Chapter 23: The Resentment in the Lumpy Soup

Page (1/3)

“When I left the capital, the Empress was already gravely ill. I heard she may not make it this time,” Li Mi whispered, glancing around to ensure there were no eavesdroppers.

“That old witch should have died long ago!” Wang Botang took a swig of wine, grumbling in outrage. He had devoted his youth to mastering both the civil and martial arts, hoping to serve the imperial family. After years of diligent training, he finally attained the title of top martial scholar, only to catch the attention of Empress Dugu. His newfound wealth and glory vanished in an instant. Wang Botang’s hatred for the Empress ran deep; hearing of her illness, he couldn’t help but blurt it out.

“Watch your tongue! If someone hears you say that, it’s not just your head—they’ll wipe out your whole family. You think this is a joke?” Li Mi slapped the back of Wang Botang’s head. Qin Qiong stared in shock; he hadn’t expected their outspoken friend to say such a thing so freely.

If anyone overheard, it would not only cost them their lives but their entire clans. This was a woman so powerful that even Emperor Wen of Sui, Yang Jian, dared not depose her on a whim—the forces behind her were simply unimaginable. In her day, Dugu Xin had been one of the Eight Pillars, a head of the mighty military aristocracy of Guanzhong and Longxi. Even Li Yuan’s mother came from the Dugu family.

“Don’t worry! Here at Two Worthies Manor, though it can’t compare to the impenetrable walls of the imperial palace in Chang’an, it’s not a place where idle gossip leaks out. Brother Li, you can rest easy!” Shan Xiongxin slapped his hairy chest, declaring loudly.

Realizing his slip, Wang Botang buried his head in his wine and kept silent. The four of them had been through life and death together—otherwise, Wang Botang would have only two choices left, and since murder was too risky, fleeing would be the sensible option. As an official, Qin Qiong had nothing to say and simply sat by in silence. The atmosphere grew icy in an instant.

Yun Hao glanced at the three men before him. They were clearly spruced up for the occasion, each wearing a new robe, their faces spotless, and even their usually tangled hair had been carefully tended. The three long-haired brothers made quite the motley crew. What surprised Yun Hao most was that Laishun carried a box of pastries, and Qi Biao held a fish—whether they bought or swindled them was anyone’s guess.

“Brother Yun, we heard you were ill, so we came to see you!” Hou Junji cupped his hands in greeting, trying to look like the leader of the gang, though it came off somewhat comically.

Yun Hao wondered how they’d found out he was at Two Worthies Manor, and how they knew he was sick. Still, the fact that they brought gifts, dressed up, and came to visit meant the gesture should be appreciated.

He took the three to see Madam Zhao. Without a word, the trio knelt and kowtowed, addressing her as “Aunt” with heartfelt affection. Their manner was so familiar that Yun Hao found himself wracking his brains, trying to recall if he really had such relatives.

Madam Zhao was overjoyed that her son had befriended so many people in just a few days since arriving in Luzhou. She gained a new respect for her son’s ability to win friends, repeatedly praising the boys as she pulled one closer to inspect, then another. The trio played along, grinning and acting like model children.

“Wait here, Aunt will get you something to eat. You three can play,” Madam Zhao said happily, heading for the kitchen, only to be stopped by Yun Hao.

Page (2/3)

As a mother, Madam Zhao was beyond reproach—a model of virtue. But when it came to her cooking, Yun Hao could not in good conscience praise her. It wasn’t her fault, though; culinary standards of the era were generally poor—everything was either boiled or stewed. Even pigs weren’t properly castrated before raising, so they grew little meat and had a strong, unpleasant odor. No wonder pork was called “cheap meat” in those days. The wealthy avoided it entirely.

“Mother, you’ve worn yourself out taking care of me lately. Please, just rest here. My three friends and I will eat together,” Yun Hao said, signaling to his companions. They quickly stood up, saying it was their first visit to Two Worthies Manor and that they wanted to go out with Yun Hao. The four youths skipped out together.

“Hao, why didn’t you let your mother cook for us? Big Brother said we should wear new clothes and bring pastries and gifts to see you. We spent all the money we got from that scam and we’re starving,” Qi Biao grumbled as they left the courtyard.

“Shut up. I’ll cook for you myself. Not good enough?” Yun Hao shot Qi Biao a sidelong glance. These guys had no idea—his culinary knowledge was thousands of years ahead of theirs. He might not be able to whip up an imperial banquet, but ordinary dishes were no problem. Today, he’d let them sample the wonders of Chinese cooking two millennia in the future.

“Impressive, Hao! You can cook?” Laishun’s eyes went wide as he looked Yun Hao up and down, as if flowers might bloom on his face.

“Eat or get lost!” Yun Hao kicked him, annoyed by his weird stare.

“Eat, eat, eat!” Laishun, unfazed, pulled a wry face. So long as there was food, he would never refuse—even sticky, starchy noodle soup was a treat for him.

Thinking of noodle soup, Yun Hao remembered the simple dough-drop soup of later times. It required few ingredients, little skill, and was easy to prepare—perfect for home or travel, or even dispatching an unwanted husband.

Arriving in the kitchen, he found the cook missing. Yun Hao immediately ordered his three friends to light the fire and fetch wood while he found some white flour and began making dough drops.

Proper dough-drop soup required a delicate touch. Too much water and the dough became a sticky mess; too little and the lumps were too large and wouldn’t cook through. The dough needed to be evenly sized to ensure everything cooked at the same time. Yun Hao remembered watching people make it in his past life and thought it seemed easy—just stir with chopsticks a couple of times. But when it came down to it, things went awry.

He added too much water, then more flour to compensate; then his hand slipped and he added too much flour, so he added more water, and so on. By the time he realized he couldn’t stir any more, he’d already used up half a sack of flour.

His three companions watched eagerly, Laishun grinning with delight. Brother Yun was a true friend—he always made sure they ate their fill. Such a friend was worth having!

Page (3/3)

With no other choice—since the water was already boiling—Yun Hao dumped the massive basin of dough into the pot. He cracked in two eggs and stirred vigorously with a large ladle. The eggs broke up, their whites and yolks streaking through the dough. He tossed in two handfuls of greens; whatever the taste, it looked little better than the sticky noodle broth they were used to.

He stirred for ages, and when the pot threatened to dry out, he added another ladleful of water. When it boiled again, he threw in a hefty spoonful of salt. At last, the soup was done! Looking at the gluey, porridge-like mess in the pot, Yun Hao lost all appetite. He found three enormous bowls and filled each one.

Hou Junji eyed his bowl with uncertainty, Laishun was beaming, and Qi Biao, ignoring the heat, wolfed it down in big mouthfuls. Yun Hao smiled, claiming he’d already eaten.

“Laishun, you didn’t seem to put your heart into that last bowl. Here, have another,” Yun Hao said kindly, scooping out another huge bowl.

“Hao, I’ve had six bowls! I really can’t eat any more.” Laishun, eyes rolling back, looked as though he might faint at the sight of another helping.

“Biao, you seemed out of sorts with your last bowl. Have another!”

“Hao, please, have mercy! I’ve had seven bowls!” Qi Biao pleaded, sprawled out on the floor, panting.

“Hou, you ate your bowl at the wrong time—why don’t you…hey, don’t run! There’s still half a pot left. The cook will kill me if I leave it!”