Somehow, I’d found myself once more standing in the makeshift auditorium where I’d met and offended Elder Li. Once again the forested glade with its rows of felled trees for benches was filled with disciples. This time though, there were a few differences. The crowd was a little older, there were no ten year olds in attendance today, the youngest disciples looked in their teenage years, but they were on average well into adulthood. A few even looked visibly aged, a rarity in the sect. Additionally, a few actual chairs had been moved out and scattered throughout the front row, and were now occupied by a few of the sect’s elders.
Finally, and perhaps most importantly, this time instead of lurking at the back of the room, I stood at the lecturer’s podium, another piece of actual furniture we’d drug out into the woods. Apparently, the sheer novelty of me giving a lecture had resulted in unprecedented interest, forcing the organizers to either hold it here, or put limits on the attendance. I’d have opted for the latter, but nobody had asked me.
I still wasn’t quite sure who had made the logistics happen to put this together, I certainly hadn’t lifted a finger. I suspected Elder Liang, given that Liang Tao had been the one to stop by and inform me of the scheduled time, but I’d be shocked if Elder Li hadn’t been involved. He had apparently been the one to set up this clearing for his large class of initiates, and I suspected he’d volunteered it, when he saw a plausible excuse to prevent me from using an actual lecture hall. While the sheer number of disciples in attendance wasn’t ideal, I didn’t much mind the makeshift venue otherwise. What I had in mind would work better outdoors anyway, where I wouldn’t need to worry about ceilings.
It was a novel experience for me, to be anxious about public speaking. I’d always found it natural in a way my peers never had, from policy debate in high school, to when my first consulting gig had forced me to attend the local toastmasters chapter. I’d always just shown up with the most bare-bones of outlines imaginable and talked about the subject for ten minutes. I never understood why other people had difficulty with it. But this? This was insane. There must have been nearly a thousand disciples in the crowd. And I was about to disappoint them all.
I took a deep breath, and let it out. The die was cast, I didn’t know enough about cultivation to give any other lecture than the one I’d prepared. I couldn’t afford to throw out the sort of plausibly reasoned but unprovable statements about the world I’d given Su Li, it exposed too much surface for questioning. I’d need to go in an unconventional direction, stick on ground I truly understood. If it got me lynched, then so be it.
The massive crowd was an eclectic bunch. The grand majority of disciples wore the black and blue uniform of the sect, but here and there a few splotches of color stood out like sore thumbs. Most of them were concentrated in the front, worn by higher ranking members of the sect, but there were a few clumps of outer disciples that broke from the standard color scheme. One large clump wore ragged looking robes in greens and browns that reminded me of camouflage patterns, another group had replaced the standard dark blue trim with eye-catching white. I wondered who they were.
Slowly, I let my eyes drift to the front row. The three elders I’d already met were in attendance, but they weren’t the only ones seated. Liang Tao had a chair as well, next to his master, or mother, I still wasn’t sure about that. I was leaning mother, from how much she seemed to be using him as an errand boy. There were about twenty chairs in the front row total, so conservatively perhaps ten elders I’d never met, who would be listening to this. Su Li was also sitting in the front row, on one of the logs set between the chairs. I wondered how long she’d been waiting there, to be sure that she would have the best seat. Or perhaps one of the elders had saved her one? I didn’t think it would be common knowledge in the sect yet that I’d chosen to teach her, even if those three elders knew.
I wondered if she’d known Elder Liang would be here, or if she’d simply swallowed her hate and fear to support me.
I swallowed, then swallowed again, forcing down the dry lump that had formed in my throat. It was showtime. I raised one hand, and slapped the top of the podium. Cultivator strength meant that even a comparatively gentle blow resounded like a gunshot, immediately silencing the myriad of conversations that had sprung up as people waited.
“In my many years walking this earth I once lived in a land far from here, beneath strange heavens.” I began, fear falling away as I launched into the one part of this lecture I’d rehearsed, my hook. “In this land, there was a man renowned for his talent at the arts. Many called him a genius. Many called him mad. These two groups were not without shared membership. His name was Kan Ye of the West. Like many geniuses, he was eccentric and quick to take offense. But even those who envied or hated him could not deny his skill. He wrote famous songs and designed garments prized the world over, and dabbled in any craft that caught his fancy. Once, a man asked him, ‘Kan Ye, you practice many arts, what is the difference in how you approach tailoring and how you approach music’?
“Kan Ye looked at him, and said: ‘Everything in this world is exactly the same.’”
I paused for a moment, to let that sink in. Did I want to expound upon it? Probably not. An argument could be attacked, an implication needed to be defined before it could be argued against. The audience was silent, but there was a tension there now that had been lacking earlier, you could tell everyone and their aunt wanted to share their takes on the subject with their nearest neighbor.
“Today, I will teach you how to properly prepare fried rice.”
The tension burst, and murmurs flowed through the clearing, as every disciple either exclaimed about the lesson’s profundity, or remarked that perhaps Kan Ye wasn’t the only one who was mad. Only the elders refrained from commentary, limiting themselves to raised eyebrows. Elder Li tilted his head and frowned, as if attempting to make the same face I had when watching his lecture. The ridiculousness of it brought a small smile to my lips. That man was as prickly as a porcupine’s bastard by way of a cactus. I waited a few moments for the comments to run their course, before letting loose a gentle pulse of qi, my influence bursting forth like a wave. The silence that followed in its wake was most satisfying.
“Fried rice is a simple dish. It can be prepared with near any combination of vegetables, meats, and seasonings. It’s very simplicity gives rise to extraordinary complexity, as even a master chef would be hard pressed to opine on the subject of what constitutes the most perfect fried rice, for the potential combinations are boundless. Some chefs claim that the best fried rice is the classical salty and savory variant, others prefer a heavily spiced curried rice, and still others eschew the more traditional protein for crab meat, or introduce exotic fruits and hot peppers to create something sweet and spicy. The rice can be left untouched, seasoned only by salt, oil, and the breath of the wok, enhanced with concentrated stocks or fish sauces, or even have thicker, creamier sauces that would be incompatible with a wok added after cooking is finished. And yet, while the possible variations of the recipe are as numberless as the stars in the sky, there are simple rules an aspiring chef might hew to in order to avoid the most common modes of failure.
“In fried rice, as in all cooking done with a wok, the greatest enemy is water. All foodstuffs bear quantities of that element within themselves, save only those dried to such a degree that they crumble to powder. One cannot avoid water, it is a vital element of the final dish, and a dry fried rice is nearly as bad as a soggy one, but it must be managed. Too much water will cool the pan. A cool pan will cook slowly. Vegetables and meat cooked slowly will render their own juices into the pan. And so the pan will cool further.
“This abundance of water will lead to a product that is soft and soggy, causing the grains of rice to congeal into an unappetizing mass, and is the clearest mark of an unskilled or impatient chef. Hence the wise chef directs the grand majority of their preparations at avoiding this outcome. The first rule is simple, one should always have all of the ingredients they intend to use at hand, measured out, and cut to the appropriate size. Once the oil is set to fire, the time for such preparations is long passed. The second rule to remember is that slightly older rice is best suited for frying. Such rice should be left to rest for perhaps half a day during the warmer months, and as long as a full day during the cooler ones, or if stored in a cellar. Freshly cooked grains of rice will stick to each other and yield up water freely. A day to dry yields rice with a dry skin, but moist center. In a similar vein, one’s seasonings should be chosen for not only their flavor, but also their intensity. Fermented sauces and stocks can be concentrated through boiling. By using concentrated, or even powdered seasonings, we can avoid introducing excess liquid into our wok.
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“Finally, there is the matter of fire to consider. As any student of the five phases might be able to tell you, water overcomes fire. The truth of the matter is more complex, but in the case of fried rice this broadly holds true. An excess of water cannot be solved with an excess of fire, for an excess of both will produce steam and cause oil to spatter, neither desirable. The quantity and intensity of fire we use will be determined primarily by the size of our wok.
“But words can only teach you so much.”
I pulled hard on my storage ring, feeding it a substantial amount of qi. With a dull pop, an elegant stone stove popped into existence before me, already loaded up with the wood I’d tasked Su Li with chopping. After I’d found the stove in one of the many empty buildings dotting the grounds of the sect, I’d spent an afternoon cleaning it in a stream. My own manor’s accommodations were rather ascetic for my tastes, and I was keen on eventually having a properly stocked kitchen again. The disciples chattered wildly, as with more dull pops I drew out ceramic bowls I set upon the felled tree next to me. Spring onions, carrots diced small, thin shreds of raw chicken, eggs beaten well, and a bowl of shelling peas I’d already given a light boil. I hadn’t found soy sauce, but they’d had a sort of fermented fish and wheat sauce they’d called ‘fish dew’, which combined well with a little concentrated chicken stock. The market district that catered to the outer disciples had been remarkably well stocked, and my budget nigh limitless, my storage ring had been stocked with no shortage of silver. I’d gone all out, purchasing the single largest wok I could find, and enough food to fill it several times over. Once I’d confirmed that fruit did not noticeably ripen in the ring, nothing on heaven or earth could have stopped me from carrying a full pantry with me at all times.
The stove I’d found was a curious thing, perhaps three feet tall and a foot and a half in diameter. It was well ventilated, but I suspected some sort of qi wizardry was at work, because it seemed to draw in more air, and thus burn hotter, than a device its size should have by convection alone. It was that fact that had cemented the idea of a public cooking lesson in my head. Without its unnatural efficiency making it closer to a jet turbine than a tea stove, I would have struggled to cook on it with a normal sized wok, let alone this near two foot monstrosity I was pretty sure had been crafted as a showpiece.
“Today, I will be preparing a relatively simple variant of the recipe, a somewhat vegetable heavy version of the classical savory fried rice. The best way to learn is by doing, but a wise man lets the blunders of his brothers serve to fill his plate.”
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“Everything in this world is exactly the same.”
The words echoed in Fang Xiao’s head. They felt… Right. Almost blindingly obvious in hindsight. Was that not the nature of this world, that the talented trod upon those less favored by heaven? Were some more gifted than others in certain domains. Obviously. And yet, had he ever met a swordsman of true skill that did not also have surpassing talent at cultivation?
“Today, I will teach you how to properly prepare fried rice.”
What.
Elder Hu… Was an immortal chef? Every disciple and their mother offered opinions about this revelation.
“Is he deliberately wasting our time to spite Elder Li?” Zhao Hui wondered aloud.
“Finally, an elder with their priorities in the right place.” One remarkably fat outer disciple remarked.
A hundred other things were said, most were not particularly enthusiastic.
Elder Hu’s pressure silenced the crowd. It wasn’t killing intent. It wasn’t true cultivation pressure either, merely the barest hint of power, less oppressive weight than Fang Xiao could exert if he really tried. But nobody spoke another word. The essence of his qi carried with it a reminder, that a blade did not need to be heavy, to cut.
And then the man proceeded to launch into a long lecture about water content and wok temperature.
Fang Xiao tuned it out, he wasn’t interested in learning to cook. He was a little more interested than he was before, knowing that Elder Hu held it in his eyes, but it was Kan Ye's words that struck a chord in him.
Could every emperor and sword saint surpass mortal, or even immortal chefs at the culinary arts if they chose to dedicate themselves to them? Something within him whispered ‘Yes’.
Fang Xiao had no skill at cooking. Fang Xiao was talented. Fang Xiao knew in his bones that should he dedicate himself, he could master the art. He wouldn’t. He didn’t care about it. But why should he fear to practice the spear, or assume Elder Li’s skill with puppets would forever be beyond him? Why shouldn’t he study alchemy? Master formations? Seek to command every element?
"Everything in this world is exactly the same." The words echoed in his head. They were unassuming, but were they not the most domineering thing he'd ever heard? This, now this was an idea he could build a foundation on, a truth that could forge a pillar.
Was the essence of one art independent from the essence of another? Did not every great text say the one true Dao was in all things? Until now, he'd never understood what that meant.
“Blind heavens, is this what enlightenment feels like?” The fat outer disciple muttered. “An excess of fire cannot overcome an excess of water… Of course my five spiced braised pork is dry within, I’m overheating the meat to compensate for the additional water introduced by the vegetables. Excess of water and fire both… Perhaps a spit instead of a pan?”
“No wonder he doesn’t have any students, if all he can teach is mortal cookery.” Some foolish child complained.
“Shut up you idiot, in his hands that wok might as well be a sword, he could split you in twain where you stand and none of the other Elders would say a word.” A senior chastised him. Good advice in principle, if wrong in specifics. Sectmaster Meng had little patience for people executing his disciples at the moment, after that debacle with the late Elder Fan.
Fang Xiao ignored the chattering fools, cycling his cultivation. There was little spare qi here, and to attempt a breakthrough would have been the height of foolishness. But ever since he’d formed the sea that was the root of his foundation, he’d never been without qi within the grounds of the sect. He could at least begin testing different formulations of the elements he commanded, see which of them resonated most profoundly with the truth revealed to him. Lightning and sword was the most obvious answer, but he suspected it wasn’t the best one. And Fang Xiao was not the sort of man who accepted a merely passable answer.
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"While sesame oil can tolerate great heat, adding it at the end helps preserve its aromatic components. Its strong flavor and comparative expense makes it less suitable as a base for frying than soybean oil or well clarified lard, so I prefer to use it as a finishing touch, so I can know exactly how much I need."
With a final flip for style, moved the still sizzling wok off the heat. I didn't really have anywhere to put it, so I just held the massive wok, nearly two feet in diameter, with one hand. It might as well have been a paper fan for all it strained my forearm.
With my actual lecture finished, I felt I needed to give the audience something to cling to, lest I seed more rumors than necessary about my sudden madness.
“I will leave the obvious corollaries of this endeavor to alchemy and formation design for the listener to uncover.”
There. A challenge, and a suitably vague one at that. Cooking and alchemy seemed to have obvious parallels, just as cooking and chemistry did, and from everything I’d read in the library, formation design seemed to be the most underspecified field of study of all time. It was like physics, in that formation masters loved to claim that everyone else’s field of study was just a special case of theirs. While browsing the library looking for resources for Su Li, I’d found a scroll some ‘Elder Cai’ had written, an entire treatise about how ‘Alchemy is just a special case of formation design, which is the purest emanation of the great dao mortals can hope to comprehend’. I’d found the entire thing quite self-aggrandizing, and pretty useless from a practical perspective. All I’d learned from that book was that you could call literally anything formation design and someone would agree with you.
“Feel free to help yourselves to some rice. You’ll need to find your own bowls though.”
I looked at the crowd. When I’d first come up with this insane plan, I hadn’t planned for several hundred people to show up. Luckily, operation mobile pantry had left me well prepared for such an eventuality.
I pulled a cutting board out of my ring.
“I suppose I should do a second batch.”
Fuck. I should have bought a second wok. Or a serving dish to match it. What was I going to put all the finished rice in?