Wang Pi gleefully raised a hand and capered to the front of the store, doing a little pirouette as he approached the noodle shop repairman. He was utterly failing to hide his sheer joy, as it visibly radiated in waves off of him.
“Yes, that’s me. You were quick! I thought it would take several days for you to arrive, as a consequence of all the work you must have thanks to the tournament.”
The repairman’s reply was barely a mutter, though it echoed through the quiet space. “Yes, thanks to the tournament. It’s certainly been a… busy tournament season. This will be the twentieth restaurant I’ve visited since it began.”
“No matter! No matter! Since you’re here, I’ll make you a nice meal once - oh, dear, it looks like I forgot we’re not quite at that part of the plot yet.”
And Wang nervously eyed the two cultivators, who were staring at them in shock. The demonic cultivator looked confused as to who the newcomer could possibly be, and why he was willing to step into an armed combat for the sake of doing repair work. The youth was so incensed at somebody interrupting his heroic quest that he was incapable of speech.
The repairman also eyed them, but it was an eye which was more weary than wary.
“Ah, yes, you two. I do apologise, but you’re going to have to stop destroying this lovely restaurant and settle your dispute like men, which is to say either resolve it in some abandoned elsewhere, or come up with a mechanism of resolution that does not involve burning down a building. Riddles, perhaps, or an interpretive dance competition. At any rate this sort of childish tantrum,” he waved one hand expansively, taking in a building that, frankly, could not even be called a building, consisting as it did of a no more than a burning shell and a curiously untouched pot and kettle, “is entirely unacceptable.”
The angsty teenage cultivator merely sneered, his spiky hair flopping about as he made a rude gesture. “Oh no, we’re interrupting your repairs. What a terrible, horrible catastrophe. I’m so distressed - well, not really. Can’t you see we’re in the middle of something here? Sadly, whatever your ‘repair work’ is will have to wait, as we’re engaged in more important matters.”
Hong Yu removed a small docket from within his robes and scanned it lethargically.
“No no, I’m afraid that won’t do. Do you think you’re the only plucky young rogue getting revenge on those who wronged him and challenging Fate? Especially at a tournament: I have over a dozen other restaurants still waiting on me to serve a #117, and a further six with a #63: Regular Service Plan. Not to mention the dozens of others which have expressed interest but which lack a formal contract. So, alack, alas, I’m going to have to cut this little fandango short and repeat myself: leave.”
Herkel’s jaw dropped. There were more of these psychopaths? An entire tournament full of them? And they were doing this everywhere else, too? What sort of awful other world was this?
Then it occurred to him. All this time, he’d accepted the hallucinogenic bathrobe lady’s words, and assumed he was in another world. But what if this was Hell? It would certainly make sense.
He stroked his hideous face as he began to seriously consider the possibility.
The plucky young rogue, however, merely snarled, twirling his sword and pointing it at Hong’s head. His arrogant face contorted in rage at the thought of somebody telling him what to do.
“You dare get in the way of this mighty cultivator? Kowtow one hundred times, peasant, and this one will forgive you.”
Herkel just stared at the youth in shock. What did being a magic farmer have to do with anything? And why did that justify destroying a restaurant and chasing someone with a sword? This couldn’t possibly be Hell; Satan wouldn’t be this nonsensical.
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Hong pocketed the docket and sighed in exhaustion. “I should warn you, the ‘Sect’ in ‘Noodle Shop Repair Sect’ is not an arbitrary designation: I am something of a cultivator myself, and know the Basic Noodle Shop Fighting Arts.”
The Author of this work cannot write what the young cultivator replied.
This is not, to be clear, because the Author cringed so hard he was unable to record the sentence as it was said, and his mind obliterated the sentence from his memory a moment later.
Rather, it was because the Author’s pen just so happened to slip at the exact same moment as his body underwent a motion which might, to the uninitiated, look as if it were a cringe, but was certainly not a cringe, for an author is always in control of himself and would never let the mere dialogue of a character affect him.
(Even if said dialogue was so stereotypical it was physically painful to listen to, and the idea of recording it was unimaginably agonising. Some things are better forgotten by posterity - not that the Author was doing any forgetting.)
Be that as it may, the Author missed the dialogue, and resumes the narration with the angsty teenage cultivator charging Hong Yu, noodle shop repairman. His sword blazed with light, his eyes with fury.
The latter shook his head sadly and used Basic Noodle Shop Fighting Art, Second Form: Slap.
Slap.
The deformed cultivator with the malignant countenance blanched, though fortunately the spray of blood kept his face from losing too much of its ruddy texture.
Herkel had no clue what was happening. One moment some madman with a sword was trying to run him through over a carp, the next a man in voluminous robes showed up, claimed to be a repairman, and then slapped the madman to death and beyond in a single blow.
And everyone else was behaving as if this was normal, day-to-day behaviour.
Hong Yu wiped his hands with a rag, then removed a pen from his toolkit, adding a small deduction for Accidental Repairman-Related Cleaning Services to the bill.
Then he bowed to the remaining cultivator. “This one gives a kowtow for the sin of having permanently disturbed your fight scene, which he is sure would have been epic, if it weren’t in a noodle shop. Nonetheless, he has work to do and would be greatly appreciative if you would withhold your vengeance against him until after he has repaired the noodle shop, and is standing somewhere noodle shop-free.”
Silence followed this pronouncement. The hideous cultivator remained in a state of shock and terror (seriously, Herkel thought, where the heck was he, and what was up with these madmen?), Yue was wondering if Hong would lend her his pen, and Wang was admiring Hong’s handiwork. He’d never seen a man who could paint the entire floor in one move.
Finally, the would-be demonic cultivator realised who Hong had been speaking to and, tripping over himself to get the words out, hurriedly began making excuses.
“Oh, no, there’s no need to worry, really, truly. Trust me - I just, uh, had an epipen- I mean epiphenomena- epiphany, I mean epiphany. Yup, an epiphany. That uhhh this line of work [whatever the heck it is, he thought] isn’t really cut out for me. So no need to wor- oh, I said that already. It’s all good, though.”
Hong’s thin face bloomed into a smile, his cheeks alighting with joy. He examined Herkel warmly.
“An epiphany? That’s wonderful - may the Heavens bless you. Do you mind if I ask what you plan to do next? The last cultivator I met who had an epiphany while destroying a noodle shop decided to abandon cultivation and take up the Path of Treetop Teahouse Asceticism.”
There was a second silence as the cultivator tried to come up with an appropriate answer to Hong’s question. Frankly, Herkel had no clue what Treetop Teahouse Asceticism was, but if it was less ludicrous than this ‘cultivation’ stuff he was all for it.
“ …What a strange coincidence. That was exactly what I decided to do, too.”
And then he dashed out of the restaurant before anyone could ask him what, exactly, Treetop Teahouse Asceticism was. Hong simply sighed.
Years before, one of the first cultivators he’d ever defeated had announced to the astonished Hong that he was leaving cultivation behind to take up the path of Treetop Teahouse Asceticism. Hong had failed to act on his curiosity and ask what, exactly, that was, and had regretted it ever since; a regret made all the greater by the fact that every time he mentioned it to a cultivator who’d had an epiphany, it always turned out to be the subject of that epiphany, yet not a one of them had stayed to tell him what it was.
Alas, some questions will forever remain unanswered, and as Hong looked around the ruined wreck of a noodle shop he realised he had more important matters to worry about. Rolling up his sleeves, he got to work.
Though not before lending Yue his pen.