rogue_5

The Grandmaster personally leads the sortie this time. The young man follows the troops, on edge the entire time. The Grandmaster had seemed satisfied with his answer, but only he knows just how lacking in confidence he is: the enemy had captured the village, after all, and turned it into their stronghold. It will be much easier for them to fend off an attack this time... But the moment he sees one of them stomping on a trembling villager, his fury burns brighter than his fear. Though it is still the same chaotic battlefield and the same vicious enemy, his sword hand is steady.

After driving out their foes, the soldiers help the villagers clean up the mess under the guidance of the Grandmaster. The young man joins in, working deep into the night. He does not feel sleepy, so he sits atop a roof, looking out into the distance.

'So this is the sort of war Yan is fighting at the borders...' Sensing the Grandmaster sit down by him, he mumbles: 'You called me up today for a reason, didn't you, Grandmaster? Father must have told you about the mistakes I made back in Baizao.'

For accidentally injuring civilians while pursuing enemies, the youth had been sent to Yumen for both training and self-reflection.

'You and Father were both trying to get me to understand why I wield the sword. I think I... understand a little bit more now.'

'If that is the case, then you are the winner of our little wager.'

The young man's expression changes slightly, but he seems neither too surprised or happy. After some consideration, he says: 'If you are alright with it, Grandmaster, may I stay here to train longer? We had casualties today, and the situation at the border will surely become even more dire. I think there are still things I can do here.'

The Grandmaster is more surprised than the yound man. He falls silent for a moment, then pats the young man upon the shoulder with a smile before getting up to leave.

'Thank you, Grandmaster, for your generosity!' The youth clasps his fist in respect. 'I, Zuo Xuanliao, will not squander your trust in me.'

She had intended to find a place to rest. She sometimes finds herself contemplating lazing about a bit after her work for the day is done. However, everyone only sees her as a dabbler, and she has no intention of brazenly going to the river with her finning rod or shell-gathering basket while the others are busy with farmwork. She looks at the farmers sowing seeds in the fields, and is suddenly reminded of a conversation with the one who took her in and taught her—

'The crops might not want to be planted here. Well, they'll be eaten either way.' A passing joke after a lesson.

'But you are no bushel of wheat, so how can you say they wouldn't enjoy it?' A joke is, naturally, replied to with another.

That person was much younger than her, and those words seemed to be twisted logic.

But now, she watches the seeds being buried in the soil, entranced. Upon remembering those words, her curiosity is piqued. And so, she takes a tiny fragment of her consciousness, and sends it on a leisurely trip into a seed.

Thunder rolls, and the miniature 'her' opens her 'eyes'. The soil she is in is like the tomb in which she was born, damp and filled with the scent of earth, nary a hint of light. However, this 'her' is no longer a proxy, and this place is not her origin.

So who is she, right now?

She hears only fowlbeasts flying overhead, senses only droplets of water seeping towards her. As for what is in her heart, there is nothing more than a simple impulse: no matter how the soil stifles her, or how her coat refuses to crack, she will grow and grow, releasing the vitality within.

Roots burst through her coat, and the sprout shoots towards the surface. An unremarkable new sprout unfurls its leaves in the field, elatedly taking in the air after a spring shower.

Heaven and earth, sun and sky. The truest form of life is nothing complicated. The first explorers of this land sought only a place to take root and thrive. Draw in water, grow, and await the beginning of life's next cycle. She had not expected any other answer, but in this moment, she feels for herself... growth.

Despite having only entrusted a minute fragment of her consciousness to the plant, when the sickle comes for the wheat, she still pulls back her neck.

It is the autumn harvest, and in the farmers' hands, blades fall. The plant with her spirit is cleaved in two, wheat becomes harvest, and the bare stalks are left in the fields. Here, the wheat's life ends, but she does not retrieve the fragment of consciousness within the stalk.

Life may grow, but how can one overlook its fading?

The fragment of consciousness within the stalk pays careful attention. Death comes slow and sorrowful, as the stalk yellows then browns, cracking as it withers. Her consciousness falls into the earth, shattering further into countless particles, caring nothing for the distinction between self and soil. She senses a return to the primeval chaos. Dark, cold, damp. Just like that tomb. Is she afraid? She must admit that she is not calm, but an even stronger emotion has its grasp on her... loneliness.

Here, her experience of life as another comes to an end. The winter days are bitterly long, as she tends to the tools and collates data alongside everyone else. Slowly but surely, she forgets about her time as wheat... until sowing season comes by again.

Thunder rolls across the field once more, and with it, her eyes open wide. Her attention is pulled to the plants in the field. The sprig of consciousness is still there, but it is not in the same wheat as last time. She opens her 'eyes', countless 'eyes'. Seeds covering the land. Dead leaves become nutrients, nourishing new plants. They too will wither at the cycle's end, returning to the soil, fertilizing the next round of seeds.

Yes. Life grows, and the cycle never ends. Life flourishes and blooms. How could it ever stop at death? Spring rain falls. She smooths out the tender leaves. Amidst this field filled with toiling farmers, she greets new life.

That winter was harsher than usual. Shennong went north, but had not returned. There was no one to guide the people on what preparations to make for the coming sowing season.

The snows were also unusually thick. They piled up in layers like coffin lids, covering the fields.

When spring came, a shrine to Shennong was erected. Having lost Shennong's aid, the people all wished to find something to prop up their spirits. Upon seeing them so dejected, she suggests holding a plowing ceremony. The reception to her idea is lukewarm, so she does not insist upon it. After some thinking, she carries a gong out of the house. Some see her walk to the fields and take a deep breath, as if summoning her courage. Then, she lifts her wooden mallet.

BONG!

The startled farmers lift their heads to see her dancing on the paddy ridges, singing songs of the fields.

BONG!

'Sand and stone fly through the wind, as gales tear down my new sprouts.'

BONG!

'Naught to do when locusts cover the sky, eating their fill on my crops.'

BONG! BONG! BONG! Each strike of the gong represents a disaster the people of this land had once contended with. Everyone knew what the songs meant: being able to stand here and sing about these experiences means they lived through them.

The dance reaches its end. She lifts the mallet, but then lowers it. Out of curiosity, the farmers ask her why.

'Would Shennong's leaving us be considered a disaster for our fields?', she asks gently. 'The crops that fall can be replanted next year, but people are gone forevermore... When you are done crying, take up her mantle. There will always be people who come after. That is the reason we toil in the fields. And so, this last strike does not represent disaster, but respect for the land, and the people who live upon, thrive upon, and work it.'

BONG! The gong is like spring thunder, startling the larkfowl.

The dance of one has somehow become the dance of many.

Winter may have been harsh, but now the snow has melted, and its waters nourish the soil.

'Just think about it! If you win, you'll be the greatest chef in all of Baizao, and our Zhi Wei Tang will bask in the limelight. C'mon, no need to hesitate, join the competition!' The owner of Zhi Wei Tang begs and implores the seemingly thirteen- or fourteen-year-old Young Chef, and at last sees a hint of curiosity in his puzzled expression.

What sort of taste would becoming a renowned chef bring?

Whenever the annual Baizao culinary competition comes around, people throng the streets, sampling new recipes while watching chefs duel each other atop the stage. Currently, everyone is talking about the showdown about to unfold between the Young Chef and the head chef of the renowned Liang Jiang Xian.

A day before the finals, everyone in Zhi Wei Tang's kitchen is nervously making preparations under the Young Chef's guidance when a waiter, heart filled with anxiety, bursts in. 'This is bad! The wild mountain mushrooms Chef Yu specifically asked for—the foragers say a heavy rain's spoiled the entire lot!'

The kitchen immediately falls into an uproar. Wild mushrooms are an essential ingredient in the Young Chef's proposed main dish. Without the main course, aren't they certain to lose the battle? What should they do? It is far too late to change the menu they submitted to the officials.

The Young Chef stays calm. 'Don't lose your heads. It's a shame, but while every ingredient has its own flavor, there's no reason not to use a substitute.'

The owner of Zhi Wei Tang jumps up, shouting: 'Absolutely not! Liang Jiang Xian managed to get a live wild hairtail fin, about two feet long! You're lucky to see one of those in a century! We'll never win using ordinary ingredients!'

The Young Chef raises an eyebrow. 'Aren't the menus supposed to be secret? How do you know what's going on in their kitchen?'

The owner doesn't answer, rattling off several alternative sources of wild mushrooms, all of which are shot down by the waiter as unfeasible. Clearly at an impasse, the owner suddenly unfurrows his brow and says to the Young Chef: 'Oh well. If we don't have our mushrooms, maybe Liang Jiang Xian won't have their hairtail fin either...'

The Young Chef looks at him doubtfully.

By the back door to Liang Jiang Xian, a waiter attempting to sneak into the restaurant is hastily pulled into an alleyway by the Young Chef, who had rushed over. Under threat of being reported to the authorities, the waiter fearfully pulls out a bag of poisoned finbait.

'Is this how you planned on winning?' The Young Chef tosses the bag onto the table in front of the owner of Zhi Wei Tang.

The owner's expression suddenly changes as he glares daggers at the Young Chef, yet his raised voice is full of self-righteousness: 'You... What's with the holier-than-thou attitude?! I'm doing this for you, for our restaurant! Do you know how much business we'd get if we win? Didn't you want to savor becoming a renowned chef?!'

In response, the Young Chef also suppresses his fury. He closes his eyes, as if sampling the flavor, before shaking his head. 'This sort of taste is really hard to swallow once it gets in your mouth.'

On the day of the finals, ignoring the owner's ashen expression, the Young Chef cooks up a big pot of vegetable and shiitake congee. Ordinary vegetables, ordinary shiitake mushrooms, ordinary rice. It isn't just the judges who are served. Every spectator also receives a bowl. At first, everyone looks rather uninterested, but after a single spoonful, they are amazed. The congee is just as warming as the one their parents made when they were children, sick in bed.

Naturally, the Young Chef loses the battle, but he is given a bowl of hairtail fin soup, a once-in-a-century flavor. Upon tasting it, he feels contentment.

An incident occurred at Mr. Gao's banquet. No doubt it was a grave matter, because after the guests dispersed, Mr. Gao flew into a rage, calling for the chef responsible for the banquet.

Not a moment later, the Young Chef, seeming thirteen or fourteen years of age, nervously steps into the hall. With a glance at the dining table, he immediately notices that the steamed shadfin he was specifically instructed to prepare carefully is not present.

Mr. Gao takes a deep breath, and asks through gritted teeth: 'What did I say before the banquet?'

The Young Chef replied: 'You said today's guest would be very important, so I was to make sure to serve him something that'd make him happy.'

Mr. Gao raises his voice. 'And what exactly do you think that means?'

The Young Chef gulps, not saying a word in return. He does not enjoy this sort of questioning.

'That was the Assistant Minister of Revenue! I spent years coaxing him into having a meal at my home, and this is what you do to me?! I had that fin specially brought in from outside the city, just for this moment! And I told you the side dishes had to live up to both it and today's guest!'

The Young Chef speaks quietly: 'I added some shredded bamboo shoots to the scallion and ginger... Did... they not go well together? That can't be—I tried the broth, and the shoots brought out the fin's flavor...'

'Bamboo shoots, you say? Oh yes, the Assistant Minister certainly noticed them.' Mr. Gao sneers at the chef. 'I suppose I was a fool for sending someone to Kou-wu to get smoked ham.'

'Smoked ham?' The Young Chef raises his lowered head slightly. 'That definitely wouldn't have worked. The smoky flavor would be too strong, it would have smothered the flavor of the fin—'

'I was using that fin to represent the True Lung, and you went and added common bamboo shoots to the side dish? What, were you trying to make me say our guest was some run-of-the-mill bamboo shoot under the True Lung's heel?! Pah, I never should've expected a common cook to understand my intent. You've gone and wasted my finest ingredients!'

'A common cook?! ...Wait, what happened to the shadfin?'

Mr. Gao stares at him contemptuously. 'Hmph. I had it taken away so the Assistant Minister wouldn't misunderstand me. As for you, reflect upon yourself, and do not disappoint me again!'

The Young Chef presses down on the veins bulging out on his forehead. He breathes in, then out, tamping down his anger. He takes off his chef's hat and uniform, placing them in a neat pile by Mr. Gao's hand.

'What are you doing?' Mr. Gao's anger is palpable. 'You asked me for fame and fortune, and I agreed. But you want to quit after only a few words?! You think your fortune, or mine, comes without ever bowing your head to anyone—that you can just earn it easily? Who under heaven can do that? Not even that one at the very top!'

'Which means... there's nothing especially great about this flavor.'

The Young Chef pays no heed to Mr. Gao's attempt to make him stay. He apologizes for the mismatched dishes, then leaves. Mr. Gao continues raging at his back as he leaves, and in his anger, he passes by the side hall, where he spots the steamed shadfin that had been set aside. At first, he considers smashing the dish to pieces, but it looks and smells far too appetizing. He cannot stop himself from having a bite...

The meat melts in his mouth, and his eyebrows float up as the tide of savor rises up his head. His anger is soothed not by fawning or flattery, but only by pure deliciousness. He is unsure when his face became so relaxed.

'Serving him something that would make him happy...'

Mr. Gao suddenly remembers what sort of dish can truly make a man happy. He calls for someone to go retrieve the Young Chef, but halfway through his order, he stops himself.

'...Never mind.'

After marching through the desert for a month, and facing countless battles large and small, the soldiers are at their limit. Unending sands, unchanging rations, unseasoned meals. Despite the best efforts of the Young Cook in their ranks, it is hard to make much out of brown rice porridge and beast jerky. Even so, the men treasure his cooking, licking every plate clean and showering him in praise. While he always shoos them off, his waggling tail tells a different story.

During his centuries-long tour of the human realm, sampling every flavor there is, the Young Cook had begged his eldest brother to allow him to accompany the troops. All he sees now are desert sands, howling gales, and gleaming blades. Nothing worth seeing, as expected. He only wanted to prepare good meals for people desperate for one. But whenever he hands them out, there are always a few bowls left unclaimed. While he can't end the fighting, he wonders what else he could do.

The vanguard returns with a report. They have discovered an oasis up ahead. The Young Cook heads over to take a look. He is surprised to see tiny fins swimming in its waters. He slaps his fist into his palm, going: 'I've got it!'

Through their tents, the soldiers distantly hear the Young Cook swear up a storm as he falls into the oasis pool during his clumsy attempts to catch the fins. They head over to help him, eventually catching enough for all the men. They watch him hammer away at the meat, knead dough, and circle the oasis to gather wild herbs. Soon, he even shoos away the vanguard sent over to 'reconnoiter' the mess tent, leaving the men to endure the scent of fresh fin wafting over as they swallow their drool.

Eventually, he opens up his pot, and even the most hardened of soldiers gasp, shocked speechless—

The pot is filled with steaming finmeat noodles. Delicate flesh has been worked into the dough, forming pearlescent noodles, studded with bright green herbs and boiled to pale perfection. Who would have thought they'd be able to have a piping-hot bowl of noodles in the desert? For a time, the only thing heard in the camp is the sound of slurping. The Young Cook wipes the sweat off his brow. As he looks over everyone engrossed in their bowls, he feels deeply satisfied.

'If you guys liked it, I can make some more next time.' He stands proud, his hands on his hips.

The men nod furiously, then repeatedly shake their heads and sigh.

'Wh-What's wrong? Is the taste off?' he asks nervously.

'I was just reminded of the roast beast trotter you can get by the gate of my hometown. We'd always buy some whenever there was something to celebrate. The last time I had it was when I passed the troop selection...'

'I was thinking of the noodle soup I had as a kid. My mom would always add a big spoonful of pickled veggies. Man... The pickles she made were so sour, and I'd get an earful if I didn't finish them, haha.'

'I wonder what my wife and kids are having tonight...'

The men cup their bowls in their hands and stare up at the moons as they quietly chat about their pasts. Some pull out amulets given to them by family, others caress the fine darning on their clothes. While the desert noodles were certainly delicious, what they truly yearn for are the ordinary tastes of home.

Flavors like that... The Young Cook sits, listens, and lets his imagination run wild.

'Hey, Young Cook, you should open up a restaurant when we get back. With skills like yours, it's bound to be a hit.'

'Just make sure not to price me out, haha!'

The Young Cook jokes with the men. There are many things across the land. Prosperity, beauty, decay, pain. He has supped of them all. Now, he finally understands which flavors he likes the most.

'The usual, Loubaan.'

After her nightly patrol, Ch'en visits her usual noodle cart located right behind the L.G.D. headquarters for a late-night snack. Hoshiguma is still inside the office training rookies, while Swire and Lin Yühsia are stuck at some boring and superfluous cocktail party with the city's elites, somewhere in one of the town's many skyscrapers. Without her friends by her side, all she can do is enjoy her solitary gourmet time. However—

She sweeps her eyes over the area. Late-night Lungmen remains just as bright as it is during the day. The seats are packed with those spilling out their hardships along with their drinks, or talking business. Others are like her, here to reward themselves for a hard day's work.

As she waits for her noodles to arrive, a tourist with an 'I ♥ LM' cap on sits across from her. A young man with long hair, obviously here to check out the city. And so she tries to make some simple small talk, recommending a few dishes from the stall.

Soon, two bowls and some side dishes find their way to the table. Chewy noodles, thick broth, and flavorful finballs. To Ch'en, this is the perfect source of solace when exhausted.