They got Geraldine properly settled in, and then returned to the town where, every conceivable problem being conclusively settled (and not likely to turn up again horribly in another week), they continued to work. To work, and to have inane conversations about noodle shops.

"May I ask a question?"

"Well, I can't stop you."

"Why the Noodle Shop Repair Sect? Why not just have a regular noodle shop repair crew?"

Hong stopped eating his delicious noodles. His eyes grew misty and far away, descending down the halls of the past.

"It was back when I was an apprentice noodle shop repairman, training in the jigoku of Banh Pho. This was during the invasion of the Yawn Dynasty Sleeping Sect, when-”

“Wait, hold on a moment. You were an apprentice repairman during the Yawn Dynasty invasion of Banh Pho? Before the current emperor started his revolt?”

“Sure was. Now as I was saying, this was during the invasion of the Yawn Dynasty Sleeping Sect, when noodle shops were burnt down daily. Business was therefore good, or rather, would be good - excellent, even - had we been able to repair the noodle shops. However, no sooner did we put the walls back up, then two or more cultivators would saunter on in, and say words to the effect of 'Behold! This one shall grace this trashy noodle shop as a place of combat, where righteousness shall triumph and evil be vanquished.' And then they'd promptly proceed to beat the crap out of each other, destroying the noodle shop in the process.”

Mu nodded sagely. “Yes, I do recall hearing such tales about the Banh Pho War. Its excesses disturbed even the cultivators. But I’ll let you get back to the story.”

Hong took a sip of tea. “It was as I said. The Yawn Dynasty Sleeping Sect had invaded Banh Pho, and from romantic green hills athwart cedarn covers to the caverns measureless to man cultivators strove and fought for the righteousness of their cause. The situation grew particularly poor after the Sectmaster of the Yawn, Kublai Khanridge, declared the construction of a ‘pleasure dome’ along the sacred river Alph…

“Noodle shop owners found themselves openly ‘conscripted’ - through the firing of their shops and threats against their family - to take residence amidst those incense-bearing trees, eddied by the melancholic tunes of Mount Abora.

“It was in these tumultuous conditions that I first endeavoured to master the humble but awe-inspiring art of the noodle shop repairman. I won’t bore you with the details: walls raised, then promptly knocked down, doors jointed, then kicked in, windows glazed, only to have someone defenestrated. It was a tragedy.

“A tragedy which paid well, but then, I’ve only ever studied the art for love of the noodle: so you can understand my growing despair. Scarcely was I finishing my twenties when already I deliberated over abandoning the noodle shop repair life, and considered taking up work as an itinerant wainwright.

“It was in the friendly season of spring, when I ascended Fragrant Hill for my latest job. The blowing wind played a song through the green pines of the mountain pass, and the raindrops were bubbles upon the jade bamboo. It was a good morning.

“It stopped being such a good morning when I saw Po Lo’s Noodle Shop. The walls had been caved in, the roof smashed, the counter made matchsticks. They were using the tables for firewood, so thoroughly had they been destroyed. I learned later that Ma Ko, Po Lo’s young partner, had been sent to Shangdu Hospital, having unfortunately been behind the counter when it was smashed.”

Seeing Mu wince, Hong smiled in a somewhat melancholic joy. “Don’t worry. As I understand it, he met a lovely nurse there, named Kokojin, and they’ve been happily married ever since.

“Surprisingly, Po Lo’s was still in operation, which is to say that there was one oddly dressed stranger sitting on the floor eating noodles while we tried to rebuild the walls. He was a funny looking fellow - though we were in the mountains, hundreds of miles from the coast, he was dressed like a sailor, his oilskin coat trailing halfway across the floor.

“You can imagine what happened, of course. Halfway through erecting the walls, a cultivator from the Banh Mi Supreme Victory Sect entered and began arguing with the proprietor about his selection of sandwiches. It was, all things considered, a pleasant enough fight, one which decidedly decreased in pleasantness when another cultivator from the Yawn decided to visit for some stir fried noodles.

“‘You arrogant bastard! You dare show your face here, after having destroyed this noodle shop before?’ roared the Banh Mi cultivator, whose name I never quite got, not that it needs to be remembered.

“‘Bastard? Me, a bastard? You arrogant knave, it was you who ruined the noodle shop. I’ll rip out your tongue for this insult.’ replied the Yawn Dynasty Sleeping Sect cultivator, whose name is equally irrelevant to our present story. At any rate, the usual pleasantries having been exchanged, the two proceeded to assault each other with all the force of a great typhoon and the strength of a raging fire.”

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

And here, for the first time in his narrative, the eyes of Hong cleared up, and his face was lit with a genuine smile. “I shuddered in despair, my mind already filled with thoughts of destroyed walls, shattered joints, a floor in need of replacement. Evidently these thoughts were shared by my superiors in the repair crew, for when I looked to my colleagues for guidance I saw them using the Running Away Really Quickly Technique. I knew then we were doomed… And then the foreigner stood up.

“‘Is this the respect you show to these hallowed grounds?’ He boomed, causing the two duelists to pause. They looked at him in annoyance.

“‘You arrogant bastard! Do you even know who I am? I’m’ - oh, golly, this will eat at me all day, I know it will - ‘master of the Willowy Blade Technique, third rank inheritor of the Pirouetting Woodruff Path of the Corkscrew. Consider yourself lucky that I’ll let you live.’ Said… huh, I can’t even remember his sect. It’s been too many years, sorry.

“‘But the foreigner calmly adjusted his robes, then drew a longsword with a jade-headed hilt, the action causing the shining pendants on his belt to clatter. He pointed it at the cultivators, then thought better of it, returning it to its sheath.” Hong was clearly enjoying himself by this point, his story taking on more and more stilted diction.

“‘I need not the likes of this for the likes of you.’ He declaimed, then reached again within his robes, pulling out a dead albatross.

“Then he beat the two of them to death with it, so swiftly that neither of them had time to damage the noodle shop, either by fighting or through the impact of their shattered corpses slamming into the walls.”

“Hold up. A dead albatross?”

Hong nodded. “I asked him that myself, later. He said the poetry of the moment called for it.”

“And he beat them to death with it?”

“Yes, with the dead albatross. He swung it around his head, it emitted one almighty squawk-”

“The dead albatross squawked?”

“That’s what I said. You know that understanding comes through listening, right? This is elementary logic.”

“The dead albatross squawking is elementary logic?”

“And what else would it be? Just because it’s dead doesn’t mean it’s inanimate. Now, as I was saying, he swung the dead albatross around his head, it emitted one almighty squawk, and then he brought it down upon the heads of both cultivators within a single blow, one delivered faster than the eye could see.”

“So how’d you see it?”

“I asked the albatross about it later.”

“The dead one?”

“Well there isn’t another albatross in this narration, is there? Now, to reiterate myself one final time, he swung the dead albatross around his head, it emitted one almighty squawk, and then in a single blow - faster than I could see, but not faster than the albatross could - killed both cultivators upon the spot.

“The strange cultivator - for cultivator he must have been, to have defeated I-can’t-remember-who - then turned his inscrutable gaze upon me, his face as mysterious as the dark side of the moon. 'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, now wherefore stopp'st thou me?’

“The natural response, of course, would be to ask why little old me - who had hitherto refrained from doing anything which might impede, or assist, or for that matter even affect the landlocked sailor - should be accused of having stopp’st him. All I could think in reply, however, was to state ‘Beard? I have no beard; nor do you, sir.’”

“The sailor merely laughed. ‘I ask you, lad, why you did nothing to protect your sacred charge. You clearly wanted to, for your colleagues, when loud roared the blast, southward aye they fled, yet you remained and held fast. Yet when the storm-blast came, if ye be not tyrannous and strong, will he not strike with o’ertaking wings? Then your sacred charge would falter and fall, and what would it avail you, or the innocents who here sup on noodle pure?’

“‘You were given a task, boy, to walk the Way of Spirits and restore, in what little way you can, the primordial innocence of man: but if you cannot save the Home of Joy from the sea of perils which batter against its doors, can you claim to walk the path of righteousness, so thick beset with thorns and briars?’

“I hung my head, for I knew he was right: not in despair, but in the beginning of a bow, as I knocked my head upon the floor. ‘This one acknowledges the rightness of your words, but he is too weak to do what he must. He begs thee, please, to teach him the Way, that he may in future prevent the undoing of his work and save this abode of peace.’

“The sailor nodded in satisfaction. ‘It will be dangerous. Are you sure?’

“‘Master, all I have ever wanted in this world is to assist others in enjoying the delicious taste of noodles, that they may take some respite from the coldness and cruelty of the world and find warmth. Your words have rung true: I cannot do my job so long as I cannot defend the establishments I repair. No matter the danger of the path, then, whether I must face brambles or poisonous toads, I will tread it, for it is the only path I may tread.’

“The sailor, my new master, nodded in satisfaction. ‘Welcome, then, to the Glowing Monkey Garden Sect.’”

“Wait, hold up - the Glowing Monkey Garden Sect? I thought you were part of the Noodle Shop Repair Sect.”

“Oh, well, originally it was the Glowing Monkey Garden Sect. But every time we gave out a business card people got the wrong idea, so we changed our name.

“But back to the story. He shook my hand, and the two of us left - though not after cleaning up the corpses and rebuilding Po Lo’s, as one does. Then we had to return for the wedding of Ma Ko and Kokojin - as the guests of honour, you know.”

Hong sighed as he relived those happy memories of long ago, the faraway look leaving his eyes. Then he began cleaning up after lunch. Mu Ba leapt up to assist him. He took the dishes to the back, then returned for the tea set - an antiquated and simple collection of cups and a pot - only to be stopped by Hong.

"Not that one - that one's mine. I made it a long time ago, and have used it ever since."

Mu felt eyes on the back of his head as Hong reclaimed the tea set, turning quickly to see a pair of cultivators watching them. Both quickly reclaimed their eyes from his neck, pretending to resume their meal.

Mu was going to ask them if there was something wrong, but Hong had already wrapped up his preparations, left some money behind and, whistling, went on his merry way. Mu hurried to follow him, casting sceptical glances behind him as he went.