But where was Hong, you ask? After all, he couldn’t have just disappeared, and “he’s in Stivale,” while technically an answer, was nonetheless too unspecific to suffice in providing more than a general location.

Indeed, the question seemed insuperable, insolvable, insoluble, beyond a- well, you get the point. The Flaming Bloody Organs Sect was in the Great Xuan; Hong, if their information could be believed, was in Stivale, and if their information couldn’t be believed, then he could be anywhere. In between the Great Xuan and Stivale were the suzerain nations of the Western Wastes, then Old Ninweh, Yicileye, Phrygia, Samothrakia, and Eleusium. Nor was the journey an easy one, for most of that terrain was ensconced in mountains, or required a crossing by sea, or needed some other, equally absurd method of traversal.

That Hong would even risk the journey on a work trip spoke volumes of his self-assurance and dedication to the humble art of noodle shop repair; but it would be an altogether more difficult journey for the Flaming Bloody Organs Sect, and one of uncertain utility.

An insuperable, insolvable, insoluble problem… for most of the sect. Fortunately, the sect’s resident mastermind - the one responsible for their greatest victories, their mightiest achievements, their most thoroughgoing successes - was on the case.

Tou Tong had successfully escaped the despicable Editor and Intern through his superior cultivation skills and smarts, but it remained for him to find where Hong and Mu were hiding, and reveal their location to his fellows in the Flaming Bloody Organs Sect. His journey will not be recounted here in these unhallowed pages, as it would betray the secrets of his powerful demonic arts to the readers. Suffice it to say they were beyond anything you mortals might dream of possessing, cryptic in nature, profound in affects, and more than adequate to track down one arrogant and erstwhile noodle shop repairman.

Sure, he had some problems on the journey. The Editor and the Intern had by no means given up their attempt to steal the manuscript back from him, interfering with his writing, hounding his posting to the Interdimensional Broadways, trying everywhere to trap him; and so wily and so clever were they that once they nearly managed to capture the brave demonic cultivator, while pretending to be roast chickens in the town of New Marsyas.

But at last he reached Stivale, tracked down the conference, and found his target.

***

Hong confidently spun his axe around his fingers, facing off against the Stivalian cultivator.

The trip had been going well enough, if you ignored the present catastrophe. Their journey to Stivale had been largely uneventful, the only exception being the night Hong had stayed with his wife. That had been exceedingly eventful, and altogether pleasant, as his wife had finally been able to meet his new apprentice and had treated the pair of weary travellers to a lavish feast.

After taking their leave of her the next morning (a departure Hong languished over, Mu was surprised to note) they proceeded to the qi powered train that would carry them over the Western Wastes and the nations east of Samothrakia. This was a rather special train, one commissioned by an old friend of Hong (and an old acquaintance, though not friend, of Mu) who was more than delighted to see them.

They’d had Little Frannie take them on the Molar Express, bearing her nattering away while shooting across a continent at lightspeed. (Apparently, she’d fought some “super duper dangerous demonic cultivators,” although Hong suspected they’d just been normal bandits.)

At Samothrakia they disembarked, thanked Lil Frankie for her assistance, made sure to compliment her signed Nuppets official merch (“From Cur-Mitts, Your Friendly Frog”), and took their leave… and a ferry.

The conference had been an equally uneventful affair, in a way. Of course it had been most informative - Hong had learnt many new and exciting things about repairing a stone oven, and the various components and practices necessarily involved in such a repair (the amount of structural knowledge needed vis a vis a building to perform stone oven repair was truly impressive).

But nothing altogether strange or unusual had happened, and it was with a profound sense of satisfaction that the conference ended, the attendees promised to remain in touch, meeting again at the next conference in two years’ time, and the pair went their way.

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Of course, the conference was over, but their journey was not yet done. Theoretical knowledge was always and everywhere insufficient for Hong, who would not accept that he knew anything until such time as he had put it into practice. And when it came to stone ovens… well, there was nowhere which had quite as many pizza ovens as in Stivale, and as the old adage says, “when in Stivale, do as the Stivaleans do.”

In this case, doing as the Stivaleans did apparently meant getting into a pointless fight, which was hardly surprising, since that was what one did everywhere which had a populace of cultivators. Admittedly, the fight in Stivale seemed especially pointless - it had started when one cultivator had expressed a preference for thematically and structurally realistic art, in discussion with another cultivator, a rather dreamy fellow whose art was as surreal as he. Still, Hong had known cultivators to kill each other (and each other’s families) for far less.

Which brings us back to the start of our chapter, only now there is a well informed if carefully hidden Tou Tong nearby, recording the fight of Hong and Mu while trying to surreptitiously contact his fellows in the Flaming Bloody Organs Sect.

Hong confidently spun his axe around his fingers, facing off against the Stivalian cultivator.

The latter violently lifted his blade towards the Heavens, holding it parallel to his body, and chanting obscurely in some transmigrator language (Hong thought it was Latin).

Strange colours and shapes manifested around him as he spoke, and Hong took a step back warily, putting his sword into a defensive form and preparing his qi to block whatever technique was afoot. From the earth under the transmigrator there emerged figures of fire and flame, fantastical black flickers of incendiary darkness licking at his feet, echoing to the howls of the damned.

His centre was solid and plain, grey, but not unpleasantly so, like the twilight that heralds the morning sun… a little silvery, a little powdery, a titch unreal, the dolorous and melancholic forms ensconced within it seeming to swim in the predawn gloaming.

And above, lighting up the field the group was fighting in (the cultivators had actually consented to fight outside the restaurant, for which they had Hong’s respect and eternal gratitude), came the warm and effervescent beams of Heaven, powerful chains of pure light redounding down from above with a fiery and enthusiastic chanting. The three - the inferno, the purgatory, and the paradise - blended and joined one to the other, forming a towering mountain, stretching from under the Earth to the heights of Heaven.

It was, Hong had to admit ruefully, a brilliant and impressive technique, if perhaps overwrought. Still, he couldn’t help but be impressed as the powerful cultivator levelled his now luminescent sword at Hong and called out, “Forms of the Great Guide light my way- I cast Dante’s Volcano!”

The resulting blast nearly swept Tou Tong out from off his feet, and all but destroyed his hiding place, necessitating his finding another (that he could do so was a testament to his brilliance - he could see the cat and the intern searching, searching, and keeping an eye on all that was going on - they would find him if he made so much a squeak, he knew, and cursed them all the while).

Hong took the blast head on, his axe raised. The weapon disintegrated under the pressure, as did most of Hong’s clothes, wisps of steam rising from off of his skin. He grit his teeth and channelled the Law of the Master, causing the energy that assailed him to quail and twist and tangle and then, with a puff, disappear. (It also caused some modest clothing to appear on Hong - because propriety was the gate to virtue.)

Undaunted, the cultivator stepped back, swinging his sword down in fendente with the full energy of the tripartite volcano behind him. It was a valiant effort, but pointless, as Hong caught the blade in his bare hands. He bared his teeth in a smile, and then headbutted the cultivator until he stopped moving, lying there blind to the world.

Hong turned to find Mu, and see if he needed aid. He had not been as fortunate as Hong - unlike Hong, who was privileged enough to fight a member of the vaunted Floral Comedian Sect, Mu had found himself in conflict, alas, with a member of the Futurist Art Appreciation Sect. The fellow was greasy, and a little bit oily, and his unorthodox cultivation was a fantabulous mixture of demonic mechanism and orthodox dreams.

Streaks of light and darkness flashed through the air amidst the clanking of machinery and the occasional flash of a colour of indescribable flair. Amongst it all stood Mu, stolid as always, the qi of his armour firm as the hail of colour and light assailed him in vain.

With a brief dance of feet he managed to stride forward, getting in under the defence of the cultivator. His sword flickered once, twice, snicker snack, and the Futurist collapsed, unconscious. (Mu had well internalised Hong’s “don’t kill people who fight outside the noodle shop” rule.)

This was the moment. All Tou Tong needed to do was somehow talk to Hong, tell him he needed to return to Great Xuan, explain the horrible things that would happen if he didn’t…

BRR-ING, BRR-ING, BRR-ING - IT’S NOODLING TIME!

Hong pulled out his spirit phone and activated several buttons on its inscribed formation. A small, thin mist blew into the air. It made a type of screen, imprinted with images, which slowly took the form of an infuriatingly familiar mouse… and, behind him, an even more infuriatingly familiar demonic cultivator.

“Heya Hong,” said Squeaky the Rat, “sorry for contacting you like this - someone wants to speak to you.”

Ke Sou smirked.