In a world where noodle shops are under constant threat…

Where the bars burn nightly as intrepid protagonists meet with demonic thugs…

Where every dinner can end with the table shattered, yummy food thrown all over the floor…

Where the omnipresent threat of cultivator violence lays a constant pallor over the joy of every gathering, and the peasantry cannot eat without tension…

Who will stand up for the cause of righteousness?

Who will stand for the cause of propriety?

And more importantly, who will stand for good food, good cheer, and good friends?

All these questions and more failed to consume Yue’s mind as she hid under the table, the echoing thunder of a cultivator battle resounding around her.

(She was dealing with matters of greater import, which were, as I'm sure we're all aware, not discussed in any paragraphs that may or may not have preceded our opening lines of awe-inspiring brilliance.)

These questions may, perhaps, have been of more pressing concern to her former fellow noodle shop-goers. They, however, had all left Xufu O’Paddyhaddy’s Tavern and Noodle Shop (Home of the Finest Beer and Bucatini in the Great Xuan) as the fight progressed - thereby tragically depriving the Author of an opportunity to take down their thoughts.

They had not run screaming from the burning restaurant, nor been unduly panicked. They had strolled out in a leisurely fashion, more annoyed at the ruined atmosphere than particularly concerned with cultivator violence. Such depravities were too common to be all that upsetting.

However lethargic it may have been, this departure did not pass without comment. The pot and kettle of the restaurant had long ago cultivated their way to consciousness, and in the absence of anything more scintillating to keep their attention (the present fight being singularly uninspiring) were idly disputing with one another.

It was, of course, a polite dispute, fitting sentient objects of their stature. The restaurant goers were walking off normally, having finished their meal, but at past restaurants they’d seen the people run screaming, and the memory had caused them to argue over the propriety of abandoning one’s meal merely because two cultivators were having a fight to the death.

(Obviously, granting the purely hypothetical scenario in which this restaurant’s goers had run away screaming. This was not the case: but what was a bored piece of cooking ware to do, when its only entertainment was a knockdown brawl between magic-powered superheroes?)

“You know,” said the pot, “Some may say that decision would be unfair of them - overly hasty, imprudent, even slightly offensive. Not me, of course, but Some. After all, there have been no less than five instances in the prior year in which more than one cultivator has entered the restaurant, yet in only two of those instances has the store burned down, thus giving it a truly impressive 60% Cultivator Encounter Survival Rate (an envious statistic, I'm sure we all agree).”

The kettle shuffled off the countertop (which was on the verge of disintegrating from the flames) and onto the cast-iron stove, then cleared his throat majestically.

“Indubitably, pot, indubitably. But would they be right? Others - not me, naturally, but Others - might rejoin that, in the three instances in which multiple cultivators were present in Xufu O'Paddhyhaddy's Tavern and Noodle Shop (Home of the Finest Beer and Bucatini in the Great Xuan) and the store didn't burn down, the cultivators in question were all normal, unimpressive specimens of an orthodox or unorthodox cast, neither demonic cultivators come to spread misery and despair nor plucky young rogues at odds with the world.

“That can not be said, however, for either of the two instances in which Xufu O'Paddhyhaddy's Tavern and Noodle Shop (Home of the Finest Beer and Bucatini in the Great Xuan) did burn down, for in those cases there was the inevitable plucky young rogue, and a foe of his from some sect or other.”

There was a crash as the wall dividing the kitchen from the dining room fell over, taking the cooking rack - pot in tow - with it. The pot remained unflustered, answering from within the blazing wreckage of the wall.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“So say those Others, but would Some agree with them? After all, the enemy of the plucky young rogue may be a demonic cultivator, threatening the woman the rogue is distantly attracted to; or he may be a fellow orthodox cultivator, who wronged the plucky young rogue at one time or another. So one of the two may be ‘normal, unimpressive specimens of an orthodox or unorthodox cast,’ and if so why can the plucky young rogue not be in disguise, ‘cleaned up,’ as they say? I, obviously, would never propose something like that; but Some might.”

There was a stray bolt of yellow light, and a hole was blasted right through the cast-iron stove. The kettle fell down the middle, dusting himself off as he continued the argument.

“Ah, but this second group (the aforementioned 'Others'), firm defenders of the peasants' Right to Panic, would then go on to argue that, as the first cultivator to enter had been an angsty teenager with spiky hair, and the second cultivator an unwashed thug with malformed facial features, the peasants' (theoretical) response, far from being unwarranted, was both fully commensurate and entirely commendable. Now I admit, dear pot, that ordinarily you - or, to be more specific, ‘Some’ - would be quite correct to point out that cultivators of unassuming appearance might nevertheless be dangerous threats; but can the same be said for cultivators of clearly assuming appearance?”

The heat was causing the iron of the stove to slowly liquify, but the kettle continued.

“Others might go still further, and contend that the fundamental test of any empirical hypothesis is the outcome of its prediction, from which we may note that even an argument which Some think irrational is entirely acceptable if its postulates are proven in the proverbial fire” - the floor over the cellar collapsed, the actual fire consuming the support beams - “of scientific experiment. Now considering that the store had caught fire within moments of the peasants running away screaming (which, it must be remembered, occurred practically simultaneously with the entry of the second cultivator), is it not safe to say that this second group is eminently correct?”

“You absolute blackguard,” the pot swore to the kettle merrily, “you have me there.”

And the two continued their argument, stopping but a moment to switch their topic of dispute.

As this new dispute was about what wallpaper Wang should use when he rebuilt the noodle shop (a matter which is not, strictly speaking, relevant to our plot), we will leave them here and return to our narration.

So, to recapitulate (or, as they say, ‘recap’) the plot, Yue and a number of other peasants had been enjoying a lovely lunch at Xufu O’Paddyhaddy’s Tavern and Noodle Shop (Home of the Finest Beer and Bucatini in the Great Xuan), when a cultivator of a countenance terrible to behold had entered the restaurant and ordered lunch.

In spite of his appearance he had behaved normally, doing no more than ordering soup, and had even looked to be enjoying himself as he ate it.

Shortly thereafter, however, an angsty teenage cultivator with spiky hair had followed him, driven out of some hole by the lure of a tournament (and its promise of inevitable chaos).

The store was on fire not even a minute thereafter, the customary taunts - ‘fool,’ ‘how dare you,’ ‘you’re courting death,’ ‘lasagna fish,’ ‘kowtow a hundred times,’ etc. - having been uttered with all due ceremonies.

(Admittedly, by only one of the disputants; the other seemed to be in a state of shock for some reason.)

This had completely ruined the dining experience, causing most of the patrons to swiftly finish their meal and then depart, casting dark looks at the duelling cultivators the entire time.

As to whether any of these individuals had answered, or even thought about, the questions with which we started this journey (those pertaining to the sanctity of Noodle Shops and the apocalyptic threat posed by cultivators’ treatment of them: see above)... Well, I’m afraid their thoughts were echoing sentiments of the following sort:

Oh, not again. And I was so enjoying my lunch - that carp soup was simply heavenly.

Those who remained were scarcely better. Yue was lost in her own world as she worked on her hard science fiction novel. Wang, delighted with his decision to take out an insurance policy covering tournaments, spent most of the fight practically breakdancing as his restaurant burned. (Those cultivating bastards wouldn’t get him this time!)

A most unconscionable state of affairs, to be sure - for what are the impermanent things of this world (e.g. personal honour, literature, insurance, one’s life) in the face of the Hallowed Principles of Eternity (i.e. Noodle Shops)? But in a World of Cultivation - of flying martial artists, magic talismans, talking swords, transmigrators, and singing animals in sweater vests - to abandon the Truth for such piddly things was, alas, all too common.

But not so for our protagonist, no! For no sooner had there been a gentle knock upon the door (at which point the poor door had crumbled to pieces), then we were graced with a figure as glorious as the nobility it contained within.

The young repairman on the other side of the door yawned, raising one shabbily dressed hand to a tired face. The reedy, apathetic youth examined the room - or what remained of it, most of it being no more than matchwood fit only for the still expanding blaze.

His cotton robes were ancient, their colour long faded and their edges frayed. His muddy eyes stared from a pockmarked face, and his black hair vanished under his wangjin cap. He barely had the beginnings of a beard on his chin, and his moustache was equally sparse.

His voice, when at last he spoke, was monotonous if not quite laconic:

“Hello. I’m Hong Yu, here with the Noodle Shop Repair Sect, to serve a #117: Cultivation Tournament Special. Is Wang Pi here?”