Chapter Thirty-Seven: Two Questions

First, thank you all for your concern. It’s nothing serious—just a recurring migraine brought on by a pinched nerve in my neck. An old ailment, really. After a session with the venerable doctor and his fine needles at the hospital today, I’m already much improved. It won’t affect my updates going forward.

———

The days that followed returned to their familiar rhythm.

Master Xiao didn’t stay long before he returned to the mountain. Wu Ning had assumed that with Xiao away for so many days, his inn would have to close its doors. Yet, as pilgrims began to arrive, drawn in part by the inn’s unique charm—a matchless retreat in all of Fangzhou—business not only continued but thrived.

Later, Master Xiao made a special trip to visit. As he was leaving, he patted Wu Ning’s shoulder and said, “Mmm, it is indeed quite distinctive. I see I was not mistaken about you.”

His words carried an even deeper resolve, as if his wish to take Wu Ning as a disciple had only grown stronger.

As for their wager...

Well, Master Xiao chose to forget it entirely, acting as if it had never happened. This infuriated Wu Ning, who could barely resist burning down the old master’s lair to vent his frustration.

———

By the end of August, the inns run by Fifth and Sixth Uncles had also been refurbished and opened for business on an auspicious day.

With time, the reputation of Seeking Jade Residence spread through Fangzhou. Pilgrims were no longer the primary guests; instead, scholars and wealthy patrons, eager to experience the flavor of Wei and Jin culture, flocked to the small mountain hollow.

Whenever his rooms were full, Wu Ning would direct guests to his uncles’ inns. Gradually, all three establishments gained a foothold. Vacancies became rare.

If one calculated based on a rate of five hundred copper coins per room, Wu Ning would have made a small fortune in just under two months.

However, the family patriarch eventually forbade Wu Ning from charging such high rates. The old man cared little for market tricks or novelty. He saw only this: “Even if you’ve made the place look like paradise, it didn’t cost you much. What right do you have to charge so much?”

In truth, he felt Wu Ning was making money too easily, and that unsettled him.

Wu Ning considered arguing, but then realized that lowering the price wasn’t a bad idea. After all, Fangzhou was not the capital cities of Chang’an or Luoyang, teeming with wealthy travelers. The five-hundred-coin rate certainly attracted notice, but most guests only stayed once out of curiosity. When the novelty faded, few would be able to afford it, no matter the inn’s fame.

Better to reduce the price now, while business was booming, and cultivate a loyal clientele.

So, after discussing with the patriarch, Wu Ning lowered the rate to one hundred coins a night, comparable to the best rooms in the city’s grand inns.

The effect was immediate. Regulars like Du Gu’ao and Lei Ji began visiting frequently, sometimes bringing their friends to study or compose poetry, bringing even more patrons to Wu Ning’s door.

Yet new problems emerged.

First, the matter of poems inscribed on the walls.

Second, the question of meals.

———

Regarding the wall poems, Wu Ning’s own abilities only sufficed to fill one room, and he had nothing left for another, let alone for his uncles’ newly opened inns. Yet, these poems were a must—after all, his main guests now were scholars and those who fancied themselves connoisseurs of culture.

Wu Ning knew plenty of verses by masters like Li Bai and Bai Juyi, but he couldn’t bear to casually scribble such treasures on the walls. His stock of poetry was limited and might be needed for greater purposes in the future.

In the end, out of options, Wu Ning turned to Ugly Uncle.

Despite his unfortunate appearance, Ugly Uncle’s literary skill was respectable. Penning a few pretentious verses for the occasion was no challenge.

Wu Ning dragged him into a guest room, shoved brush and ink into his hands, and declared—whether you want to or not, you’re writing these poems.

Ugly Uncle eyed Wu Ning in silence for a long while before saying, “Fine. A few poems—not so difficult.”

With a flourish, he produced a five-character quatrain.

Wu Ning read it and was nearly brought to tears. He snatched the brush away.

“You win!”

“Wu Eighth! Come, repaint this wall!”

Ugly Uncle merely crossed his arms, unconcerned, thinking: “You think you can outmaneuver me?”

On the wall, in bold, slashing strokes, was written:

Drunkenly casting off autumn’s grief,
Sleeping amidst eternal sorrow.
Affection forgotten in reminiscence,
A soul shattered within a net of sin.

The lines seethed with murderous intent and unending resentment! If these four verses remained on the wall, who would dare sleep in this room?

Wu Ning had no choice but to wrack his brains and risk everything, managing to scrounge up two late-life poems of Meng Haoran to fill the void, all the while hoping Meng Haoran himself would never set foot in Fangzhou.

———

As for the second issue: meals.

Initially, this wasn’t a problem. Only recently had it become apparent. Wu Ning’s clay pot rice was something of a specialty; everyone agreed it was delicious. But therein lay the problem—it was his only dish. Once or twice was fine, but eaten every day, it quickly grew tiresome.

Regular guests like Du Gu’ao had already begun to complain, asking if he could serve something different.

But aside from his clay pot rice, Wu Ning’s cooking couldn’t compare with the city’s restaurants. Innovating new dishes became a pressing concern.

So, Wu Ning thought of stir-frying.

———

Inventing stir-fried dishes in the Tang Dynasty involved three main challenges: the pan, the oil, and the heat.

———

Of these, the heat was the easiest to manage. Even without a vented stove, more firewood and a stronger blaze could suffice. If all else failed, Huzi could stand by with a fan to stoke the flames.

Oil, however, was a problem. There was no vegetable oil in the Tang, nor soybean oil—only sesame oil for lamps, which was unsuitable for cooking. Pressing his own oil was out of the question. After some thought, Wu Ning considered using pork or mutton fat. That might work, provided the dishes were cooked and served immediately, with no leftovers.

But then, there was the pan. The Tang had no thin-bottomed pans suited for stir-frying, so he couldn’t even test whether animal fat would do.

The first priority, then, was to procure a suitable pan.

For this, Wu Ning went into the city himself, visiting several blacksmiths to commission a custom stir-fry pan.

Yet after his rounds, he decided to abandon the idea of stir-frying for now.

Why? Because the price was outrageous.

When he described the pan he wanted, every blacksmith nodded, “We can make that, young master. How many do you need?”

“Two, but the walls must be thin.”

“How thin?”

“The thinner the better.”

“I see.” The blacksmith nodded, holding up his palm. “Fifty—”

“Strings?!”

“…”

Wu Ning nearly cursed out loud. “Are you robbing me?”

His Fourth Uncle had a blade of hundred-forged steel, a reward for military merit and revered in the ancestral hall—a priceless weapon worth only twenty or thirty strings of coins. Yet here the blacksmith demanded fifty strings for a single pan. If that wasn’t robbery, what was?

The blacksmith laughed heartily. “Let me explain, young master. To make a pan that thin and still withstand the fire, only the finest steel used for swords will do.”

“If you use ordinary cast iron, make it that thin and it’ll burn through the first time you put it on the fire! Even a spatula would punch a hole in it!”

Wu Ning was speechless. “Still, fifty strings is too much, isn’t it?”

“Not at all,” the blacksmith replied. “The material for one pan would make several swords. You tell me—isn’t it worth fifty strings?”

“Goodbye!” Wu Ning gave up.

Fifty strings for a single pan—he’d have to sell how many plates of stir-fried celery just to break even?

———