine. His eyes scanned the butcher’s knife on the ground with chilling coldness before shifting to the groaning, writhing Chen Hu.
“What filthy garbage, daring to draw a blade here.” Chang An’s tone was cold and hard, carrying the disdain typical of someone who served under a powerful superior.
Chen Hu, trembling in pain, looked up to scream, but caught sight of the ebony waist plaque hanging from Chang An’s belt, intricately carved with cinnabar-filled cloud patterns. That was something only genuine, ranked imperial officials from the capital were entitled to wear.
“Who… who are you?” Chen Hu’s arrogance evaporated; he began to scramble backward on his hands and knees.
Chang An ignored him, turning his gaze toward the ten-tael ingot of silver his master had left behind. He gave a cold laugh, tapping the tabletop with his fingertips. His voice wasn’t loud, but it froze everyone in the room. “My master said just moments ago: he protects this eatery. Are you deaf, or do you think the rules of the Bai Manor on Yanqing Lane aren’t heavy enough?”
“The broken dishes will be added to the Bai Manor’s account.” He tilted his head slightly, his peripheral vision catching the stunned idlers at the door. “Go back and tell your Manager Zhou: if he thinks the Bai Manor’s rules aren’t heavy enough, he can go to Yanqing Lane tomorrow and submit a post. Tell him Bai Qi is waiting to discuss the rules with him.”
Bai Qi. Yanqing Lane.
As soon as those words were uttered, Chen Hu forgot the excruciating pain in his wrist. He collapsed on the floor, unable to control his bladder. That was the Minister of the Supreme Court, a personal favorite of the Emperor—a figure known as a “living Yama.” Never mind a small shop like the Chen Family Restaurant; even the backers behind Taiping Ward were nothing more than ants in front of that man.
“Get out.” Chang An spat out the word coldly.
Chen Hu didn’t dare utter another sound. Leaving the butcher’s knife behind, he and his cohorts scrambled out of the alley on their hands and feet.
The front room returned to silence. Qin Yaoyao looked at the returning Chang An. She pulled the boning knife from the wooden table and carefully wiped the blade with a clean cloth, her movements calm and composed. “Please thank your master for me. Not only did he reward me with a fortune, but he also left someone to protect the place in secret. The broken dishes aren’t worth much; that silver was already too much.”
“Whatever the Master gives, you accept.” Seeing her remain so composed in his presence, a flash of admiration flickered in Chang An’s eyes. He gave a slight nod, performed a salute, and turned to leave, his cyan silhouette quickly vanishing into the spring breeze at the mouth of the alley.
“Sister… my own dear sister!” Only then did Qin Xiaoman dare to breathe. She grabbed Qin Yaoyao’s arm, her eyes wide as saucers. “Did you hear that? The Bai Manor on Yanqing Lane! That gentleman was actually from the Bai Manor!”
Qin Yaoyao slid the knife back under her apron strings and patted Xiaoman on the back of the head. “The protection of the powerful isn’t free. Culinary skill is the foundation of our livelihood. Go sweep the floor; I need to prepare the ingredients for tomorrow’s Jingzhe (Awakening of Insects) dishes.”
Qin Xiaoman chirped a response and went to work with the broom.
Qin Yaoyao stood before the stove, watching the drizzling spring rain outside the window. Tomorrow was Jingzhe—the time when all things stir into motion. The new dish she planned to make was called “Spring Thunder.” It didn’t just require the most tender bamboo shoots; it needed a special, aged fermented bean paste. She had prepared it according to ancient palace methods from her past life, sealing it for over half a month in a blue-and-white porcelain jar in the backyard.
She had originally intended to run a modest business, but now that she had provoked the Chen Family Restaurant and accepted the favor of Master Bai, she could no longer hide her skills.
Bai Manor, Yanqing Lane.
Inside the study, the floor heating was kept warm, and wisps of calming incense drifted from a golden beast-shaped burner. Bai Qi had changed into loose, moon-white casual robes and was leaning against a rosewood luohan bed, clutching a dossier submitted by a local official.
The old steward, Uncle Fu, stood to the side, his eyes rimmed with red, his hands trembling with excitement. “Master… the food you ate half an hour ago—you really didn’t feel nauseous?”
Bai Qi turned a page without looking up, his tone indifferent. “I didn’t vomit. My stomach feels warm.”
Uncle Fu wiped his tears, clasped his hands, and bowed toward the sky. “Heaven be praised! The quack doctors of the Imperial Academy have been fussing for so long, and yet they aren’t even as good as the handiwork of a small cook in the marketplace. Tomorrow, I shall go to Taiping Ward myself and invite that cook into the manor to specifically manage your meals!”
“No need,” Bai Qi interrupted.
He set down the dossier and took a sip of warm water from a celadon tea cup. The taste of the shepherd’s purse and bamboo shoot soup seemed to linger on his lips. It wasn’t just the flavor, but the extreme focus and composure of that fourteen or fifteen-year-old girl as she cooked. That was something the manor’s own chefs could never replicate.
There were extremely light footsteps outside the door. Chang An bowed. “Master, your subordinate has returned.”
“Enter.”
Chang An pushed the door open, knelt on one knee, and reported everything that happened in Taiping Ward in minute detail. When he spoke of Qin Yaoyao drawing her knife, he couldn’t hide his amazement. “That girl’s blade work is incredibly precise; it’s not something that can be learned overnight. When I returned in secret to investigate, I happened upon the Chen Family Restaurant’s thugs causing trouble, so I used the Manor’s name to drive them away, as you instructed.”
Bai Qi listened without expression, simply giving a faint acknowledgment.
“Investigate the proprietor behind the Chen Family Restaurant,” he said, his gaze fixed on the flickering candle flame. “Although Taiping Ward is a marketplace for commoners, most of the guilds and restaurants behind the scenes are connected to the private estates of various officials. Once you find out who they are, handle it according to the law.”
“Understood!” Chang An accepted the order.
Uncle Fu listened from the side, his heart pounding. The Master was going to move against the local tyrants of the capital just for a small cook?
After Chang An withdrew, the study returned to silence. Bai Qi picked up the dossier again, but after only a few lines, his brow suddenly furrowed. He reached up to press his stomach; the heavy, stabbing pain of the past was gone, replaced by a strange, unfamiliar sensation—the feeling of hunger.
Moreover, a thick, sweetish, metallic taste surged into his throat. He turned his head and broke into a violent fit of coughing. With a wah sound, a lump of dark-purple phlegm was spat into the white jade basin at his feet.
“Master!” Uncle Fu was horrified, nearly falling over as he rushed forward. “Someone! Get the Imperial Physician’s note!”
Bai Qi raised a hand, stopping Uncle Fu. He wiped the blood from his lips with a snow-white handkerchief and leaned back on the pillow to catch his breath. His face, which had been as pale as paper, now showed a rare, faint flush of life.
The stuffiness that had plagued his chest for months had dissipated completely with that mouthful of phlegm, and even his breathing was much smoother. That bowl of soup wasn’t just a dish; the ratio of ingredients was clearly a culinary prescription—the most gentle yet potent medicinal formula.
“No need to call the Imperial Physician.” Bai Qi threw the blood-stained cloth onto the tray and looked toward the thickening spring rain outside the window, a dark, indescribable gleam in his eyes.
“Postpone the morning session at the Supreme Court tomorrow,” he said, his voice low but full of determination. “I am going to Taiping Ward. I want to watch her—with my own eyes—as she makes that new dish for Jingzhe.”