Hong woke up feeling refreshed. The rainstorm had come to an end early that morning, having vented its fury all through the night. With the first rays of the sun came the birds and the bugs, and he woke to the sound of birdsong outside his window, accompanied by the buzzing of bees.

Hong rose out of bed, his movements showing not the slightest twinge of exhaustion or sleepiness, and then began his morning ritual.

He said his morning prayers, his intonation rising and falling as he thanked the Great Dipper for watching over his sleep and the sun and moon for letting him follow in their course. It was a sweet song, and something of a lively one, with Hong slapping his knee to the beat. For once, emotion could be seen to twitch on his face and enter his voice.

This done, he went to get dressed. He threw off his sleeping robe in a single move, then gave his normal robe a loving kiss before swinging it on, his movements a slight dance the entire time.

He shimmied his way to the bathroom and did his business. This was one of the most important rites of the day - his master had informed him that there were these horrible demons called “realists” that would savage you if you weren't doing real things, like pooping. That done he made sure to take care of other tragically underrepresented bodily functions, like breathing.

Then he brushed his teeth to make sure they stayed white and shiny. He hummed a small song under his breath as he did so, both to keep time and because he made sure to start every day with music.

Once he was dressed, teeth brushed, and hair combed, he put on his wangjin cap, grabbed his toolkit, and sauntered downstairs for breakfast.

The innkeeper watched as his guest came down the stairs. He was never quite sure what to think of the young repairman. His eyes were dead, his dress ancient, his voice and expression monotonous. Yet it was clear from a tension in his body and a spring in his step that he had some sort of inner life of his own, if not an especially exciting one.

The youth greeted him, polite as always, and ordered one singular egg, hardboiled, no salt. Then he sat down at a table and stared blankly ahead until the innkeeper brought him his food. This meagre repast was basically inhaled, and Hong tossed the innkeeper a grateful salute as he went to work.

He went to work, but he did not reach it, for he was stopped just outside the door. A shadow fell across him, the obstacle standing a respectful, but still noticeable, eight feet distant.

The obstruction in his path was clearly a cultivator, and of the orthodox path. He was too handsome to be anything else - his skin pure and unblemished, his features soft and narrow, his piercing blue eyes gazing out from a blond head of hair. Though he was a little broad around the shoulders, his stature just a touch too wide for the ideal cultivator, the difference between him and Hong was as night and day.

He adjusted a rain cloak of muddied brown, its furry edges betraying its origins, and offered a bow to Hong.

Hong returned the bow. He was internally groaning at the delay, but he saw no need to be rude when the obstacle was being polite.

“How may I help you?” He asked, his voice assuming its usual monotone.

“Are you Hong Yu, disciple of the Noodle Shop Repair Sect?” The mysterious cultivator asked in a deep, echoing baritone.

Hong nodded. “That I am.”

“Two months ago, did you or did you not assault Feibang Zhe of Jarnvidr Eastern Branch, and affirm to his face that you thought his sect’s behaviour was unbecoming?”

Of course it was something stupid. It always was, when it kept him from his beloved noodle shops.

“No,” said Hong, “two months back I kept Feibang Zhe of Jarnvidr Eastern Branch from damaging a noodle shop, and informed him that I thought his behaviour unbecoming of his sect. I can see how the message might have been muddled in translation, though.”

The last line was purely diplomatic; there was no way for Feibang Zhe to have messed up Hong’s statement so badly by mistake, and Hong swore to himself that the next time he caught the man destroying a noodle shop it would be more than just his arm that was broken.

The cultivator nodded, stroking a meticulously kept beard. His expression was impassive, with only his eyes betraying his fury - at who, Hong knew not. “Indeed, I figured your conduct was less dishonourable than he had said.”

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Hong sighed in satisfaction. Silly fight, successfully avoided.

The blond cultivator was not, however, finished. “Nonetheless, I cannot allow you to slight our sect, even if by implication; hence, I have come all this way to challenge you to a duel.”

He motioned away from the pair, towards the fields outside of town. “I hope you will not deny me this duel of honour. I would have confronted you last night, but I wanted to avoid risking harm to the inn or its occupants if you proved to be a man with a temper. Now I know I judged you injuriously, but to avoid harming anyone in town, I ask that you humour me and allow us to fight outside it.”

Hong blinked. Finally, a reasonable cultivator. Frankly, he saw no real need to fight a duel of honour over a patent imbecile who had gotten his arm broken by refusing to move his fight a mere few hundred feet away. (Seriously, why didn’t all cultivators just go to a mountain range and skewer each other there? Why bring the innocent noodle shops into it?) Still, good sense was rare enough of cultivators that its sight was always deserving of gratitude, and for this he would happily oblige him.

The two men went to the fields outside of town, and prepared for the fight. The cultivator dropped his raincoat, revealing a long tunic tied over wrapped leggings; Hong put down his toolkit.

They faced each other across the field. The Author’s pen twitched involuntarily as it stood poised over his paper, its owner visibly excited. At last, a good solid fight. Oh, how he’d been waiting for this, and was beyond delighted to bring his readers some brilliant action.

The butterflies fluttered innocently through the field of flowers, heedless of the destruction that would soon shatter their paradise, as the two men faced each other.

“May I have the pleasure of knowing who I fight against?” Hong asked, arms tucked in his sleeves, face expressionless. The cultivator bowed.

“You may. I am the Young Master of Jarnvidr Eastern Branch, Mu Ba, known by the courtesy name Lalala.”

“I see you are familiar with the esoteric masterworks of Sandra Boynton. It does me honour to know my foe is such a knowledgeable cultivator. Now then, let us fight.”

You see, however honoured Hong was to fight such a knowledgeable cultivator, and however happy he was to accommodate the (tragically far too) rare polite cultivator, there remained one indisputable fact: this was a colossal waste of time that could be better spent repairing noodle shops.

Consequently he had not the slightest interest in letting the fight drag out.

The Author bounced on his pseudopods. He quite agreed with Hong about the pointlessness of small talk (especially when there was an epic fight to be fought), and was disappointed to see Mu looking greatly confused.

“‘Let’s fight’? But we haven’t even said smack talk to each other yet.”

Hong froze, thinking desperately for a moment, and then smacked himself.

Hong had nearly forgotten the most important part of a cultivator fight - more important by far than the fight itself, given how much space it occupied in the average xianxia novel.

Delivering smack talk was, he knew, a crucial component of any conflict between cultivators, though unfortunately it had been far too long since Hong had done any smack talking and he couldn’t quite remember what one was supposed to do.

He racked his mind for a moment, and decided to just try everything and see what worked.

“Ah yes, I remember now. Do excuse me.” And then he cleared his throat.

Then he began to audibly smack his lips.

“My,” he said after a moment, as Mu stood there in complete confusion, “to think we’d do this smack in the middle of the morning.”

Mu stared at him. Hong continued, doggedly determined to smack talk his foe successfully.

“And doesn’t this just smack of old times? Yessiree, just like my egg this morning smacked of… egg,” and he smacked his hands together. His expression was unreadable.

“No, that’s the wrong kind of smacking. It’s like a smack to the face - you seek to degrade your opponent, with chants or poems,” Mu added helpfully.

“Ohhh, I understand now. Degrading your opponents with poems, got it.” Hong gave Mu a thumbs up, then cleared his throat.

“All of life is lies and dreams,

Mere flickers in the mists.

Its end is but to rot and ruin,

Forming soft patterns in the mould.

When you and I are gone, what will remain?

Only the records of a noble heart.”

“You know what? Forget the smack talk; we can proceed straight to the fight,” Mu said, giving up. The Author inaudibly cheered.

The two began to circle each other warily, their feet ruffling about the immature sunflowers as they searched for an opening. Their bodies crackled with imperceptible power, qi flickering off their forms.

At last Mu saw a gap in his opponent, and lunged, broadsword outstretched.

Faster than the eye could see Hong ducked, and as Mu extended his hands - leaving his face unguarded - Hong brought his own fist up in a blow to the jaw.

Mu staggered backwards two feet, then fell over, completely unconscious.

Not one of the butterflies was even inconvenienced.