Chapter One: The Beggar Who Sold Noodles

In a shabby roadside stall, Dog-Egg was fully absorbed in pulling noodles. The once shapeless dough, kneaded and struck repeatedly under the sunlight, began to glisten like crystal. With deft hands, Dog-Egg gave it a flick; with each pull and stretch, the dough seemed almost magical, transforming into ever finer, longer strands. The noodles looked as though they would snap at a touch, yet under Dog-Egg’s nimble hands, they danced with resilient grace. At last, with a final shake, the noodles fell precisely into the boiling pot.

“Dog-Egg, one bowl, extra spicy!” Old Liu straightened the filthy stool and sat down, greeting several regulars with a clasped hand. “Dog-Egg’s noodles have real bite—better than anything that master chef at Fragrant Pavilion across the street can conjure up!”

“Liu, you’re boasting again, aren’t you? Fragrant Pavilion’s no ordinary place—without a handful of silver, you can’t even step through their doors. You, a petty bailiff, an ant among men, could enter Fragrant Pavilion? You’d be thrown out the moment you got in!” one regular teased.

“Don’t be so sure!” Liu retorted. “Once, I accompanied my superior to a banquet at Fragrant Pavilion. Out of pity for us minor folk, the master ordered a table just for us bailiffs. I sampled their famed Prawn and Eel Explosion Noodles. Honestly, it doesn’t compare to Dog-Egg’s big bowl with an extra egg. Far more satisfying.”

“But the chef at Fragrant Pavilion was brought in from the capital! Such skill—does Dog-Egg match up? Face it, you’re just meant to gnaw steamed buns on street corners your whole life. You wouldn’t know how to enjoy the finer things,” another regular quipped.

Old Liu bristled. “And you, Fat Wang, manager of the western silk store and a gentleman, still sneak here every few days for a five-coin bowl of ‘inferior’ noodles. Are you not just as low-born?”

Manager Wang chuckled. “I never said Dog-Egg’s skill was inferior to Fragrant Pavilion’s chef. Everyone knows Dog-Egg’s noodles are the pride of Chang City. The flavor speaks for itself. Don’t you go shouting nonsense. Everyone knows Old Liu of North Street is as honest as they come—a clay Buddha with a heart of gold.” Laughter rippled through the crowd.

A curious newcomer asked, “Who exactly is this Dog-Egg? How does a shabby noodle stall earn such a name?”

A regular explained, “Dog-Egg was once a beggar in Changzhou, a child of the streets. He survived by begging until an elderly chef took pity on him, noticed he wasn’t a bad sort, and kept him around as a servant, providing food, clothes, and shelter—a heavenly life for a beggar. But good times didn’t last; the old chef died of illness, and the inn cast Dog-Egg back out, too young and weak to be of use.”

“So how did he come to make noodles?” the newcomer pressed.

“Listen and I’ll tell you,” the regular replied, taking on the cadence of a storyteller.

“The story gets better. Dog-Egg, full of grit, left without a word and set up this stall in a back alley. At first, no one came; the location was poor, and the stall itself ramshackle. But good wine needs no bush: his noodles, though rough, had bite, and he used some secret seasoning whose aroma wafted down three or four streets. More and more customers came. The stall was but a lane away from the old inn, so as his business boomed, the inn’s faded. Within a month, the inn closed down. The neighbors made it a joke, calling Dog-Egg the ‘Noodle Assassin’—a boy who could ruin businesses with his noodles alone, slaying competition without a trace.”

“This Dog-Egg is quite a character,” the newcomer mused. Just then, Dog-Egg brought over a bowl and the newcomer observed him quietly. Dog-Egg appeared about eleven or twelve, clad in a plain green shirt and trousers, with a clever, charming face, though his eyes seemed a bit vacant—a single flaw. Dog-Egg set the bowl down, said, “Enjoy your meal,” and withdrew.

The newcomer found nothing extraordinary about him—no monstrous features, no extra arms or legs—and lost interest, turning instead to the noodles, driven by hunger.

The noodles looked inviting, glistening under a thin layer of oil in a clear broth through which the strands could be seen, long and distinct. Atop lay two chunks of tender dog meat and a sprinkling of chives. The aroma rushed into his nose, making every pore in his body tingle with delight, and his mouth watered uncontrollably.

Unable to wait, he tasted a bite—the noodles were tender yet springy; the broth rich and deep; the meat juicy and flavorful. Before he could help himself, he called out, “Excellent!” Startling his neighbors. Embarrassed, he gave a slight bow, but seeing everyone unfazed, he couldn’t help but call again, “Dog-Egg, another bowl!” though he hadn’t even finished the first.

The diners finished their meals and went their separate ways. Dog-Egg, left alone, tidied up the bowls and tables, sweating from the effort. Hungry, he made himself a large bowl of oil-splashed noodles, loaded with extra ingredients, and ate with relish. As he ate, he mused, “Brother Wang and Second Brother Li invited me for a gathering tonight. Brother Wang loves his drink—I’ll pick up two pounds of Daughter’s Red at the inn. Second Brother Li craves stewed chicken—I’ll get a fat one from the market.”

Lost in these thoughts, he didn’t notice the old man approaching, shuffling tremulously. The old man’s only garment was a thin, tattered blue coat; his hair was wild, his face dirty. Bowing his head, he addressed Dog-Egg softly, “Young man, might you spare an old man a bowl of noodles?”

Dog-Egg glanced at him hesitantly. “Do you have any money?”

The old man sighed, “I live by begging, not a coin to my name.”

“So, an old beggar.” Dog-Egg understood. After a moment’s thought, he said, “I was a little beggar myself. Since you’re a beggar too, how could I eat while you go hungry? Sit and wait.” He turned to prepare the food, while the old beggar’s eyes glinted with a strange light as he watched Dog-Egg’s back.

Soon, Dog-Egg brought out a large bowl of noodles, and even added two dishes—oil-seared eggplant and braised pork with celery. The old beggar devoured everything ravenously, finishing in no time, satisfaction written all over his face. His gaze toward Dog-Egg became even more approving.

The old beggar lamented, “My legs are weak, and I never know when my next meal will come. This may well be my last. I do have a relative in the south, and I’d like to go to them, but I lack the travel money. You seem a kind soul—might you lend me a few ingots of silver for the journey? I promise, someday you’ll be well rewarded.”

Dog-Egg hesitated. In nearly half a year, his stall had earned only three or four ingots. To lend so much at once was like slicing flesh from his own heart. He had no connection to this old man—not even a copper between them. Anyone would call it a thankless act—not unwilling, but simply unable.

Dog-Egg stared at the old beggar for a long moment, then gritted his teeth. “I’ll lend it!”

The old man was stunned—he had never expected Dog-Egg to commit such an act, akin to feeding a hawk with one’s own flesh. He had experienced the world’s warmth and chill, met countless types of people, and only thought to try his luck, to take a little from Dog-Egg. Was it possible he’d stumbled upon a rare soul, a true good man among millions?

But Dog-Egg was not overly soft-hearted. In truth, any tenderness had been stripped from him long ago, fighting with stray dogs for scraps and begging under the thumb of the elder beggars. The only reason he did this was because, when he first began begging and was starving to the point of death, an old beggar nearby had split his only piece of bread with him. Dog-Egg still remembered what that beggar said: “We’re beggars, despised by people and dogs alike. If we think little of ourselves, even the gods can’t help us. You’ve got a good face—go cry to passersby and they’ll toss you a coin or two. Why lie in a corner waiting to die? Remember, it doesn’t matter if others look down on you—but you must look up to yourself. After decades of begging, I still dream of visiting Red Aunt. Don’t tell me you’re less than an old coot like me?”

Dog-Egg had no idea where that was, but from then on, he swore two fierce vows: first, to one day eat a five-coin bowl of noodle stew at Yang’s across the street, whose aroma haunted him for three days and nights; second, that if he ever met a starving beggar, he would help them, repaying that half-bread’s kindness.

Dog-Egg carefully lifted the third brick on the left of his stall, retrieving a bundle wrapped in ragged cloth. Inside shone bright silver—four small ingots. He took out three and handed them to the old man. “I don’t know if you’re telling the truth, but who would bother to cheat a little beggar like me? Take these three ingots. You’re a beggar, and so am I. Others may look down on us, but we mustn’t look down on ourselves.”

The old beggar did not yet take them, but stood and stared at Dog-Egg. Only now did Dog-Egg realize the man’s frame was enormous—nearly eight feet tall—with tiger-like eyes flashing with feral light. It was as if a wild beast stood before him, not a man.

The old beggar burst into hearty laughter. “Good lad! You have talent and backbone, and a fine character too. A little slow-witted, perhaps, but that’s nothing. Heaven has granted me, Zhou Xun the Hundred-Armed Sword Immortal, an excellent disciple. Boy, would you like to become my apprentice?”