It had been months since Hong’s fight in the fields of Xiǎo Chéngshì, not that Hong had noticed. He was too preoccupied in his endless quest against the wickedness of cultivators (and their hatred of noodle shops) to worry about such petty things as the passage of time.

Work had taken him out of Xiǎo Chéngshì and into the mountains, where noodle shops were few and far between, and assailed by a thousand wandering cultivators. Few were the repairfolk in these parts, and the locals were intensely grateful for Hong's arrival.

He had repaired noodle shops on the tops of mountains, where rocky paths carried the scent of broth with the wind; off hidden paths in the woods, the forest animals their only denizens; in deep and twisted caverns, where the sound of clicking chopsticks echoed through hollow halls; and in secret realms inhabited only by the fairies.

(“I don’t understand how they keep getting in here,” said Mistlepants the Gnome, as Hong swept up their remains. “We’re setting up all the traps.”)

Tragedy, alas, had brought him back to Xiǎo Chéngshì: a travelling band of cultivators had passed through the city on their way to a tournament three counties over, and had burned down all the noodle shops.

And the inns.

And the bars.

And the regular restaurants.

And the ice cream parlour.

Also Auntie Ping’s hot dog cart.

He returned to the city early in the day, rebuilt the Lucky Rabbit Inn by nightfall, and rested there for the night.

Mu had hunted him down by the next morning. The Young Master of Jarnvidr Eastern Branch had been waiting for Hong to return for weeks, constructing a web of secret agents to keep track of his movements. It was a masterwork of scintillating and brilliant genius, a well-laid plot which no villain could have equalled and a trap which Hong could never have escaped.

All of which is to say that he went to the Ministry for Travel, produced certification of his identity - which Gan Mao, as a staunch fiscal traditionalist and opponent of all things legislatory, could never have done - and filed a request to be updated on Hong's proximity to the city. The Ministry for Travel, ever eager to aid in the propagation of noodle shop repair, had happily obliged.

The Lucky Rabbit Inn was already packed when Mu arrived: there was nothing quite like being the only restaurant in town to draw in a crowd. Nonetheless, Mu was undaunted; forcing his way inside, he honed in on his target and located him nigh instantly.

The noodle shop repairman was eating breakfast with one hand, his other drawing a diagram on a sheet of paper before him. Every now and then would gesture with his pencil to the contents of the paper, elaborating on his theme in a tone of rare enthusiasm to someone across from him.

Mu pushed through the crowd and to the table, bowing down to the ground. His excitement overtook him. Without giving Hong’s conversation partner a second thought he began to intone a formal greeting.

Hong looked at him askance, raising one eyebrow.

The woman Hong was talking to also looked at him, and though Mu couldn’t see her expression behind the weimao he doubted she was particularly delighted with him interrupting their tete-a-tete.

“My apologies, I didn’t realise you were with a woman,” he hurriedly said, red creeping up his face, but Hong cut him off with a gesture.

“You appear to be thinking something wrong. It’s not that - she’s a customer. Let me finish our meeting; I’ll deal with you then.”

Mu bowed once more and, embarrassed with his own fervour, went to the counter and ordered an egg. There were no chairs left, so he had to eat it standing up. This was a moderately awkward affair, although it wasn’t until they brought him his egg in a teacup that he realised that cultivators derived benefit from keeping noodle shops un-smashed too.

Eventually, Hong glided his way through the crowd and motioned for Mu to follow him. The two cultivators left the restaurant and walked down the street.

The early fall air was slightly crisp, carrying with it hints of the upcoming harvest festival. In the distance he could see carts full of rice approaching the town, the hard labour of the region’s farmers drawing near for the townspeople to enjoy.

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Hong watched them with a melancholic look. “Poor souls - they don’t know that, with the town’s restaurants in shambles, only the market can take their goods.”

He noticed Mu twinge with guilt and smiled sadly at him. “I appreciate the sentiment, even if it wasn’t your cultivators who destroyed the restaurants. The contents of those carts are the labour of thousands of farmers whose names you will never know; but you can show them gratitude and consideration all the same.”

He steepled his hands behind his back, his toolkit hovering in midair. “And speaking of consideration - the best way to help those farmers is for me to repair the restaurants, so I’d be grateful to you myself if you’d tell me your purpose. I presume it isn’t to ask for a rematch?”

Mu bowed low. “No - far from it. I have reflected deeply on myself following our match, and have come to ask you to make me your disciple.”

Hong Yu calmly considered this for a moment.

“No,” he declared bluntly. Mu Ba’s shoulders drooped.

“May I inquire why, sir? If it’s some objection to my character, intellect, or strength then I swear upon my blade to rectify it, if you will have me.”

“No. Your character is fine - in fact, it’s excellent for a cultivator - and if there were any problems with strength or wisdom they could be corrected through training with the proper principles. The issue is twofold: first, I am unfit to serve as a teacher. Second, even if I could teach you, you would have nothing to learn from me.

“I walk the Way of the Noodle Shop Repairman. You, on the other hand, are a disciple of Jarnvidr, which has its own Way of cultivation closely connected with the Way of Innocence and Honesty. I have met the First Immortal and Founder of Jarnvidr - there are few of finer character or greater insight, and none have I met who more closely trod the Way. What could I teach you that he can’t?”

Mu Ba gagged. “You met the First Immortal?”

“Yes, twenty winters ago, on the solstice. My sectmaster introduced me.”

The sound of the carts became audible, the rattle of wheels accompanied by the raucous laughter of the cartdrivers. Hong waited politely while Mu carefully considered his reply.

“I understand your objection, but I’m not asking to learn your techniques. When I reflected on myself, I realised that I didn’t lose because there were defects in my cultivation; I lost because the defects in my cultivation derived from defects in my character, specifically my perspective. I do not know how to be a point that is not the centre, but nonetheless encompasses all.”

He bowed low once more, the repeated gesture of respect making clear his admiration. “You clearly do, and therefore I come to ask you to let me walk in your ways, so that I may see how you move.”

Hong chuckled mirthlessly. “If you really knew the centreless centre - the point that is one and nothing - you would not ask to walk in my ways.”

A child broke from one of the houses and began dashing towards the carts, arms outstretched. A cartdriver lept down and dashed towards her, scooping her up in a hug. Hong’s sardonic smile adopted a hint of sincerity as he watched the exchange.

“We all must follow somebody’s footsteps, before we can learn to chart our own path upon the Way,” Mu returned.

“Ah, Guo Xiang. It is rare to find a cultivator who appeals to him when challenging the Heavens.” Hong held up one hand for silence, and considered something.

At last he spoke.

“Very well. Many hands make light work - or so the visitors say - and I could use the help. Therefore this humble one will allow you to follow him.”

And he began to walk down the street, hands in his sleeves, floating toolkit dancing a beat beside him. He paused after a moment to look back at Mu, who was still standing there, stunned.

“Are you coming?”

Mu started, and began to dash after Hong. “Apologies, master.”

“Don’t call me that. ‘Sir’ will suffice as an honorific.” Hong continued to walk down the street. His steps, if not quite elegant, were certainly confident, his every footstep placed deliberately and with conviction.

Mu followed along, observing with some surprise that they were heading outside of town.

“Do you mind if I ask where we’re going, sir? I thought you said you needed to repair the city’s restaurants?”

“I do, and I will. Unfortunately, however, cultivators have been a little bit too eager in their escapades as of late, and I’ve found myself tragically short on construction materials.”

He flipped his storage pouch upside down, shaking it until a singular screw popped out. Hong grinned ruefully at Mu as he tossed the screw up and down in his hand, before continuing to walk out of town. He weaved in-between some houses and into the fields, heading towards a lush mountain quite a few miles away, his casual clip thrice that of a horse running.

“I knew this would happen, so I placed an order with my supplier on my way back from the mountains. They’re quite efficient with their orders; we’re on our way to meet them now.”

“Do they just supply you, or the whole of the sect?” Mu asked, his curiosity consuming him. He’d heard of the Noodle Shop Repair Sect - unlike most cultivators, Mu was an avid reader, if for no other reason than that it let him reply to “do you even know who I am” with “yes, yes I do” - but had never heard anything about their suppliers.

“The whole sect. You respect suppliers with skill and speed,” Hong said, deepening the mystery for Mu. What sort of supplier could that be, and why had he never heard of them? If they were trusted by the Noodle Shop Repair Sect, they must be quite good; good enough for other cultivation sects to want to rely on them, one would think. After all, cultivators were equal opportunity annihilators and destroyed their own homes just as often as they destroyed everyone else’s.

Hong paused, and began to laugh.

“Of course, they are rather small.”