At the first quarter of the chen hour (around 7:15 AM), the spring rain in Yanqing Lane had just stopped. The bluestone pavement of Taiping Ward was still damp, permeated by the biting chill of a lingering spring frost.
The shopfront of the Four Seasons Eatery had only just had two of its wooden panels removed when several figures blocked the alley entrance.
Manager Zhou was dressed in a dark-red gown patterned with folding floral branches, his hands rolling two glossy, century-old walnuts. He stepped over the threshold with his protruding belly, and the four lackeys behind him immediately spread out, packing the small front room until it was impossible to move.
“The rules of Taiping Ward were established by the Chen Family Restaurant twenty years ago.” Manager Zhou rotated the walnuts in his palms, his eyelids lifting slightly as he swept a look of utter contempt around the shop. “Little girl from the Qin family, you were quite full of yourself yesterday, beating up my guards.”
Qin Yaoyao placed the freshly washed green onions onto a bamboo board to drain, then turned around to tie her plain white apron strings at her waist, her expression placid.
“Manager Zhou, you’ve brought people here so early—are you here to eat noodles?” Her tone was calm, her rhythm undisturbed.
“Don’t play the fool with me.” Manager Zhou sneered, the walnuts in his palm clicking crisply. “Chen Hu came back yesterday saying you have the Bai Manor backing you. I’ve been doing business in the city of Bianjing for many years—what kind of ‘fox borrowing the tiger’s might’ tricks haven’t I seen? If you don’t close shop today and go to the Chen Family Restaurant to kowtow three times, serve tea, and admit your mistake, you can forget about lighting a stove in Taiping Ward ever again.”
Qin Yaoyao glanced at the copper clepsydra hanging in the corner.
“Manager Zhou, at the third quarter of the chen hour (around 7:45 AM), the patrol of armored guards will pass by the east side of Taiping Ward,” she said, picking up a clean white cloth to wipe the water from her fingertips. “By gathering people here to make trouble, are you planning to go to the Kaifeng Prefecture to receive a flogging?”
Manager Zhou burst into loud laughter, as if he had heard the funniest joke in the world. “You little brat actually went to ask around. But what you don’t know is that we have already scouted out their patrol schedule long ago. There’s still half an hour until the third quarter of the chen hour—more than enough time to smash this pathetic shop of yours!”
He waved his hand violently, and the lackeys behind him rolled up their sleeves, ready to flip the tables.
Qin Yaoyao remained unfazed; her right hand had already touched the cold, gleaming boning knife beside the cutting board.
At this critical moment, a cold, indifferent voice drifted from the alley entrance—steady and crisp, like jade soaked in water, chilling everyone to the bone. “Manager Zhou, would you like to hear about the rules of the Supreme Court?”
Manager Zhou stiffened and spun around.
A green-cloth sedan chair without any markings had stopped at the alleyway at some point. Chang An stood there in his cyan martial attire, his hand resting on the hilt of his yanying blade, staring at them coldly.
The curtain of the sedan chair was lifted, and a foot clad in a black boot with a pale sole stepped onto the bluestone. Bai Qi stepped out slowly, dressed in a bamboo-green Hangzhou silk gown with a moon-white crane cloak draped over his shoulders, his brow and eyes radiating the cold authority of a man in power.
Manager Zhou, having a sharp eye, immediately recognized the ebony waist plaque hanging from Chang An’s belt—cinnabar-filled cloud patterns! A fourth-rank guard with the right to carry a blade!
With a clang, the walnuts in Manager Zhou’s hand hit the ground and rolled into a puddle.
“M-my Lord…” Manager Zhou’s legs went weak, and he dropped to his knees on the damp, cold ground with a thump. His lackeys were so terrified they prostrated themselves on the floor, not even daring to raise their heads.
Bai Qi didn’t spare him even a glance, walking straight toward the Four Seasons Eatery.
“Get out,” Chang An spat out the words coldly. “If I see you step foot in this alley again, you can go collect your reward in the Supreme Court’s dungeon.”
Manager Zhou, feeling as though he’d been granted a reprieve from death, scrambled to drag his lackeys away from Taiping Ward.
Chang An turned to follow Bai Qi, lowering his voice. “My Lord, the patrol schedule of this ward has become a loophole they use to bully people and dominate the market.”
“Go back and draft a report,” Bai Qi said, his pace steady. “Reorganize the patrol routes in the capital.”
“Understood.”
Qin Yaoyao released her grip on the knife and stepped out from behind the counter, bowing slightly. “My Lord.”
Bai Qi looked at her composed face, nodded slightly, and took a seat at the square table by the window. The hem of his moon-white crane cloak brushed against the rough wooden bench, looking not at all out of place. Chang An immediately pulled a silk handkerchief from his sleeve to meticulously wipe a table that was already spotless.
“Today is Jingzhe (the Awakening of Insects),” Bai Qi said, his gaze falling upon the new wooden sign on the plaster wall. “You may serve your new dish.”
Qin Yaoyao turned and walked into the back kitchen.
The firewood in the stove was burning fiercely, flames licking the bottom of the cast-iron wok. Qin Xiaoman was beside her, working the bellows with practiced ease, a thin layer of sweat on her forehead. On the cutting board, a bundle of thunder-bamboo shoots, just bought from the wharf, had been peeled to reveal flesh as white and tender as jade; a basket of river shrimp was still jumping in a bamboo container.
Qin Yaoyao flicked her wrist, and the vegetable knife descended. Thud, thud, thud—the cutting was precise, the sound like a sudden downpour, and the bamboo shoots were transformed into uniform, thin shreds. Without pausing, she de-veined the shrimp, removed the heads, and peeled them. The entire process flowed like water, with not a single wasted movement.
As the wok heated, she added oil. When it reached the right temperature, she slipped the shrimp in. Sizzle. The shrimp curled up, turning a beautiful peach-blossom pink. She immediately scooped them out with a strainer to drain the excess oil.
Leaving only a little oil in the pan, she sautéed scallions and ginger to release their fragrance, then threw in the shredded bamboo shoots, stir-frying them over high heat. The shoots danced in the iron pan, releasing their unique, fresh aroma.
Next, she walked to the corner and lifted the lid of the waist-high blue-and-white porcelain jar.
An indescribable, miraculous fragrance filled the kitchen, drifting through the door curtain into the front room. It was the mellow, rich scent of aged fermented bean paste, carrying the savory saltiness of the fermented beans, the crisp sweetness of autumn dew, and even a faint, almost imperceptible trace of medicinal herbs.
Qin Yaoyao scooped a spoonful of the dark-red, glistening paste and drizzled it along the edge of the wok. Whoosh! Flames flared up as the heat fully ignited the aroma of the paste. She poured in the shrimp, tossing everything quickly with bamboo chopsticks. After exactly thirteen breaths, she plated the dish.
The entire process took less time than brewing a cup of tea.
Qin Yaoyao carried the lotus-petal-shaped celadon plate out of the kitchen and placed it gently in front of Bai Qi. “For Jingzhe: Spring Thunder. Please enjoy, my Lord.”
On the plate, the white bamboo shreds looked like freshly melted spring snow, dotted with pink shrimp, all evenly coated in a thick, glistening dark-red sauce. Steam rose from the dish, and the rich, non-greasy fragrance seemed to reach deep into one’s very soul.
Bai Qi looked down at the dish—the presentation was exquisite, and the fragrance was even more extraordinary. His stomach, usually plagued by accumulated cold, did not feel the typical nausea or rejection upon smelling the aroma; instead, it felt a rare, sudden craving.
Chang An immediately handed him a pair of clean silver chopsticks.
Bai Qi took them, picked up a shred of bamboo coated in sauce along with a shrimp, and placed them in his mouth.
The moment he tasted it, Bai Qi’s hand paused slightly.
The bamboo shoots were incredibly crisp, carrying the freshness of breaking ice on early spring soil; the shrimp were firm and bouncy, locking in the true sweetness of river food. These two light ingredients were perfectly dominated by the rich, bold fermented paste. Salty, savory, sweet, and pungent—the layers were distinct, with a lingering aftertaste.
What was most extraordinary was the base flavor of the paste—mellow and mild. After swallowing, the aroma of the paste slid down his throat into his stomach, like a warm fire slowly dispelling the accumulated cold within him.
Bai Qi did not speak; he took bite after bite. He maintained the elegance of a high-ranking nobleman, but the speed was surprisingly fast.
Chang An, standing to the side, widened his eyes. The Master not only didn’t frown today, he didn’t even stop! Except for that bowl of soup yesterday, this was the most he had eaten in years!
Within less than half an incense stick of time, more than half the plate of “Spring Thunder” was gone. Bai Qi put down his chopsticks and dabbed his lips with a silk handkerchief. There was no nausea, no surge of blood and phlegm—only a sense of long-lost comfort.
“Did you brew this fermented paste yourself?” Bai Qi raised his eyes, his cold gaze landing on Qin Yaoyao behind the counter.
Qin Yaoyao was calculating the day’s expenses on her abacus. She stopped and looked him straight in the eye. “I did.”
“It contains autumn dew, dried tangerine peel, and a hint of…” Bai Qi’s gaze was unfathomably deep. “…perilla?”
The tip of Qin Yaoyao’s finger on the abacus beads paused. It was no surprise that a connoisseur could taste the autumn dew and tangerine peel, but the flavor of perilla was so faint, almost completely masked by the saltiness of the bean paste—he had identified it instantly.
“You have a keen palate, my Lord,” Qin Yaoyao said, meeting his gaze calmly. “I added the perilla to neutralize the inherent coldness of the river shrimp.”
Bai Qi’s long, slender fingers tapped lightly on the rosewood table.
“Who taught you this recipe?” His voice dropped, carrying a palpable weight of pressure.
“It was left behind in my late father’s journals,” Qin Yaoyao answered, leaving no room for holes.
“Late father?” A trace of faint, cold mockery appeared in Bai Qi’s stern eyes. “Fourteen years ago, the Minister of the Court of Imperial Entertainments was executed along with his entire family for secretly altering the Imperial fermented paste. The recipe he modified was exactly that: adding autumn dew, tangerine peel, and perilla.”
Bai Qi’s tone was level, yet it carried the weight of a thousand pounds. “This recipe from your late father is quite a coincidence.”
Hearing this, Chang An gripped the hilt of his yanying blade tightly. The atmosphere in the eatery turned freezing.
Qin Yaoyao’s heart jolted. The original owner’s father was just a commoner selling tofu and running a small shop in Taiping Ward; how could he possibly have been involved with the Minister of the Court of Imperial Entertainments who was executed fourteen years ago? Linking this to her father’s death at the hands of bandits and the scrap of cloth with the “wolf head” totem she had found, Qin Yaoyao realized she had accidentally touched upon something extremely dangerous.
But her expression remained unruffled as she gently closed the account book.
“You jest, my Lord. This commoner only knows that this is a family craft for making a living. As for the Minister of the Court of Imperial Entertainments, people like me from the marketplace don’t even know where his office door faces.”
Bai Qi watched her quietly for a long moment, his pitch-black eyes seemingly trying to pierce right through her.
He did not press further. He stood up, and his moon-white crane cloak swept a clean arc through the air. “Best if you don’t know.” Bai Qi looked away. “This dish costs ten taels of silver. Chang An, settle the bill.”
Chang An immediately took out an ingot of silver and placed it steadily on the table.
Bai Qi turned to leave. As he crossed the threshold, he paused. “Tomorrow, I want to have shredded tofu with Chinese toon.”
After leaving those words behind, he stepped out of the shop and into the sedan chair. As it lifted, it quickly disappeared into the alley where the spring rain had just ceased.
Qin Yaoyao looked at the silver ingot on the table, then turned to the blue-and-white porcelain jar in the corner. Her expression grew completely cold.
It seemed her days of peace and stability were coming to an end.
Bai Manor, Yanqing Lane. The Study.
The floor heating was kept warm, and the calming incense burned quietly in the incense burner. Bai Qi had changed out of his official robes into loose, comfortable house clothes and sat behind his rosewood desk.
Uncle Fu walked in quickly, carrying a cup of warm tangerine peel tea, his joy impossible to suppress. “My Lord, not only did you eat a whole plate of food today, but your complexion looks much better. I will go and prepare more fine silk as a reward…”
“Uncle Fu,” Bai Qi interrupted, lifting his teacup to skim the foam. “Go investigate the background of the Qin Eatery in Taiping Ward—especially Qin Yaoyao’s late father.”
Uncle Fu’s smile stiffened. “My Lord, is there a problem with the girl?”
“Her skill is too exquisite. That fermented paste is exactly the same as the one Lord Wei made back then.” Bai Qi lowered his eyelids.
The bloody case from fourteen years ago was a taboo in the Great Liang Dynasty, and it was a thorn in his own heart.
A light knock sounded on the study door. Chang An strode in and knelt on one knee. “My Lord, as you instructed, I have investigated the proprietor behind the Chen Family Restaurant.”
Bai Qi raised his eyes. “Speak.”
“Manager Zhou of the Chen Family Restaurant sends thirty percent of the profits to a private residence in the west of the city on the fifth of every month. The residence is registered under a merchant’s name, but the true owner behind it…” Chang An paused, lowering his voice. “…is the Vice Minister of the Ministry of Revenue, Lord Lin Chongyuan.”
Bai Qi’s fingers, holding the teacup, tightened slightly. Vice Minister of the Ministry of Revenue.
He gave a cold laugh and set the celadon teacup down on the desk with a sharp thud.
“I have been looking for a breakthrough in the corruption case of Lin Chongyuan,” Bai Qi’s eyes flashed with icy intent. “Pass the order down: keep a close watch on the Chen Family Restaurant. Also, add two more men to guard the Four Seasons Eatery in secret. Anyone who dares to touch those siblings—execute them without mercy.”
“Understood!”
A long wind swept over the treetops of Yanqing Lane, startling the remaining apricot blossoms to the ground.
Bai Qi stood up and walked to the window, pushing open the carved wooden frame.
The spring thunder rumbled; the insects of hibernation were beginning to emerge.
This city of Bianjing, silent for far too long, was finally ready to be turned over.