Chapter 15: Blanket Noodles

The moment the silver hit her palm, Madam Zheng looked down and nearly flung it away:

"D-Dalang! This... where did you get silver?!"

"Mother, listen to me."

Shen Xiuhan spoke gently:

"Your son had a stroke of luck today — caught a silver-backed fish. I sold it to the inner-city Mei Martial Hall, and the Hall Master saw some promise in my bones. Not only did she pay twenty taels for the fish, she enrolled me in the hall's outer court!"

His eyes blazed as he spoke, each word falling with weight:

"Mother, starting tomorrow, your son will be studying martial arts!"

Silver-backed fish...

Sold for twenty taels...

Martial arts?!

Every sentence made perfect sense on its own.

But strung together, it sounded too fantastical to be real.

"M-martial arts? Outer-court disciple?!"

"Exactly. From now on, I'll be training just like Chen An!"

Madam Zheng stood dumbstruck.

She looked at Shen Xiuhan, then at the three silver ingots in her hands, her voice quaking:

"Truly?"

"Truly!"

A beat later, Madam Zheng suddenly clutched the silver to her chest. Two lines of turbid tears spilled down her cheeks, and she dropped to her knees, crying out toward the direction of Yunshui Lake in a voice that tore the heart to pieces:

"Their father!"

"Open your eyes and see — Dalang's doing better by the day!"

"If your spirit watches over us, you can close your eyes and rest easy now..."

Her sobbing echoed through the kitchen.

Shen Momo's small arms tightened around Shen Xiuhan's neck, and she whispered:

"Gege, why is Mama crying..."

"Because she's tired."

"Gege, why do I want to cry too..."

"Uh..."

Shen Xiuhan turned his head. The little girl's big eyes brimmed with tears, achingly tender — tiny pearls threatening to spill at any second.

He said quickly:

"Because you're hungry. Come on, look what I brought for Momo."

He carried her to the creel, scooped out a handful of dried fruit, and pressed it into her hands. Young as she was, Momo's attention shifted at once:

"Wow, it's gege!"

"...Those are called fruits."

"Gege!"

"Fruits..."

"Gege!"

"Ge— no wait, they're fr... oh, forget it. Call them whatever you like."

Shen Xiuhan set Shen Momo down, patted her head, and went back to the kitchen.

Madam Zheng had collected herself. When she saw him walk in, her expression turned anxious:

"Dalang, you said the fish you caught was a silver-backed fish? The same kind your father caught back then?"

"The very same."

"Oh no — this is bad!"

Madam Zheng forgot to wipe her tears. Alarm flooded her face:

"Dalang, our family are Bai-clan tenants. By rights, any catch we bring in has to go to the Bai family."

"When your father caught that silver-back, half the martial halls and experts in the county came asking after it. In the end, the Bai family steward still strong-armed it away..."

A chill ran through Shen Xiuhan. He thought for a moment, then said firmly:

"Mother, put your mind at ease. I sold the fish to my master. She's not the type to broadcast it. As long as we keep our mouths shut, who's going to find out?"

"But..."

The worry didn't leave Madam Zheng's face, but seeing her son's resolute expression, she could only give a small nod.

"Mother, the hard days are finally behind us. Stop overthinking."

Shen Xiuhan helped her to her feet with a smile and rolled up his sleeves:

"Today's a day to celebrate. Take Momo to the other room and rest — your son's going to cook up a proper spread."

...

As a man who'd worked in kitchens, Shen Xiuhan had been shortchanging his stomach these past few days.

At first, bedridden with illness, he'd eaten watered-down bean mush or bran porridge.

Bran — the husks stripped from rice, wheat, and soybeans — was rough enough to scrape the throat raw and barely fit to swallow.

In his old life, that kind of stuff was livestock feed.

Later, when his illness dragged on, Madam Zheng had gritted her teeth and bought some millet to cook into porridge for his recovery. But she'd rationed it strictly — for him alone.

She and Shen Momo had survived on a single bowl of coarse bran gruel a day.

By the time he woke, the two of them had missed meals entirely, starved to sallow skin and jutting bones.

Now, with this bounty of ingredients and the pound of sorghum flour he'd bought at the East Market, it was high time he gave the two of them a feast worthy of the name.

Shen Xiuhan cut a small piece of the smoked pork belly and set it to soak in warm water.

Then he laid out the mountain treasures.

Whatever sort of creature the golden-tailed rat was, it clearly had a discerning eye. Every last thing it had hoarded was top-quality, delicious, and perfectly safe to eat.

He picked out termite mushrooms, porcini, matsutake, chanterelles, several varieties of dried bamboo shoots, and black wood ear fungus.

He selected a portion of each and soaked them to reconstitute.

When the timing was right, he sliced the smoked belly into paper-thin strips and cut the bamboo shoots into fine matchsticks.

The rehydrated mushrooms he tore by hand along their grain into strips, setting them alongside the wood ear for the soup base.

Next, he mixed the flour with salted water, kneaded it until the gluten tightened, pinched off portions, and pulled each one into a wide, flat sheet with a deft twist of the wrist.

Shen Xiuhan could pull proper noodles too, but he'd always preferred the chewy bite of wide sheets.

"Sizzle..."

Firelight danced inside the stove.

The smoked pork hit the wok over a roaring flame, and in an instant the fat rendered out, releasing a wave of rich, savory aroma.

A ladle of water splashed down the side of the wok. The clear broth tumbled and rolled, mingling with the rendered fat until it turned a creamy white.

Shen Xiuhan tossed in the bamboo shoots, mushrooms, and wood ear all at once.

Under the high flame, it wasn't long before the pot had transformed into a fragrant, steaming broth.

Last, he slid the hand-pulled sheets one by one into the bubbling stock.

When the water boiled and the noodles floated, he ladled them into bowls.

Those broad, flat sheets draped across the bowl like quilts on a bed — hence the name "blanket noodles." It was one of his best dishes.

Three bowls of blanket noodles were set on the kang table.

Madam Zheng and Shen Momo's nostrils flared in unison, and they looked down as one.

The noodle sheets were pulled thin and wide. In the broth, smoked pork, bamboo shoots, and mushrooms wove together into a fragrance that could stop traffic. Both of them swallowed at the same time.

"Dalang, what kind of noodles are these?"

"Blanket noodles."

"Ooh! Gege can make noodle-noodles for Momo..."

"If you like them, I'll make them whenever you want."

Meanwhile, Madam Zheng had already lifted a wide sheet dripping with broth.

One bite — first the savory depth of smoked pork and bamboo shoot, then the wild, earthy perfume of forest mushrooms blooming between her teeth.

A few chews in, she found the sheet itself — tender yet springy, slick but chewy.

After that single mouthful, Madam Zheng fell silent.

She stared blankly into her bowl and began to question the thirty-three years of cooking she'd done in her life.

The little girl was small, her hands were small, and she struggled with chopsticks. She was also afraid of the heat.

She blew on it for ages before daring a tiny, cautious nibble.

One bite — and those round dark eyes went perfectly wide.

She tilted her head, as though she couldn't believe it.

Another bite. Her eyes went wider still.

"Gege!!"

"The noodle-noodles are sooo yummy! Momo wants noodle-noodles every single day!"

"They really are good..." Madam Zheng came back to herself with a quiet sigh. "I doubt even the restaurants in the inner city could make noodles like this."

"Gege, we should open a restaurant!"

The little girl brandished her chopsticks, eyes sparkling. "Then Mama wouldn't have to work so hard washing clothes for other people!"

"Hm... that's not a bad idea, actually."

A single pot of blanket noodles turned the thatched hut into a scene as warm and lively as New Year's.

Though if there was someone who wasn't happy about all this...

Indeed there was.

In the dead woods.

A plump rat with faint golden markings on its body and a tail of solid gold clawed its way out of the earth. With practiced ease, it scurried up the trunk of the old dead tree.

But when it poked its head into the tree hollow and peered inside, the entire rat froze.

The thatch that had covered the opening dangled in limp, disheveled scraps — two or three strands at most.

Inside, the food hoard it had spent an entire autumn amassing was gone. Down to the last crumb.

The little rat instinctively scraped at the inside of the hollow with both forepaws.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

Empty. Truly empty!

Its stash had been stolen!

"SQUEEEEEE!!!"

A heartbeat later, a shriek of pure anguish exploded from the depths of the dead forest.