Hong Yu stopped carving talismans and wiped his brow.

It had been weeks since the affair at Xufu O’Paddyhaddy’s Tavern and Noodle Shop (Home of the Finest Beer and Bucatini in the Great Xuan). The tournament was over. All the noodle shops, inns, bars, grills, and other victims of cultivator-related destruction had been repaired; yet Hong was still in town.

Still in town, and still working. Tournaments might be the worst season for cultivator destruction, but it wasn’t like they went to live normal lives like reasonable people when they were over. They were simply destructive on a more intermittent basis, subject to their eating habits.

Hong had therefore stayed on for a time, repairing the region’s restaurants as cultivators trickled in and out, and occasionally helping out with kindred projects. He was working on one of these latter tasks when we resumed our story.

Sister Xu, matron of the Xiǎo Chéngshì Home for Adorable Heartwarming Orphans, watched as Hong Yu descended the ladder. She had never met a cultivator quite like him.

The man dressed like he came out of the preceding century, and carried himself as a rural labourer should. He showed deference to his employers, be they cultivator or not, and respect to the children. He was meticulous in his work, his blank-looking eyes carefully tracking every move he made.

The matron looked at him appreciatively as he climbed down the ladder, having just finished fireproofing her orphanage.

She put her hands together enthusiastically, and bowed to him. “This one thanks you greatly for your assistance.”

Hong Yu shook his head as he cleaned the gunk off his hands. “It was nothing. I installed the usual preventive measures, as well as some talismans to prevent or stop magical fire. And of course there’s the escape tunnels…”

He had installed escape tunnels under the orphanage, in both the orphans’ bedroom and kitchen, and had slapped Cultivators-Be-Gone talismans over top to cultivator-proof them.

The roof itself had been fireproofed conventionally and by means of talismans.

Indestructible? No. But it would give them more than enough time to escape when trouble came.

(And it would come, of that Hong was sure - never had a cultivator encountered something whose smashing would leave an impression and not sought to make an impression.)

It was more than Sister Xu could possibly hope for, or even have dreamed of, and yet the cultivator was behaving as if this was all in a regular day’s work.

“How much do I owe you?” The matron asked, relief clear on her face. Hong’s face screwed up as he worked out the maths in his head, tallying the cost.

“Twenty persnickels,” Hong replied. The woman pursed her lips.

“Are you sure? That’s so little… it would cover barely three days in an inn.”

“Our rate for orphanage fireproofing is break-even on cost - specifically, those of the materials. I can give you a breakdown of all expenses if you feel the price is unclear.”

The man’s tone was cordial, and the matron could see his sincerity. Nevertheless…

“Still, even if you’re waiving the labour costs, the qi expended in the construction of talismans must count towards the total. You can’t just be charging for the physical materials, right?”

Hong looked at her, and then burst into laughter. The young man leaned over, wheezing. After a moment he managed to get ahold of himself, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye.

“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh at you. It’s just… do you even know the variable cost on qi usage? Not to mention that even having a cultivator present is a serious fixed cost, never you mind how much labour he actually does. Take it from me, it’s best if we don’t go beyond the costs of the paint when discussing talismans.”

Sister Xu supposed he had a point. It irked her to pay him so little, but she supposed cultivators didn’t really need money anyways. She’d met many who didn’t even use it (to the sadness of the inns in which they roomed).

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

“So, you still want that cost breakdown?” Hong grinned.

The woman shook her head. “No, that’ll be fine. You’ve done more than enough, and I wouldn’t want to make you feel bad. Will you at least stay for dinner? It would make the children so happy.”

She motioned to the classroom window of the orphanage, where a half dozen children could be seen watching them talk. Hong put on a smile, waving to the kids, but shook his head.

“Thank you kindly for your offer, but I’m afraid work never rests,” and he motioned to the figure hurrying towards them. The matron realised who he was and quietly excused herself, after exchanging a brief goodbye and a promise to send the payment to Hong’s lodgings.

The city magistrate paused to catch his breath. He was a portly man with oily hair but an honest face, and was familiar chiefly with exertion of a mental - and not menial - sort.

Hong bowed, having just had time to adjust his robes before the man reached them, and politely wished the magistrate a good day.

The magistrate waved the pleasantries aside. “No time to stand on ceremony; we have business to discuss.”

Hong pursed his lips, a brief expression of distaste flickering across the youth’s pallid visage. What was finance in the face of ritual?

Still, if the business involved destroyed noodle shops, then it was only counterproductive for him to complain.

He bowed again, and flicked a hand, signifying for the magistrate to continue.

The magistrate rubbed his hands, his mouth contorting in an unpleasant grin.

“I take it you’ve heard of the monster that keeps devouring our cattle?”

“No,” Hong replied. The magistrate, who’d been about to continue his spiel, froze.

“No? It’s all anyone’s been talking about for weeks, ever since the tournament.”

“Paying heed to gossip would distract me, and thereby waste time that could be spent repairing noodle shops. Even ten minutes a day adds up to a day lost every one hundred forty-four days, or two and a half days per year… and when you’re racing against the sheer destructive potency that are cultivators, every moment is precious.”

The magistrate looked like he wanted to argue, but then he saw Hong checking his pocket watch and blanched. He couldn’t afford to lose the man now.

“Well, there’s this monster, which has been salvaging cattle for months…”

“And it’s only become a problem now?” The sceptical Hong asked.

The magistrate struggled to figure out how to say this. Frankly, it had been a low-level problem the entire time - and was still only a low-level problem - but he instinctively felt that saying he wanted Hong to help because it was rare for such a high-level cultivator to hire himself out for mere persnickels would lead to him being turned down.

(And strength aside, the man was a genius. The tournament master had had nothing but praise for him, some of it practically unbelievable. The magistrate had never in his life met someone who could undo the gashes in a marble floor after a cultivator had unleashed his ultimate skill on the poor, innocent ground.)

“Its attacks have increasingly wearied us, and it’s reached a breaking point now.” He said diplomatically.

“That’s horrible to hear. And?” Hong asked mercilessly.

“And what? I’d like you to deal with the problem.”

“A wish I respect, but which has nothing to do with the mission of my sect - which, much as it says in the name, is noodle shop repair.”

“Dealing with monsters has nothing to do with noodle shop repair, but fireproofing orphanages does?” The magistrate parried.

“It’s adjacent to noodle shop repair - both are stereotypical crimes of cultivators, which we of the Noodle Shop Repair Sect have sworn to prevent (for a small and reasonable fee). Both are crimes of sheer hateful selfishness, of contempt for all that is warm and wonderful… Didn’t you read our business card?”

And he handed the magistrate his card.

The Noodle Shop Repair Sect

Restaurants Repaired

Orphanages Fireproofed

Damsels Undistressed

Puppies Unkicked

Interested in our offers? Contact us today

through the Ministry for Travel or local offices!

Hong kept his diction neutral, but his tone betrayed the sincerity with which he spoke. He meant what he said; it was noodle shops, and the sundry other villainies of cultivators, that he was dedicated to - not the harassment of cattle.

The magistrate stroked his hairless chin, thinking. At last he spoke.

“But how silly of me. I totally forgot.”

“Totally forgot what?” Hong asked, knowing he was about to be fed a load of poppycock.

“Why, the target of the monster attacks - it's been going after the cattle we use for stocking our fair city's noodle shops. If this continues, we’ll have to start cutting beef from the menu.”

Hong stared at the magistrate, expression totally vapid.

The magistrate smiled back, expression totally sincere.

Hong sighed. It was obvious hogwash made up on the spot, but he couldn't afford to offend the man - he still had work to do in the city, and it would cause problems if he was feuding with the magistrate. (And Hong did not believe in causing problems.)

“Fine. You'll have to tell me everything…”