Hong Yu and Gan Mao confronted each other upon the fields of the former castle.

The combatants were fortunate, for an ideal battlefield was close at hand - the ruins of the castle themselves, which had been all but entirely levelled by the cultivators earlier. The pair arrayed themselves on the far ends of the charred fortress base, their forms quivering with nervous tension. Both combatants held their swords at the ready.

The rest of the cultivators (both demonic and otherwise) were also ready - they’d made their buttery popcorn, procured the requisite comfy cushions, and were sitting, not on the edge of their seats, but on the very middle (where it was cosiest). They cheered the combatants on as the two fighters assumed their places, hooting and hollering for their preferred victor.

The last sliver of moonlight had ceased to shine down from the sky above, and no clouds were there to be seen. There was neither wind nor rain, nor even the slightest hint of a gentle breeze or light mist. The fog from earlier was gone, and the night had grown cool. Had there not been the ever friendly stars twinkling down, they would have been alone under a vault of black, with only their qi to light the way.

Gan Mao spread his arms in triumphant exaltation, pacing lethargically towards Hong. “You'll have to excuse my avoiding the conventional titch of braggadocio - though I'm a demonic cultivator, and we have nothing if we have not our pride, I fail to see the point in wasting good words on the likes of you.”

Hong made no reply. Mu had told him his smack talk was terrible, and to never do it again.

Seeing that Hong was maintaining his silence, Gan Mao decided that further insults were unnecessary, and instead began to channel his qi. His body bubbled and writhed as it transmogrified from its normal (if unusually muscular) demonic form to a terrifying visage.

It was halfway between a temple and the gullet of a monster: set in the midst of his chest was a massive maw, with arched fangs curving down and down, far longer than was strictly natural. Strings of spittle dripped off the fangs’ tips, hissing as they hit the floor. The edges of the great mouth were black and charred, their design a little like lips, a little like Doric columns. This blasphemous mix between a beast and a building continued throughout the rest of the body, lengths of daemoniac light running through stone flesh, and manifesting in a hideous coterie of claws and fangs and even a pair of barbed bat’s wings.

Gan Mao’s red eyes fixed on Hong, the layers of fire within them blooming and spreading in a foul but undeniably floral formation, and he subtly intoned the name of his technique:

“Temple of the Atramentous Lady of Babylon.”

One of Hong’s eyebrows raised, and he offered a small bow of his head. “So you really were part of the old school of demonic cultivators - which means I need to give you a formal apology, for I severely underestimated you. I have not seen a technique like this for some five centuries or more, ever since the Confucian Revolt, when evil was last at its strongest.”

Gan smiled. It was a hideous sight to behold - fire burned behind his teeth, the teeth themselves gleaming with an unworldly and albescent light. “Indeed. I am glad to see that you recognise our glory, even if it is only on the hour of your death.”

A soft yellow light crackled about Hong, the air smelling vaguely of warm noodles. His robes fluttered about his feet as he strode forwards to meet Gan. “Then I’ll grant you the honour of my full consideration, from the very start of our combat.”

One moment, the two were slowly and lethargically approaching each other; the next, there was a blur, and a great bang, and they met in the midst of the former fortress with an almighty clash. Hong’s yellow sword came down on top of Gan’s blackened and purplish blade with a clatter and a roar, and Gan sank an entire foot into the earth as he blocked the blade.

Then Gan pushed forwards, a rush of daemoniac energy rising from his body with him, and it was Hong’s turn to flee, flying into the air as the area immediately about Gan Mao was pulverised. The ground, the stone, even the dust - all of it, annihilated, decomposing and pouring into the gullet of his chest.

Gan cackled as he rose into the air after Hong, beginning a chase through the sky. “Surprised? My ‘Temple of the Atramentous Lady of Babylon’ was designed especially for situations like this - it not only rots your body, but corrupts, and consumes, your very soul.”

“Protect the Noodle Shop Door,” Hong murmured, and a door of golden light formed about the edges of his pinwheeling blade. Gan’s technique crashed against the door, the two techniques extinguishing each other with a bang.

Gan Mao was unimpressed, however; instead, the demonic master of the Flaming Bloody Organs Sect gave a mighty roar as the furnaces of black light within him pounded ever harder, the purplish qi about him taking the form of coiling dragons, writhing about his arms and swimming through the air towards Hong.

There was a burst of thunder from out of Hong’s blade, dispelling the dragons, but in that crucial moment they had managed to blind him, and as the clouds of demonic qi dispersed the transmogrified demonic cultivator managed to surprise him.

Gan Mao’s palm slammed into Hong, who danced backwards, spitting blood. The latter assumed Basic Noodle Shop Fighting Arts Stance B, but to his consternation Gan Mao merely laughed.

"It's over, Hong. You failed to evade my Secret Roundup Spiritual Root Technique, which poisons your spiritual root. Your cultivation will be destroyed; and you will die by my hand."

Hong flipped him a qi-enhanced finger. "Jokes on you; I don't have one."

Gan Mao stared at the auric insult in shock. "But… but how? No one can cultivate without a spiritual root."

Hong made no reply, but his eyes turned misty as he reminisced.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

***

Hong meditated on his mat, trying and failing to feel the qi within him. His master watched him impassively. Hong sighed. It had been months since he had met his master outside Ma Ko’s noodle shop, and been taken on as his apprentice, and ever since he had been seeking to become a cultivator - seeking in vain.

"Master, I've followed your instructions and mastered your techniques. Many moons have I sat here, and there, and everywhere, and yet I've yet to feel the qi within me. Why is this?"

"Well, probably because you have a crippled spiritual root, dingus."

Hong had kept his eyes closed and his form perfect as he'd uttered his question, but at this revelation from his master his eyes flew open and he leaned forwards.

“A crippled spiritual root? Then surely it must follow that I was incapable of cultivating in the first place?”

“Logically speaking, yes.”

“So… Why even take me on as an apprentice, master?” Hong asked in confusion. “Surely, it would have been an entirely irrational decision to bring on an apprentice who can’t cultivate.”

“When did I say you can’t cultivate?” The Noodle Shop Repair Demon asked, tone caustic. The demon was hovering in the air, lazily using his qi to slurp from a cup of steaming hot noodles floating in the air without moving his arms.

“Well, you…”

“I said you have no spiritual roots, and hence can’t feel the qi within you; but it’s quite a different statement to thereby deduce that never can you cultivate. I can assure you, apprentice, I would never have taken you on had I thought you the type of person to give in and abandon his ideals because he didn’t have the right mystic shrubbery.”

The young Hong tried desperately to think of a way to phrase his objection diplomatically. “But, master - and I say this with respect - if I happen to lack that mystic shrubbery, then how, pray tell, am I expected to engage in cultivation?”

The Noodle Shop Repair Demon slammed his hands down on Hong’s shoulders, leaning in so close to him that Hong could no longer discern the candles floating where his eyes should be.

“Say, Hong Yu - do you like noodle shops?”

“…Yes.”

“Do you love noodle shops?”

“…Yes.”

“Were you lying to me when you said that you would dedicate your heart, and your soul, and your mind to the humble noodle shop - the home and heart of the world?

“…No.”

“Then, if you were sincere in your dedication, why are you allowing a mere esoteric plant to stand in your way? Why have you not forged on, no matter the obstacle; forded the rapids, climbed the mountains, tunnelled through the depths, candle in hand?”

“That… Master… That would be because of the reality of-”

“Only a coward lets ‘reality’ stand in the way of his will,” the Noodle Shop Repair Demon said, one sinuous, rubbery arm continuing to shake Hong by the shoulder. “All you need is the Will, the Will to Power - the dedication and drive to carry on, no matter the odds.”

“Uh… huh…” Hong hadn't the slightest clue what to say in reply to this… motivational spiele… but he supposed he had no reason not to at least attempt to follow its advice. He settled into his pretzel form once more, shrugged off Azcabellon’s arm, and resumed his meditations. Slowly his breathing quieted, going from short, staccato breaths to the gentle rustling of the wind.

“That's right…” the Noodle Shop Repair Demon said, making helpful gestures with his hands (if ones Hong wouldn't see). “Feel the rhythms of creation… strive, strive for the music.”

There was a prolonged moment of silence, the pause after the striking of a bell, and then the bell was dinged again - with a bang as of a bronze bell and a flash of light, Hong became a cultivator.

He sat there for a little while, stunned beyond speech, and then with a loud whoop began to leap and dance.

The Noodle Shop Repair Demon chuckled, leaving his disciple to his celebrations as he retreated back into his cabin. He stretched, and pulled out a copy of the Basic Writings of Nietzsche. "Well what do you know? Zhuangzi was right - even the most useless trash still has some function."

***

“It doesn’t matter,” Hong said after a long moment, the two combatants still hanging in the air. “The information would be of no benefit to you; though if you must know, it’s merely that the song comes of nothing.”

“The song comes…” Gan started, and stopped. His face was unreadable under the weight of the technique consuming it, but if it could have had any definite expressions, it would have shown only confusion.

“The song comes of nothing - the Dao is silent; the song it sings emerges from its own quiet. That I have nothing, then, does not mean I cannot sing,” Hong replied merrily, his tone rising slightly above its usual laconic bent.

“Bah, poppycock - spare me the poetry,” Gan cursed, and the hellish light about him grew even stronger as his dantians spun at supersonic speeds. The temple of his body began to mutate in strange and fantastical shapes, impossible geometries writhing from within its depths, its surface burning with formless fire.

There was a horrible rending sound as the technique turned back upon itself, and the furnaces began to melt, burning the cages in which Gan’s daemoniac fires were contained. In spite of the fact that the sensation must have been agonising, Gan’s face showed only a mad grin.

“Temple of the Atramentous Lady of Babylon, Final Form - Rend the Soul.”

The temple without a form vanished, its remnants oscillating wildly between a chaotic mess and a void of pure chaos, ever unsure if it was a building or not; in its place, beyond the bounds of what was and what may be, was an ever expanding sphere of darkness. Hong couldn’t tell if the sphere was ensconcing Gan Mao, or if Gan Mao had somehow become the sphere; but it didn’t matter, since it was the sphere which was now diving towards him.

Hong parried it with a form from the Mystic Lima Bean Sacred Dance, propelling himself in the other direction. The sphere shot away from him, then returned - not by turning about, but rather by twisting and warping space until it was once more beside Hong.

Hong’s blade clanged off the sphere, sparks of qi in purple and yellow flying about, and Hong felt himself being pushed back. He grimaced.

“Well then; if it has come to this, then let me use my own final technique, and we’ll see if we can’t end this in a single exchange.” And with that, the scent of noodles grew ever stronger, as well as the smells of a dozen other ingredients - beef, chicken, rice; all sorts of herbs and spices; and even, somehow, tofu. Strange streaks of other colours flickered through his yellow qi, until it was a veritable stew that confronted Gan Mao.

Hong grinned - not a mad grin, not a crazy grin, not even a triumphant grin, but a sad, melancholic smile- and used the technique that the great leprechaun of the wok, Xufu O’Paddyhaddy, had taught to him.

“Basic Cooking Technique, First Form - Dice the Veggies.”

The lights of a dozen colours commingled within the golden light, centring itself around Hong’s sword. He brought the blade up and, faster than the eye could see, brought it down with a speed that was inhuman even for cultivators.

The chaos and void of the sphere embraced the blade, only Hong’s noodly light standing firm against the darkness. There was a moment of madness, in which the world hung upside down, and then a silent implosion.

All the lights went out.