Chapter Forty-Six: The Ninefold True Inheritance

The light of Zhou Qian’s sword was as fine as rain and mist, flickering and leaping without pause. His techniques—cutting, slicing, slashing, stabbing, twisting—grew from simple to intricate, evolving into complex moves: Twin Dragons Spitting Water, the Watercloud Sword, Flying Sword Scatters Petals, Reversed Sword Form, Triple Linked Swords, Flying Sword Scatters Petals once more... Each move and stance became second nature to him, gradually taking on a style all his own.

If Zhou Xun’s swordplay embodied a grand, sweeping aura, a spirit vast as clouds devouring the moon, then Zhou Qian’s was one of subtlety and transformation, where brilliance revealed itself in the most minute details. Every master swordsman forms a unique style; Zhou Xun’s sword evokes the lonely search along the endless Way, while Zhou Qian’s radiates an unyielding optimism—uplifting, attuned to Heaven, doing all that can be done by man. Whether the sword shapes the person or the person shapes the sword is impossible to tell.

His sword fell like rain, drifted like mist. When executing his final move, Fleeting Glimmer, Zhou Qian spat a ray of cold light from his mouth. The cold gleam merged with the sword’s glow, becoming a frosty star that pierced a tree ten zhang away. Zhou Qian frowned, murmuring, “The method of fusing martial arts with magic from the Great Tuo Scripture is truly wondrous. It melds internal power and physical strength, unleashing incredible might. My sword now approaches the legendary sword immortals who can strike down opponents a hundred paces away. Pity it still falls short of the true flying sword. That boy Tong Rang’s flying sword is refined with blood day and night, but such ways are not righteous.” Sighing in frustration, he sheathed his battered sword, turned away from the small grove, and headed toward the city of Chengdu. It was early morning, the mist still shrouding everything—his daily training now complete.

Returning quietly to Taibai Pavilion, he found Zhang Fu sprawled carelessly on the ground, snoring away. Around him lay a mess of ingredients, bowls and pots brimming with broths and sauces. Zhou Qian shook his head—so this was the price of being called the Little Kitchen God.

His movements seemed to rouse Zhang Fu, who rubbed his eyes. Suddenly, excitement flared in his gaze; grabbing Zhou Qian, he exclaimed, “I’ve finally created the ninth flavor! If I perfect it, this will be the most unique Mapo Tofu in the world!”

“What?” Zhou Qian was delighted. “Then hurry up and show me!”

“This dish can only be completed if we work together. The inspiration came from you!” Zhang Fu pulled Zhou Qian close and whispered in his ear. Zhou Qian’s eyes gradually lit up.

"These two have taken over the kitchen for four days and nights already—when will it end?" sighed Li the Quick Blade, one of the Pavilion’s chefs. “Master Huang is too soft. Cooking requires the right environment, but with those two occupying the kitchen, we’re forced to work in small eateries nearby. Our old customers are complaining more and more. Losing the chef’s contest was shame enough—at this rate, Taibai Pavilion won’t last much longer!”

“Nonsense!” a stern voice cut in as Huang San rapped him on the head. “I believe those two are nearly done.”

Before he finished speaking, the main doors opened. Zhou Qian and Zhang Fu emerged one after the other.

“We have discovered the ninth flavor! Lead the way at once,” Zhang Fu said arrogantly, his true nature—proud and unruly—on full display.

Huang San hesitated, glancing at them, but finally just shook his head and sighed, “So like them! Come with me.”

After winding through several corridors, they came to a peaceful little courtyard. Unexpectedly, Mapo herself was living secluded right in Chengdu.

“Truly, the greatest hermits dwell amidst the bustle,” Zhou Qian heard Zhang Fu mutter.

Led into the courtyard, they saw a kindly old woman sipping tea. She showed no surprise upon seeing them, simply pouring three cups and saying, “Please, sit.”

After they were seated, Mapo said, “This is a fresh winter tea, Spring’s Slumber. Please try my brewing.”

Zhang Fu, impatient, blurted, “Mapo, we came to ask for the recipe to your Green Bamboo Congee, not to drink tea. Please tell us quickly!”

Mapo only smiled faintly. “Have you produced the ninth flavor for Mapo Tofu? There’s a small pot and some tofu and seasonings in the back—go ahead.”

Zhang Fu answered proudly, “Of course, just watch!”

“Do you believe these two brats can create the ninth flavor?” Huang San asked Mapo quietly.

“As disciples of those two, there’s no reason they’d be inferior,” Mapo replied, sipping her tea.

Soon, Zhou Qian and Zhang Fu returned with a plate of Mapo Tofu, fragrant and visually stunning.

“Looks impressive,” muttered Huang San, picking up his chopsticks to taste.

“This tofu!” Huang San’s eyes widened. “It’s so springy!” As his teeth cut through the tofu, it seemed to move of its own accord, as though the tofu possessed a life of its own.

“How did you make this tofu?” Huang San asked at once, baffled by its lively texture.

“Haha, look carefully!” Zhang Fu grinned, pointing to a seam in one piece.

“This tofu isn’t one kind—it’s made from four types joined together. The innermost, from the He family, is dense and chewy; the second, from the Li family, is soft and tender; the third, from the Cai’s mill, is slightly firmer; and the outermost layer is briefly fried, giving it a mature flavor. Each type has a different elasticity, but combined tightly, they respond differently to pressure. Didn’t it feel almost uncontrollable, darting about in your mouth? Ha! Numbing, spicy, hot, fragrant, crispy, tender, fresh, lively—these eight flavors have always captured the essence of the dish. Now, with this Zhou fellow, we’ve taken it a step further. Are you convinced?” Zhang Fu’s face shone with pride.

Mapo only smiled gently, not bothering to taste it. She glanced at the smug Zhang Fu, then at the quieter Zhou Qian, and suddenly said, “Zhou, your knife skills, combined with his cooking, truly make something unique. In fact, forty years ago, two others already solved this dish—but they discovered the quality of ‘slipperiness.’ You probably know them: Yi Shan and a foreign chef.”

Zhou Qian and Zhang Fu looked at each other in surprise—their own masters had taken another path decades ago.

“You two have done well,” Mapo said, seeming to sense their thoughts. “Back then, those two had nearly perfected their craft, and were more than ten years older than you are now. You both have bright futures ahead. Especially you, Zhou, your knife skills and innate creativity are your greatest treasures. One day, someone will teach you the true Way of the Butcher—never let yourself be constrained.”

“I will remember your words!” Zhou Qian replied solemnly. “Please, would you share with us the recipe for Green Bamboo Congee? If ever you need my help, I will not refuse.”

“You want the congee recipe? For Yi Shan, I suppose. Why doesn’t he come himself? Only sends you two juniors?” Mapo’s tone was flat, emotionless.

“My master’s life is nearly at its end,” Zhang Fu said softly. “We came on our own, hoping to fulfill his last wish.” With that, he knelt, bowing deeply. “Please, grant us this favor!”

“Yi Shan, that old ghost, is dying?” Mapo was startled, a complicated look flashing in her eyes. She sighed, “Yes, we are all old now.”

“To be honest, I once had a close relationship with Yi Shan—he is my brother-in-law. My sister, Kou Jingxiang, was killed by the foreigners while saving him. I’ve borne resentment in my heart ever since. He never returned to Sichuan—not out of guilt alone, but to avoid painful memories…”

“Enough.” Mapo sighed. “We’re all people at death’s door. I’ll settle things with my sister in the afterlife.”

With that, she went inside, returning with a yellowed sheet of paper, and handed it to them.

“This is the recipe for Green Bamboo Congee. Tell that old ghost for me: I’ve hated and resented him for thirty years, but now it’s over. Let him go in peace.” She sighed again. “There are ninety-nine ingredients in the recipe. Yet my sister’s congee always carried a faint, pure fragrance. I never discovered the reason—perhaps she added a final, unknown touch.”

“Now, leave me. I wish to be alone.” Mapo closed her weary eyes. The three exchanged glances and slipped away. A wintry wind rose, stirring the fallen leaves—it was a moment of indescribable desolation.

“Mapo must have loved Master Yi Shan,” Zhou Qian said quietly after a long silence.

“You noticed too?” Zhang Fu sighed.

“I’d like to pay my respects at Elder Kou Jingxiang’s grave. May I?” Zhou Qian asked Huang San.

“Of course. I think Sister Jingxiang would welcome you,” Huang San nodded.

Leaving Chengdu, the three walked ten li to a place where water murmured and birds sang, flowers in bloom.

“This place is called Dropping Moon Slope. At night, the surrounding cliffs reflect moonlight here—it’s beautiful. Sister Jingxiang loved this view.”

At the graveside, unmarked by inscription, Zhou Qian and Zhang Fu bowed three times in respect.

“May you protect Master Yi Shan,” Zhou Qian prayed, eyes closed.

All around grew a small, white, nameless flower—not eye-catching, but swaying gently in the wind, petals trembling to reveal jade-like stamens.

“What flower is this?” Zhou Qian asked Huang San.

“It has no name. It grows wherever there’s sunlight—on cliffs, in storms, like a weed. The rich scorn it for being common, the poor cannot afford to tend flowers. It’s as if this flower was born to be disliked. But Sister Jingxiang loved it, always saying she was like it herself.”

Zhou Qian gazed at its frail stem and leaves. It seemed as if a mere breeze could uproot it, yet it never bowed to fate. Suddenly he said, “I think there is no flower in the world more beautiful than this one.”