Tao
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043. THE SOUND OF ONE CHOPSTICK KNOCKING
🕑 Added 2025-10-21 02:00:04 +0000 UTC“A duel?” Ming Shi squawked.
“A duel,” said Madam Zhang, thrusting the chopstick at him. “Welcome to Fragrant Bowl City, country boy. Here, slapping someone with a single chopstick is a time-honored way of challenging another chef to a duel. It also implies that you’re calling their mother’s cooking bland.”
“Oh. Right. Of course,” said Ming Shi. He remembered now. He used to get these all the time as Liu Baozi. It was just that duel challenges in the Upper District were delivered with such pomp and circumstance that the chopstick itself was overshadowed.
He’d once received a challenge that arrived with seven palanquins of treasures showcasing the stakes. They were borne by forty-two really, really, ridiculously good-looking lads and lasses. They, in turn, were accompanied by a sixty-four-person orchestra, which was separate to the seventeen-person percussion ensemble that followed behind—dedicated to drums, gongs, and those little clappers that went tik-tik-tik.
The percussion ensemble was necessary to accompany the five calligraphers, who had been sent with sixty-two silk scrolls, to write, with flourishes both dramatic and physical, a detailed account of all grievances across generations that had led to this duel. That impressively choreographed performance lasted two hours.
After that, a herald read the freshly written scrolls out loud, which lasted another two hours, before concluding with an operatic aria detailing his challenger’s entire ancestry.
It was the shortest challenge Liu Baozi ever received.
He was seven years old, as was his opponent.
The chopstick was never really presented. It was just tied to the binding of the waiver-of-claims scroll, which was a legal requirement to prevent any litigation after. (The waiver-scroll did not, however, prevent feuds. It just prevented those feuds from clogging the legal system.)
Here in the Lower District, it was simply the chopstick, front and center.
“Who’s it from?” he asked, knowing full well the answer.
“Activate it and see for yourself.” Madam Zhang turned to leave. “I’ve got soup on the stove and your drama to avoid.”
She departed, leaving Ming Shi with the chopstick. A’Nuan floated up to hover by his side, poking it with her ginseng root.
Ming Shi reached out with his qi-sense, inserting a thread of spiritual energy into the bamboo. The chopstick glimmered, then projected a translucent, life-sized image of Chang.
“MORTAL CO—”
Chang’s voice boomed out so loudly and suddenly that Ming Shi jumped, flushing hot and cold at once.
But the shout stopped as abruptly as it started. It was bizarre. Chang’s image was perfectly frozen, locked in a portrait of martial rage. His left fist was raised to the Heavens, his right leg kicked up to his ear in a vertical side-split, and his other hand stabbed a ladle straight ahead, pointing at Ming Shi. The stoutness of his physique made his flexibility even more impressive, like watching a bear perform ballet.
Chang’s face was no less spectacular to behold. His mouth was open wide enough to show all his teeth, including a gold molar in the back. His nostrils flared so dramatically they could have housed quails. A vein on his forehead bulged with such violence that it was actually quite stressful to look at, what with it being on the verge of breakthrough to Ischemic Stroke Realm.
And his eyes, good Heavens. His transcendently furious eyes. They looked just as inflamed as they did after the congee-slap.
“Shouldn’t it be moving? Declaring a duel? Calling me a grassland alpaca?” Ming Shi poked the projection. It flickered but Chang remained frozen.
“Nuan!” A’Nuan’s herby hair tickled his ear as she peered over his shoulder, which she had adopted as a safety barrier between herself and the projection.
Strange. The chopstick seemed to be malfunctioning. Ming Shi channeled more qi into it, trying to unstick whatever spiritual mechanism had jammed.
Chang’s image gave off a bzzzt and vanished. In its place, translucent text appeared, floating in the air like smoke.
Duel Reference Number:
2093211253Challenger:
Chang - Peak Qi Condensation - Riverback Street Market Stall 25Challenged:
Ming Shi - Mortal Cook - Riverback Street Market Stall 26Challenge Type:
UnconditionalDuel Type:
Stakes Only - Lethal Force And Deadly Intent Precluded By LawStakes:
To Be Determined At Duel OpeningAdjudication:
Standard, At Officiating Warden’s DiscretionParameters:
Time, Date, Location, ThemeACCEPT - PURSUANT TO FANG PROTOCOL
There was a foggy, gray cast to the characters that made them somewhat blurred. Still, the message was clear.
Of course Chang was challenging him to a duel. Considering Chang’s fury this morning, considering the congee-hand that could have spawned a Kitchen Spirit through sheer Slapping-Intent, this challenge was inevitable.
“Well, well, well,” said Ming Shi, rubbing his forehead. A’Nuan tilted her whole body, pondering alongside him. “If it isn’t the angry consequences of my own actions.”
A’Nuan rustled her hair at him. “Nuan?”
“What, you can’t tell what I did?” Ming Shi raised an eyebrow.
“Nuan!” A’Nuan shook her sage sprig at him and floated slightly backward. For the first time since his breakthrough, Ming Shi realized that she wasn’t clinging to him like velcro. His squeaky-clean post-purge aura must have started gathering worldly dust again, especially with this duel challenge. A’Nuan no longer had the pleasure of seeing through him with perfect clarity.
“Ah. Let me explain. I, er, spent three days …how do I put this …?” Ming Shi cleared his throat. “I spent three days … getting this man to throw congee at me.”
“… Nuan?” A’Nuan looked at him skeptically. That’s it?
“It involved a certain level of provocation,” said Ming Shi, “but in a good-humored way!”
The challenge text flickered and Chang’s image replaced it—not his full body, just his face, but a close-up in such high definition that Ming Shi could see the beads of sweat on his brow, the crinkles at the corners of his outraged eyes, and a small scar on his chin.
“Nuan?” A’Nuan pointed at Chang’s flared nostrils with her ginseng. Good humor makes this kind of face?
Another flicker, zooming right into Chang’s open mouth and gold molar before returning to the duel text.
Ming Shi cleared his throat again. “First of all,” he said, “let me point out that Chang started it. He called me a Mortal Cook to try and shame me, he said I was ‘embarrassing’ in front of Young Master Fang, and he physically assaulted me by bouncing me across the street.”
A’Nuan stared at him. “Nuan.” And? Clean thoughts. Come clean.
“And … ” said Ming Shi. “And then …”
And then he admitted an uncomfortable truth that he’d repressed for the past three days. He had folded it up and tucked it away, along with his qi-dumplings.
A problem for future Ming Shi, he’d thought. If current Ming Shi survives.
Well, he survived. The future was now. The truth will out.
“And then I spent three days subjecting Chang to a campaign of psychological manipulation whereby I systematically plotted escalating provocations to embarrass him in ways that I knew would cause him to lose control, dignity, and face in front of the chefs and customers he’s spent thirty years working alongside and serving.”
He winced. Those words did not sound good out loud.
“Nuan,” said A’Nuan, solemnly. She floated to him and touched his forehead with her sage, staring into his eyes.
“And I engineered his public humiliation—one that was far disproportionate to the offense he dealt me—in order to exploit him for my own benefit …” Ming Shi trailed off.
A’Nuan had drifted down to the floor, and now she pointed under his bed with her ginseng root. “Nuan!”
“Oh,” said Ming Shi. “Yes, sure you can read it. I’ll get it out for you.”
He got on his hands and knees and reached under his bed. Madam Zhang was not the only person for whom he’d prepared a note in case he died.
There was the clink and scrape of metal against wood as Ming Shi brushed aside a pile of coins. He retrieved the slip of paper that had been placed underneath the money and held it out for A’Nuan to read.
For Chang. Your qi-boosts were delicious. This Junior apologizes for their disrespect these past few days. These coins are just partial payment for your congee. For turning you into a laughingstock in front of the whole street, for making a mockery of you before your customers, for making a spectacle of your food and emotions, I owe you more. In my next life, I will repay my debt fully. This Junior hopes we will not be enemies then.
Ming Shi sat down on the floor next to A’Nuan and sighed. He knew what he’d done, and he’d do it again. He wouldn’t make excuses for his actions. Some chefs might have written off the whole escapade as laughs and witty shenanigans, but Ming Shi was plagued with a disease called self-awareness. He could delay self-reckonings with Compartmentalization Dao, but he could never escape them.
“I sometimes go too far for the sake of my cooking,” he said to A’Nuan apologetically. “I get tunnel vision. I just wanted to break through to be a chef again. So I took Chang’s assholery and made an opportunity of it. By out-assing him, I suppose.
“Nuan!” said A’Nuan shaking her whole body. Not clean!
“I didn’t say it was,” said Ming Shi. “It was funny and it worked out great for me, but I’m not stupid. I know I left a stain on Chang’s honor. But can I just say—his anger-management issues are his own failing—”
“Nuan!” A’Nuan swished at his cheek with her sage sprig.
“—and admittedly, I set him up to fail. That was the point of my plan, yes.”
A’Nuan bubbled in assent. She rapped his IOU note with her ginseng root like a stern schoolteacher. “Nuan!” Clean up! Clean up your mess!
“Here’s what I’ll do,” said Ming Shi, nodding decisively. “I’ll decline this duel and apologize to Chang. In public. And I’ll pay him back for the congee with interest. As for the debt of honor …”
He blew out a breath as he assessed what he owed Chang. “Actually, it’s more than a debt of honor. I couldn’t have broken through without him. This is a full-blown karmic-debt situation. I’ll cook Chang something nice. Really nice.”
“Nuan!” agreed A’Nuan.
“What do you think he likes, besides congee?” mused Ming Shi. “Also—very important, this part is extremely important—what won’t offend him or make things worse? What won’t get me killed? How do we court Chang without courting death?”
Ming Shi’s eyes traveled back to the smoky challenge text still floating in the air. Suddenly, the characters jittered. There was the smell of scorched rice, and they disintegrated …
… and reintegrated …
… back into the Portrait of an Angry Chang.
Only one character remained, floating just above Chang’s enraged, out-stabbed ladle:
ACCEPT
Somewhere, a Temple bell rang.
Thus began Ming Shi’s enlightenment.
