From the west

Mingyao stood beneath the weathered eaves of the building, her gaze fixed on the aged plaque above the entrance.

Yi fan zhi en

She compared the characters to the inked parchment in her hand, then folded the note 

"This is it," she murmured, slipping the paper into her sleeve. Her gaze lingered on the plaque a moment longer, as though weighing the weight of the phrase etched into it.

She stepped into the restaurant — if it could still be called that. The scent of dust and old oil hung faintly in the air. Sunlight leaked through the slats of the wooden blinds, casting shadows on the empty tables. No chatter. No laughter. Just silence and empty seats — a business clearly limping on its last leg.

Zi Bi and Bai Ling followed closely behind, their footsteps soft against the wooden floorboards. Mingyao's eyes flicked briefly toward the empty space beside her.

Mo Yan.

Her absence gnawed at her like a loose thread unraveling the hem of a robe.

"She's angry. I suppose she has every right to be." Mingyao's voice was low, meant for herself more than the others. She exhaled, a soft sigh barely audible over the creak of the floor. "Let her have space... she always comes back around."

From the shadows of the back room, a figure emerged — the restaurant's owner, a wiry man with weathered skin and eyes that darted between hope and embarrassment. He moved quickly, his robe slightly wrinkled, a damp towel slung over one arm like a badge of burden.

"Right this way, Lady Shen," he said, offering a bow with a nervous smile that stretched too thin.

He led them to a table near the center, one that offered a full view of the room—likely intentional. A businesswoman would want to see everything, after all.

Mingyao sat gracefully, folding her hands in her lap. Her sharp eyes took in the layout: fifteen tables, most able to seat between four to six guests. A decent mid-size establishment. She did some quick mental math—if filled, eighty patrons at twenty copper each. That's two taels in revenue... maybe 1.2 in profit after costs.

Not bad for a commoner. But was this truly an investment worth her time?

She let her thoughts simmer, deciding instead to let the food speak.

If it impressed her, she would fund its rise. If not… well, sentiment was no basis for business.

Her mind drifted.

Her younger sister's marriage had become a quiet storm beneath the surface of court life, and Mingyao had no power to calm it. Not anymore. Not without her title as crown prince. Not without her grandmaster's abilities. Not without allies.

With no influence at court, she had little recourse. The Hidden Lotus Pavilion was her domain, but without the cultivation of a grandmaster, her position was fragile—like silk in the wind: beautiful, yet easily torn.

Her fingers tightened on the edge of the table.

What she needed was leverage—royal leverage.

The only person who might offer salvation was the Grand Princess.

If she could secure an audience during the upcoming celebrations, a path might open. But an invitation to the palace remained out of reach. Mo Yan might be the key—if she returned.

A plan was already taking root, winding itself into her thoughts like ivy. If she played her cards right, she could reclaim her rightful place as heir... regardless of the form she now wore.

But for now—

The door creaked again.

The atmosphere shifted like a ripple on still water. Three figures entered—a woman, a man, and a child, all clad in simple, dust-colored robes. Monks. Their presence didn't cause alarm, but here, in Xianyang's glittering capital, it was... out of place.

Mingyao's spine straightened. There was something more.

It wasn't just their clothing. It was the air around them—subtle, but tangible. A breath of stillness, heavy and ancient, that seemed to press inward on her chest. A presence. A weight.

"It feels… like my master." Her pulse quickened. "Or… similar. But..."

She glanced toward Bai Ling and Zi Bi.

Nothing.

Bai Ling simply adjusted her sash. Zi Bi's eyes followed the monks briefly, then returned to scanning the room. They felt nothing?

Am I imagining this? she wondered, eyes narrowing on the trio as they took a seat across from her, the child sitting with eerie stillness between the two adults.

"What do you think of Lady Gao?" Mingyao asked suddenly, forcing her mind back to safer matters.

"She's a noble through and through, my lady," Bai Ling said with a shrug, her voice full of disdain. "Proud. Vain. Always flashing her status and power like jewels on a lantern."

Mingyao chuckled lightly. "Tell me how you really feel."

Bai Ling flushed. "Forgive me, my lady. I spoke too freely."

"It's fine." Mingyao turned to Zi Bi. "What about you?"

Zi Bi cleared her throat. "I agree with Bai Ling... Pav—my lady." She caught herself, eyes darting toward Mingyao's face for approval.

She smiled faintly. "So then, should I accept her invitation?"

Zi Bi hesitated. "You don't have many allies in court. A noblewoman with her rank, in your corner… it may not be a bad idea."

"Hmm…" Mingyao's gaze drifted. "A sharp blade can be wielded, or it can wound."

Before more could be said, the aroma hit them.

A slow, sweet perfume of star anise and aged vinegar, of something roasted until its skin had crisped and blistered under flame, balanced by the gentle earthiness of herbs simmered long in broth. It slipped between the drifting thoughts in Mingyao's head and drew her gaze forward, sharpening her senses like the tension before a decisive blade stroke.

The owner, hands shaking slightly, presented the tray with a humble bow. "Forgive the simplicity, Lady Shen. These are dishes from our family table—what my mother used to serve during the spring festival, when we still had reason to celebrate."

He placed each dish gently in front of her.

First came a pale, steaming bowl, its surface clear and still.

"Quiet River Broth," he said.

A simple name, but the fragrance spoke of something else entirely. Inside floated hand-pressed tofu, slivers of wild mountain greens, and—if she wasn't mistaken—delicate petals of white chrysanthemum, barely steeped. The broth itself shimmered faintly with light oil, drawn not from meat, but something finer. Mingyao brought it to her lips, tasting the faint sweetness of snow-melt and a breath of something floral. Cool clarity spread through her chest as if someone had rung a bell inside her sternum.

She blinked. For a moment, her thoughts quieted.

Next came the centerpiece. The Golden Stove Duck.

It was modest in size, perhaps half a duck, but its skin glistened deep amber, lacquered in a dark soy glaze that whispered of secrets. He placed it on a wooden pedestal, steam curling from beneath. As he cut a slice for her, she noticed the aroma: vinegar sharpened with apricot, not sharp but mellowed by time, and the faint whiff of lychee smoke. The meat pulled apart with ease—no tearing, no knife needed. It melted on her tongue, and a note of something fermented and sweet bloomed gently at the back of her palate.

Not luxurious, no—but crafted. Layered. Deep.

Across the room, one of the monks raised their head slightly, as if catching the scent too. The child beside them smiled.

Then came the final dish.

Small round rice cakes, pressed into the shape of frost-touched plum blossoms. Their surface was lightly dusted with osmanthus sugar, their centers filled with chilled honey and a syrup that clung like amber.

"Frost Blossom Cakes," the owner said softly, "best eaten after warmth, when the breath slows."

Mingyao picked one up. It was cool to the touch, its fragrance subtle. The sweetness was not immediate. Instead, it crept up—first mellow, then sharp with a burst of plum, and finally mellow again, as if it had never left her tongue.

She sat in silence for a moment, unsure of when she'd stopped thinking about court politics, about her sister, about Mo Yan.

Even the monks had gone still, their bowls untouched. The woman among them glanced briefly toward Mingyao, then gave a slow nod, as though she, too, acknowledged the weight of the moment.

Mingyao leaned back slightly in her chair, eyes half-lidded. Her fingers tapped the edge of the table thoughtfully. Finally, she turned to the owner, who stood anxiously, eyes cast down.

"This broth," she began. "Your family's?"

"Yes, Lady Shen. My grandmother used to say it helps you think clearer when your heart is clouded."

"And the duck?"

"Passed down from my great-grandfather. He once made it for a tax official during a drought. That's how we kept our land, back then."

She nodded once, then again, slower.

"I see," she said, then took one last bite of the plum cake, letting it linger on her tongue.

She looked to Bai Ling and Zi Bi, who had also eaten, and even Bai Ling—so rarely impressed—wore a softened expression.

"I think," Mingyao said, "I might have found something worth investing in after all."

Her eyes shifted toward the monks. The woman among them smiled, ever so faintly.

Yes, she thought. This was the kind of meal you didn't forget. The kind that reminded a person they were still alive.

There was something sacred about a good meal.

As Mingyao set her chopsticks down on the table, the lingering flavors still danced on her tongue—ginger's warmth, the smoky kiss of the duck, the soft bloom of star anise on her breath. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat.

This... this was why she loved food.

Each dish told a story. A story of fire, patience, struggle. A secret woven by calloused hands and heat and love. And her tongue—trained not only for diplomacy and venom—knew how to unearth those stories, to taste pain, passion, hope.

And in times like these… that was more valuable than gold.

She dabbed the corner of her lips with a silk napkin, exhaling slowly.

This place… she thought, eyes drifting toward the kitchen. It may yet be worth the gamble.

But before she could let the thought settle, footsteps approached — light but deliberate.

A subtle shift in air, like the world inhaling.

It was the female monk. Her robe swayed gently with each step, sandals brushing wood in soft rhythm. Her face held no aggression — only calm, the kind that came from someone who had long made peace with their existence.

Mingyao glanced at their table. As expected of monastics, it was humble—greens, roots, pale broths, nothing indulgent. Yet all three of them, child included, had cast more than a few glances toward her spread of duck and cakes. Mingyao stiffened slightly, half-expecting a rebuke—a silent judgment on her choice to indulge in flesh.

Bai Ling's hand hovered near her sash, ready to draw the small dagger she kept hidden. Zi Bi tensed subtly, shifting her weight ever so slightly toward Mingyao's flank, eyes narrowed.

Mingyao raised a hand, palm open."No need for that," she said softly, but with command. "Stand down."

The monk stopped just shy of the table, bowing her head respectfully."Excuse me, Miss. Would you be so kind… to spare our teacher a moment of your time?

Mingyao's brow furrowed."Your teacher?" she echoed.

Her eyes drifted instinctively toward the elder man at the other table — but he sat quietly, sipping tea, his aura placid. Then her gaze slid downward.

The child.

Her gaze lingered on the child—the same stillness, the same presence she'd felt earlier. He sat in silence, yet her eyes felt drawn to him like water to gravity.

"What does your teacher want with me?" Mingyao asked, her voice sharper than she intended. The surprise was still settling in her bones.

But before the female monk could respond, Mingyao jumped back, as if startled by something.

The world shifted immediately.

Before she could speak again, the air changed.

It was subtle—like a shift in pressure, a breath caught between inhale and exhale, a moment stretched too long.

Then came the silence.

Real silence.

Not just the absence of sound, but the absence of time.

Mingyao blinked.

Zi Bi—motionless.

Bai Ling—frozen mid-turn, eyes locked in sharp focus.

Even the monk before her had gone still, lips parted as if caught in the middle of a word.

Outside, through the window, a bird hung suspended in midair, wings mid-beat.

The world had stopped.

A shadow fell across her.

She turned her head—slowly. Behind the monks' table now stood a figure.

A towering shape cloaked in lightless void, and yet radiant. A contradiction wrapped in reverence. His form was not man, not spirit, not entirely real. It shimmered like heat haze on sacred ground. And when he spoke

"Did you see it?"

The voice was deep, like stone breaking under pressure—yet touched with softness, like wind through temple bells. It echoed inside her ribs.

Mingyao's mouth parted, but no sound came. Her throat had locked.

The figure's shape began to fold inward, collapsing gently like mist into form—until only the child sat there again, hands folded neatly in his lap.

Her heart thundered. She hadn't imagined it.

The presence—the weight she'd felt—it hadn't been paranoia.

This child… wasn't a child.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

The boy raised his gaze to meet hers. Eyes far too old. Eyes that had seen the beginning of things and grown weary with the watching.

"I search," the voice said softly, and yet the room vibrated with the sound, "for the origin — for what is, and what was to be. And now, through the tides of millennia… I have returned home."

Mingyao blinked hard, trying to comprehend, to anchor herself.

"Great," she muttered under her breath. "Another cryptic sage…"

Because of course it was never simple.

"I don't understand," she said, arms folding across her chest.

"You need not," the child said — and his lips hadn't moved. "For you carry a destiny not of your choosing. One that returns all to nothingness."

Mingyao swallowed. "Nothingness…?"

"I am merely here to be reborn."

She stared. The words didn't just sound heavy — they weighed down her thoughts."I… I don't understand what you want from me."

"To see."

"To see what?"

"To see beyond illusion," the voice said. The air shimmered, as if the very fabric of reality was pulsing with breath. "Form is emptiness. Emptiness is form. Perfect your wisdom as you face your trials. Perfect your mind as you contemplate your truth."

Mingyao felt lightheaded. The words weren't spoken — they were etched into her bones.

"All dharmas are without characteristics," the voice continued, serene and unwavering. "Not born, not destroyed. Not pure, not impure. Not increasing. Not decreasing."

Then came silence.

"Thus," the voice said finally, "in emptiness, no form. No feeling. No perception. No volition. No consciousness. Therefore, perfect your wisdom in this world of illusions — and through clarity, awaken."

The world snapped back.

And then—

He was gone.

So were the monks.

So was the silence.

Sound crashed back in like thunder. A clatter of chopsticks. A laugh from outside. A breeze through the open door. Everything resumed as if it had never paused.

Bai Ling looked puzzled. Zi Bi rubbed at her temple.

"My lady?" Bai Ling asked. "You… alright?"

But Mingyao didn't answer. She stared at the space where the child had been, her thoughts reeling.

On the table before her was a single slip of parchment, blank except for a faint impression—inkless, as if pressed by presence alone.

She lifted it carefully. There were no words on it…

And yet, in her mind, the echoes remained.

Form is emptiness. Emptiness, form.

Mingyao exhaled, long and slow.

She didn't understand—but it didn't matter. For now, she had more important things to deal with.

"Zi Bi, call the old man. We can discuss the investment plan now."