The fleeting joy and relief on Wang Shi’s and Scholar Su’s faces vanished in an instant, replaced by fear and anxiety.
“Qingyan! What… what are you thinking? You mustn’t act rashly!” Wang Shi grabbed her daughter’s hand, her palm icy, her voice trembling. “That Master Wu is not someone to mess with! We can’t win against him!”
Scholar Su struggled to speak, coughing sharply, a strange flush rising on his pale face. “Daughter, listen to your mother. Let it go… it’s all in the past. As long as I can see you all safe, I’m content. There’s no need to stir up trouble…”
The light in his eyes dimmed again.
The dignity and hope he had just felt, reignited by his daughter, were once more crushed under the weight of past humiliation.
Su Qingyan took her mother’s cold hand in hers, then looked into her father’s averted eyes, a sharp pain piercing her heart.
She knew this matter was a thorn lodged deep in her father’s heart. Until it was removed, his spirit could never be fully upright, and he could never hold his head high.
“Mother, Father,” Su Qingyan said softly, each word clear and firm, “this is no longer about money. What he wronged was the pride of a scholar; what he trampled was my father’s hard work. Until this injustice is avenged, I cannot find peace of mind. Our Su family will never stand tall.”
She turned and returned to her small room, sinking once again into her secret space.
“Filter: Main ingredient pork; flavor bold and rich, aroma overwhelming, irresistible even to someone who has never tasted it before.”
Her knowledge library searched at lightning speed, and soon, a vivid, mouthwatering image flooded her mind, along with an almost tangible, overpowering aroma.
[Secret Braised Pork Roujiamo]!
A determined curve tugged at the corner of Su Qingyan’s mouth.
An hour later, she emerged from the kitchen carrying a specially prepared food box. She had requested a carpenter make it from thick wooden boards, lined with cotton inside to maximize heat retention.
Before stepping out, she looked back at her anxious parents, curling her lips into a small arc of a smile, cold as the midwinter wind.
“Father, stay home and rest. Not only will I make him pay back this money,” she said, pausing to enunciate each word, “I will make him pay back double!”
With that, she gave her parents no chance to stop her, picked up the food box, and resolutely walked out of Maicao Alley.
..
Eastern City, Wu Residence.
The vermillion gate loomed, flanked by two imposing stone lions. Several strapping guards leaned lazily against the doorway, arms crossed, their expressions oozing superiority.
Su Qingyan walked straight up, carrying the food box.
“Stop!” a middle-aged man, appearing to be the house steward, blocked her path, scrutinizing her faded blue clothes with undisguised disdain. “Where did this little girl come from? Do you know where this is? Get lost—don’t block the way!”
Su Qingyan stopped, showing not the slightest sign of fear. She didn’t even look at the steward, calmly placing the food box on the ground and opening the lid.
An indescribable, overwhelmingly powerful aroma erupted from the box like a wild tiger breaking free of chains.
This was no ordinary stewed meat smell. Dozens of unfamiliar spices layered together, rich and enticing, forming an invisible hand that seized the nostrils of everyone present, forcing the scent deep into their lungs.
Calmly, Su Qingyan drew a folding fan from her sleeve and began fanning the food box, one gentle stroke at a time.
The aroma spread with the wind, growing wilder, like an enormous net, instantly enveloping the entire street.
The guards, previously lounging lazily, froze like chickens with their necks pinched. Their eyes widened, Adam’s apples bobbing uncontrollably, saliva overflowing, swallowing with loud, desperate gulps.
The arrogant steward’s face turned crimson, nostrils flaring, caught between wanting to inhale and maintaining his dignity—an absurd sight.
Passersby stopped, craning their necks, inhaling deeply, expressions full of awe and disbelief.
“Heavens! What is that smell? My legs feel weak!”
“Which restaurant cooked this new dish? This aroma could steal someone’s soul!”
Inside the Wu residence, in the flower hall of the backyard, Master Wu was growing bored with the table full of delicacies.
He had just lifted a piece of bird’s nest with his silver chopsticks, before he could even taste it, when the domineering aroma invaded, inexplicably piercing the walls and hitting his nostrils.
He froze.
Sniffing, he immediately slammed the chopsticks on the table.
“Impossible!”
The bird’s nest, shark fin, and deer tendon on the table seemed tasteless, like chewing wax.
His refined palate, spoiled by countless delicacies, now demanded he find the source of this intoxicating aroma.
“Steward! Where’s the steward?!” Master Wu shouted, his voice booming. “Go see who dares sell this filth at my gate, disturbing my appetite!”
A footman ran out clumsily, returning moments later pale as if he had seen a ghost, stammering, “M-Master… it’s not… filth… the aroma… the aroma…”
Master Wu, impatient, kicked the boy aside and stormed toward the gate himself.
When he saw the scene, he froze.
A plainly dressed girl stood calmly, fanning a box emitting an aroma that even he, a famed gourmand, found intoxicating.
All eyes focused on the food box, expressions bordering on obsession.
Master Wu cleared his throat, suppressing his craving, putting on the airs of a nobleman:“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
Su Qingyan finally looked up at the slightly plump, flushed, clearly overindulged middle-aged man.
She bowed slightly, neither submissive nor arrogant. “I am Su Qingyan. I’ve come to deliver a food item for Master Wu.”
“Deliver food?” Master Wu squinted, recalling something—her surname Su? He remembered the penniless, conceited scholar from six months ago.
Yet now all his attention was drawn to the aroma. Swallowing hard, he waved her in, feigning composure.
“Come in.”
A barely perceptible smile curved Su Qingyan’s lips. She closed the food box, ignoring the envious and astonished gazes, walked past the stupefied steward, and stepped into the grand Wu Residence.
..
In the flower hall, the leftover food had been cleared.
Su Qingyan placed the box on the Eight Immortals table. Under Master Wu’s impatient gaze, she took out four pastries wrapped in oiled paper, still warm.
They were flatbreads baked golden and crispy, split neatly in the middle, filled with braised pork chunks tender enough to melt in the mouth.
Deep red pork paste, interspersed with glistening gelatin, juices slowly dripping down the meat fibers, tantalized the eyes.
Master Wu could no longer restrain himself. Snatching one, he bit into it ravenously.
“Crunch!”
The crisp exterior hit his palate first.
Then his teeth sank into the warm, soft filling, immediately blending with the melt-in-your-mouth braised pork.
“Boom!”
An indescribable explosion of layered aromas erupted on his taste buds.
The savory pork, rich sauce, and dozens of spices, all simmered until their essence penetrated every fiber, combined into a flavor storm of irresistible force.
Master Wu’s eyes went wide.
In over forty years, having prided himself on tasting the best cuisine from Bianjing to Jiangnan, he swore he had never experienced anything so astonishing.
The bread—crispy outside, tender inside.The pork—fatty but not greasy, melting in the mouth.
The flavor—dominant, intense, utterly addictive.
He devoured one after another, barely tasting, rushing for a second.
Su Qingyan watched quietly, as if observing a starving wolf tearing into food.
Only after he wolfed down the third and let out a satisfied belch, licking grease from his lips, did she speak.
Her voice was calm, yet precise, piercing the room like a needle.
“Master Wu, is this food to your liking?”
Startled, he looked up, finally remembering she was there. He wiped his mouth, mumbling, “Mm… not bad, not bad! Little girl, your skill is impressive. How much reward do you want?”
He thought she was just flattering him.
Su Qingyan smiled.
“I do not dare to ask for reward,” she said, meeting his gaze steadily. “I’ve come today to collect an old debt from you.”
Master Wu’s expression darkened immediately. His eyebrows, relaxed by the delicious food, knitted into a frown. His eyes grew sharp.
“Debt? When did I ever owe you anything?”
“You do not owe me—you owe my father,” Su Qingyan replied calmly. “Six months ago, my father, Scholar Su, copied a collection of previous dynasty poems for you, with a promised fee of two strings of cash. You said his handwriting was ‘sharp, unpleasant to the eye,’ and only paid one string.”
Master Wu’s face went black. He slammed the half-eaten pastry onto the table, exuding rage.
“Impudent! A penniless scholar’s lousy handwriting, and he dared ask me for two strings? I gave him one—more than generous! You little girl, are you crazy, daring to come to my mansion and cause trouble?”
Just as he was about to lose his temper, Su Qingyan calmly pushed the last roujiamo toward him.
“Master Wu, no need to rush to anger.”
There was no hint of fear in her tone—only a touch of playfulness.
“This pastry is called roujiamo. The braised pork recipe is a secret passed down in my family.”
Meeting his fierce gaze, Su Qingyan enunciated clearly:“In all of Bianjing, from the imperial chefs at Fan Tower to street vendors, I alone can make this.”