The next day found Hong Yu once more doing what he loved best: repairing a noodle shop.

Repairing several, in fact. The weather was nice, and it was drawing the cultivators out of their holes, so he found himself with more and more work to do. (Adjusting for the seasonal proclivities of cultivators was an important part of Hong’s job, and one he took seriously.)

The fourth chen - or double hour - of his work shift came and went, and Hong continued working.

His Master would not have been quite happy with Hong working past the end of his shift and into the night, but it was tragically common among the sect’s disciples.

You worked and worked and worked to repair a shop destroyed by some plucky young rogue, and no sooner had you finished and gone off to repair another one than another putz came along and destroyed the noodle shop all over again. And then, while you were repairing the first shop for the second time, some schmuck with a revenge fetish would take out three bandits in the second shop, as well as half the tables and the wall.

This, of course, was if you were lucky and there were only two restaurants in town, with no more than one sect, and there were no tournaments going on or secret realms opening or contests or anything else that might bring more than two cultivators together in one spot. If you were so unfortunate as to live in a decent sized city with a large number of shops, several sects, and a dedicated colosseum, then you were forever doomed. Hong had heard terrifying stories from the Noodle Shop Repair Sect disciples who worked in New Shanghai.

Once they discovered the dark truth of noodle shop repair work, the sect’s disciples would either succumb to despair, or develop a grim determination to continue no matter the odds. The most direct consequence of this fervid fanaticism was that the disciples worked like they were at a Victorian workhouse and the devil himself was after them, much to their sect master’s routine embarrassment.

***

The Noodle Shop Repair Demon hummed to himself as he returned to the sect headquarters, a small cottage in the countryside where he administered the affairs of the sect. He opened his picket gate and walked down the small cobblestone path to the door, enjoying the sound of the bees as they buzzed through the flowerbeds.

He unlocked the door and entered the sect meeting room (also known as the kitchen), where his second, Da Wang, was looking over some paperwork. Da addressed him without lifting his head up from the table.

“How was the summoning?”

“Good. Got to help out some mice and meet little Hong. He’s doing well,” the Noodle Shop Repair Demon observed, as he sat down at his own seat. “Though I wish he were less intense. Serious affairs do not require a serious manner.”

And he opened the file before him, a report by the School of Minor Talks on recent rumours collected about the Noodle Shop Repair Sect.

He read a couple pages, and then his eyes bulged out of his head. “Not taking breaks… not taking weekends off… consistent lack of vacations… rumours of systemic abuse… a paradigmatic example of exploitation… Just what have our disciples been doing? Have I not told them a thousand times that ‘the first principle of all action is leisure’? This won't do.”

Wang slammed his fist on the table, his expression utterly furious, face contorted and body tense. “No, no it won't. It won't do at all. I'll write the disciples a memo at once.”

“Good. They need to take breaks and maintain an appropriate work-life bal-”

“There was nothing in there about the daily hours worked by the average disciple. Don't they know that if you work twice as many hours in a day, you can fix twice as many noodle shops? And it's not like cultivators need sleep anyways.”

“That is not the memo you will be writing, thank you kindly. This is precisely why I delegated all Health and Safety matters in the sect to myself,” the Noodle Shop Repair Demon caustically observed, wresting the pen out of Wang's hands.

“I swear. Sometimes it feels like I'm still in Hell.”

Da Wang bristled, and began to squabble with his sect master. But he need not have worried - the report didn't mention daily hours worked because they had been considered the least of the problems.

***

As it neared the tenth chen of the day, a letter poofed into existence beside Hong. He laid his paintbrush down and opened it, scanning through the contents before bursting into laughter.

“Man, the sect master has a great sense of humour. ‘Always remember to take your vacation.’ Do you know what they call three weeks of not repairing noodle shops? Three weeks of no noodle shops. Imagine depriving the common folk of the comfort of the gods.”

Nonetheless, he reluctantly had to follow at least one piece of advice from the letter and stop working for the night.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

This was not because all the noodle shops were fixed - cultivators, as Da Wang observed, needed no sleep, and the nocturnal hours were simply an opportunity for different, nocturnal plot points, with different, nocturnal modes of destruction. No, it was because hammering at night could keep people awake. And Hong never disturbed others.

Having (tragically) finished his work for the night, Hong retired to the inn he was staying at. It was a pleasant place, with lovely red and gold designs etched into the wallpaper, a large veranda, and two stories of rooms on top of the inn restaurant. These were mostly let to travelling families - Hong preferred family inns, because they were quieter, and less prone to problems. (The screaming of dozens of distressed toddlers had nothing on what happened when adventurers - be they cultivator or not - tried supping together.)

Well, normally there were less problems. Hong enjoyed a lovely dinner, chatting with a harried merchant and his wife about the vicissitudes of the traveller’s life, and afterwards ordered a bottle of rice wine. Another double-hour passed.

He was nursing a glass of wine and reading an adventure novel when the problems began.

The door banged open, and into the still populated restaurant came three cultivators. Even without sensing their qi, Hong could tell by their stereotypically hideous appearance that they were demonic cultivators.

They could, admittedly, have been orthodox cultivators who were the antagonists in some novel or other. But Hong was confident in his physiognomy, and knew that this was the sort of ugliness found only in villains who were actually demonic. (It was the boils and the scars that really made the difference.)

Of the three, one was thin, one fat, and one short. Their hair was black and greasy, their teeth unaligned, their shifty eyes small and beady. The three revolting characters strode into the middle of the room, gazing at the nervous patrons haughtily, before the short one drew his sword and raised it straight into the air.

“We’re here,” he boomed, “for Hong Yu.”

The other two snickered and drew their own weapons, a mace and a pair of daggers.

Hong groaned, and tucked his book away. It was true what they said - there was no rest for demonic cultivators. He didn’t even know who these bozos were.

For their part, the bozos hadn’t known who he was, not until quite recently. They had approached the orphanages, seeking to question them, but at the sight of the demonic cultivators the orphans had up and fled.

Deprived of crucial testimony, the demonic cultivators of the Flaming Bloody Organs Sect - for that was who they were - had been forced to question random passerby on the street.

This had been a strategy of no merit for days on end, with the masses just looking at them in confusion, until they found their luck at last. They were just giving up for the night when they passed by a certain pot and kettle, heading home for the evening.

They figured it was a waste of time to ask sapient cooking ware about talismanic experts cultivator-proofing orphanages, but in the absence of any leads decided they might as well. The worst that could happen was nothing, after all.

And it was here they struck gold. Completely ignoring them, the pot turned to the kettle and launched into an argument.

“You know, kettle, Some might say it is not right to lie to anyone, regardless of whether they were demonic cultivators attempting to hunt and kill a noodle shop repairman or not,” the pot observed, stunning Bu Yun (the short one), who hadn’t known he was after a noodle shop repairman at all.

“For did not Kant say, ‘act only according to that maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law’? And tell me, who would will that it would be universally permissible to lie?”

“Ah, but pot, Others would reply that you’re presenting a ridiculous stereotype of Kant, usually dispelled in the first year of university, and would note that telling them the name of Hong Yu would endanger him, and to place someone in danger is clearly contrary to the categorical imperative.”

Bu Yun began hurriedly writing down everything they said.

“Yet Some would maintain that it is the act, and not the consequence, of the categorical imperative that is most worthy of consideration in its establishment, and would note that to not tell them that he’s staying at the Lucky Rabbit Inn in Xiǎo Chéngshì would be to countenance acts which are in principle absurd and immoral.”

“Indeed, but would not Others-” but Bu Yun had heard no more, for he had already started running back to the headquarters of the Flaming Bloody Organs Sect, a mighty fortress placed high in the hills of the small village of Xiaocun.

It had not taken them long to corroborate the information of the pot and the kettle. (Not that they had anything against attacking and killing innocent people, but it was better not to waste time when the guilty party might be wandering free elsewhere.)

Once they had, Bu Yun had asked for permission to take his disciples Xuan Yun and Yang Wei and bring back the noodle shop repairman’s head.

Gan Mao had consented. So far as he was concerned someone who spent all day repairing noodle shops couldn’t be much of a threat, even if he did know a little about cultivation, so there was no reason to waste more resources on the menace.

And thus it was that the three demonic cultivators - Bu Yun the short one,Yang Wei the fat one, and Xuan Yun the thin one - had come to the Lucky Rabbit Inn to destroy Hong’s relaxing evening.

They kicked open the door, strode in, and in front of the (more annoyed than terrified) patrons began to swagger and wave their weapons about.

“We’re here,” Bu boomed, assured of his superiority, “for Hong Yu.”

There was an audible groan from the corner, and a reedy, dull-looking young man stood up.

“And what do you want?” The youth muttered, tone dull but voice snappish, his patience running low.

Bu Yun jauntily placed one hand on his hips, pointing the blade at Hong’s head.

“Why, to kill you of course,” he yelled.

Hong put his fingers to his lips, and shushed the demonic cultivator. The latter blinked in surprise.

“Look,” Hong observed, “it’s all well and good to want to kill me, and equally fine to actually attempt to do so, but do keep quiet about it, eh? It’s the initial hour of the last double-hour, and there are children upstairs trying to sleep. Now we’ll go out back, where no one can be affected or disturbed, and settle this like men.”

Bu Yun began to laugh at the top of his lungs. “Out back? Avoid distressing the children? Hah! Don’t make me laugh. Who cares if I upset the children, or affect people? Heck, I could even annihilate this entire noodle shop, and it wouldn’t cause me to lose a wink of sleep.”

Hong’s eye twitched.