The stocky cultivator in the red robes laid back in his chair, groaning and rubbing his belly. “A brilliant meal. Simply brilliant. My compliments once more, old friend. Your disciple did an excellent job.”
The cultivator in the black robes raised his tankard, accepting the praise of his disciple. “A compliment well-merited - everything he knows, I taught him. Everything he is, he is because of me. So if you think about it, I bear at least part of the credit for this excellent noodle shop.”
The cultivator in the red robe began to howl with laughter, the chortles of the cultivator in midnight robes joining him.
The waitress of Xufu O’Paddyhaddy’s Tavern and Noodle Shop, Number Two, looked at the group strangely. The exact circumstances under which the new store had opened were unclear to her, but surely even cultivators wouldn’t have devised such a strange collection of tunnels and gaping apparitions as now attended them. It would have been a weird sort of cultivator who looked at a noodle shop of endless chasms, and concluded that it was a brilliant idea for a restaurant.
***
“This is a brilliant idea for a restaurant,” declaimed Hong, “nay - I take it back; it is the most brilliant idea for a restaurant I have ever seen, in all my years. You must grant me the opportunity of seeing the design.”
Gerry the skeletal goliath stroked his beard (newly grown), considering the request. Frankly, it was a matter of some impertinence to inquire about another’s secret formations - but Hong had been of such magnificent help, such graceful assistance, such bountiful beneficence, that he thought the request permissible.
Hong had, you see, been willing and ready to help the monsters with their documentary - far too willing, as far as his enervated colleagues had been concerned. No sooner had Gerald asked his question, and Hong made his assent, then Hong had started his explanation.
It had started with a sermon on the history and character of cultivators, delivered with full solemnity and dignity of bearing. Hong had explained in minute detail the origin of many cultivator customs and traditions, to the horrified and somewhat bored faces of his colleagues (who were not aware that anything much could be said on the subject of the line “you dare, you’re courting death,” nevermind a three hour disquisition on the historical basis and bearing of the sentence and its role in cultivator sociality, followed by a further three hours on its manifold and multifarious meanings).
Hong’s sermon had been full of references and recommendations, citing all manner of books and historians who the eldritch documentarians could consult at their leisure. When finally he had finished upon that topic - a discussion (or rather monologue) of some two hundred and twelve hours - they thought they were safe. Surely, Hong had no more to say, having covered some twenty six thousand years of cultivator history across ten continents and a hundred kingdoms. Surely they could at last go home, and leave this confusing place.
And then Donald said those fateful words.
“So, know anything about noodle shops?”
Did Hong know anything about noodle shops!
Did Hong know anything about noodle shops!
It was with trepidation and mounting concern that the monsters watched as Hong produced volume after volume of literature on the subject, accompanied by a generous selection of diagrams and many maps.
Their concerns were easily dissuaded, however, when once he began to speak. He discoursed volubly and with much energy on the antagonistic relationship traditionally enjoyed between the cultivator and the humble noodle shop (home of all that is warm and tasty in life), proffered some theories on its origination, noted political and cultural changes in his lifetime, and spoke of the structural and societal concerns presently weighed by relevant authorities in the Academies and the Noodle Shop Repair Sect.
His use of diagrams was judicious, his application of theories brilliant; well could his friends believe that he had merited the scholarly robes he wore, had they not all been asleep for most of the talk.
This was really quite unwise of them, for Hong’s observations were grounded in practical experience coupled with a thorough and unbending insight, and they would have learnt much of the proper bearing one should have in a noodle shop - the contentment and ease with which one should conduct oneself, the delight one should take, the manner of choosing a delightful dish and the many ideal ways one might enjoy it - had they bothered to listen.
But alas, the only time Hong had any of their attention was when he mentioned offhandedly some experiences of his during the First Siege of New Shanghai, at the start of the Confucian Revolt, when they started with some surprise and interrupted with all manner of questions. But those were only about violence and warfare and the great events of a history seven centuries past, immaterial matters compared to the noodle shop, and after providing some brief answers to their questions Hong once more turned to his main theme.
If his companions could not have cared less, the monsters were the exact opposite. They were rapt with attention the entirety of the talk, their eyes wide and glistening, ears craning to hear yet more of Hong’s words of wisdom. The camera rolled for every second of his speech.
At the end of the conversation, as Hong - exhausted on the main points of his topic at long last, and as yet unwilling to countenance a more in-depth analysis of the details - was winding down, Gerry wiped a lone tear from his eye.
“That,” he said, “was beautiful - perhaps the finest three weeks of my life. I thank you, sir, from the bottom of my heart.”
It was a rare and genuine smile with which Hong greeted these words, the delight clear on his face. “It was my pleasure, sir, and I would be most enthused to consult with you upon any matters yet outside your comprehension.”
A great friendship was made and sealed; and, later, when Hong asked for the secrets of the indestructible noodle shop formation, the eldritch abomination was only too happy to oblige.
It proved to be nearly useless to Hong - it could only be designed and enacted by a cultivator of the Ninth Circuit, and all its materials were alien ingredients that were rare even in the higher worlds.
Nonetheless he meticulously copied it down, sending a copy to the Noodle Shop Repair Sect’s Research and Development Department, and another copy to the Noodle Shop Repair Demon himself who, Hong knew, would be only too interested in examining the formation, and seeking an alternative for its stringent requirements.
Progress would be slow; but progress always was slow, and ought to be carried out with the utmost caution. They would reverse engineer a simpler, cheaper version of the formation; and though it would not be half so good as the current one, it might yet save a great many noodle shops from destruction.
Hong and the horrors parted on the most amicable of terms, Hong to report his success to the magistrate - success, and a financial opportunity - the monsters to head to the capital, where they hoped to interview the scholars of the Academies for their documentary, drawing on the Confucians’ superior knowledge of cultivator custom.
And the adventure would have ended, had it not been for a rather… special… object which remained, unexamined, in Hong’s possession.
At first Xian and Yuan debated what to do. Did they seek to prevail upon Hong’s kindness to juniors, and request the mysterious wok? Did they never bring it up in his presence again, secure that his wisdom and experience would let him find a superior way to use the cooking implement? Did they inform him about the object and its nature, and let him decide what to do with the thing?
They debated the different options at length, finally settling on the last.
Hong - rather unsurprisingly - was repairing a tavern when they found him. It had fallen victim to a revenge plot of some cultivators against a lovely young couple - who had committed the singular sin of refusing to dissolve their engagement, that a Young Master might sleep with the lady - after the couple had survived an earlier trouncing by three cultivators from the same sect.
It took some time for them to get Hong’s attention - half his focus was on the restaurant, the other half on offering cultivation advice to the couple, that they might survive an inevitable third attack - but when at last they did they found a most grateful ear.
“You’re telling me this wok contains the soul of a spirit trapped within it?” Hong said appreciatively, waving the handy dandy cooking implement about in the air.
Yuan and Xian looked at each other and nodded. No longer were there any misunderstandings between them; shortly after they had finally escaped that noodle shop formation, Xian had followed Yuan to his hotel room.
Pinning him down in his room - and, via a kabedon, pinning him to the wall - she had demanded to know everything. He, only too pleased at the thought of unburdening his heart, had told her everything - from his having read The Return of Xian Xinyue, to his transmigration, to what he had seen and done since arriving in this strange new world.
Nor did he leave anything out, dwelling with particular detail on his intense admiration for her actions in the novel. So great were his effusions that by the end of his talk Xian still had him pinned to the wall, but now for decidedly different reasons.
But I return to my narration. Yuan and Xian looked at each other and nodded.
“There is indeed,” Xian started.
“A very powerful one, from which your cultivation might be greatly enhanced,” Yuan continued. They had decided to tell the truth to Hong; hopefully, he would decide that a wok which might enhance one’s cultivation was useless to him, and give it to them; but if not, it could never hurt to be in his good graces.
“And this spirit has borne witness to centuries of noodle shop repair?” Hong asked.
“…Yes,” came the hesitant response.
Hong’s eyes gleamed. “Indeed! Who need care about cultivation, when noodle shops are on the line? I thank you greatly for this information; I have nothing with which to repay you now, but you may count on my endless gratitude at a later date, for a favour such as this cannot be repaid.”
Yuan and Xian looked at each other once more and shrugged. What he chose to do with the wok was none of their business, even if they thought it a waste.
Hong returned the wok to his storage pouch and continued his work, refusing to think about the enchanted wok again until that evening, when he was alone in his room.
Admiring the object briefly - for an item used to cook noodles could not help but be beautiful - Hong cast his consciousness into the tool.
The interior of the wok was a well-furnished apartment, done up to look like the interior of a richly-appointed cave. The spirit, bedecked in green, was sitting in a chair in the middle of a room, drinking a whisky. He stroked his orange beard as he examined Hong.
“Och, laddy, how can ah help ya?”
