Chapter Twenty-Seven: Keeping Vigil in the Mourning Hall

“Keeping vigil over the departed” is one of the most significant rituals in funerary customs. It has existed since ancient times, though I do not know its exact origins; yet everyone seems to understand it well. Since the dawn of our nation’s history, since the emergence of our culture, this tradition has endured.

Moreover, it represents our deepest way of expressing mourning for those who have passed—it is even a thread woven into the fabric of our cultural and emotional heritage.

Traditionally, from the moment a person dies until their burial, family and close friends must never leave their side. The spouse of the same generation and children of the next must don mourning clothes made of hemp, wail loudly, and even break bowls during the funeral rites.

Otherwise, if the deceased’s passage is not properly observed, their journey to the afterlife will be troubled, their reincarnation compromised, and the living will lose their virtue and invite misfortune upon themselves.

But my old squad leader’s situation is, frankly, quite sorrowful.

The Zhao family line has been passed down for over six centuries, yet by his generation, the family had dwindled severely. His only direct relative was his elder brother, Zhao Haikun. Beyond that, it seemed only a young woman claiming kinship to the Huainan Zhao family—Zhao Shuihe—remained.

However, Zhao Shuihe is my old squad leader’s grandmother, and thus could not don the mourning garb for him.

Consequently, the responsibility of wearing the hemp mourning for my squad leader fell solely upon me, his disciple.

I had long felt this was a duty I could not shirk.

My squad leader’s death was both mysterious and tragic enough. I could not bear to see him receive no funeral rites, no mourning cries, no broken bowls. Whether others could accept this or not, I could not. The sacred rules of our five internal organs temple weighed heavily upon me.

So, without hesitation, I chose to remain steadfast at the funeral hall, regardless of what others might say.

At this moment, I am alone in the solemn funeral chamber, overwhelmed by an indescribable melancholy. Yet, reflecting on all the kindness and favors my squad leader had bestowed upon me, I find some solace.

After all, this was my final opportunity to see him off.

Soon, the afternoon arrived.

At mealtime, Xian Hongye came by the funeral hall and handed me a bowl of noodles. I thanked her and began eating ravenously.

Halfway through, I suddenly stopped.

“These noodles aren’t made by Zhao Haikun, are they?” I looked closely at the few strands in my bowl and exclaimed in surprise, “This must be Huaiyang cuisine—masterfully prepared.”

Xian Hongye, like me, was delicately savoring a half bowl of noodles, far more refined than my hurried eating.

Hearing my words, she raised her head with a hint of astonishment and said, “You can tell so much just from a few noodles? That’s impressive. These noodles were made by Zhao Shuihe. When she brought them to me, she said they were…”

“March Spring Noodles! Also called Plum Blossom Noodles, right?” I hurriedly interjected.

Xian Hongye was amazed, “How do you know that?”

“I know more than that!” I said, gazing at the bowl adorned with faint oil and scallions. “The biggest difference between these and ordinary spring noodles lies in the dough and the kneading technique called ‘Plum Blossom Three Strokes,’ which relies on finger strength. It’s a legendary skill left by the Huaiyang culinary genius, Xiao Meiren. Noodles made this way are not only exquisite but deeply flavorful, with a texture that evokes the tactile sensation of chewing plum blossoms in the early spring.”

“How do you know so much?”

“I must know. This technique is famous but few still master it,” I sighed. “Xiao Meiren’s skill is not something anyone can imitate.”

“Who is Xiao Meiren?” Xian Hongye asked, her mouth slightly agape as she held her chopsticks.

I recalled briefly and answered, “Xiao Meiren was a figure from the Qianlong era. Common folk might not know her, but in our Five Internal Organs Temple, she’s a household name—a peerless culinary artist, known as Xiao Xishi. Her noodle and pastry craft is unparalleled.”

Mentioning her stirred a mix of excitement and admiration in me. “She is the ancestor of white-dough artisans in Huaiyang cuisine, and also…”

Before I could finish, a voice suddenly interrupted, “...and the idol I admire!”

Startled, the calm yet somewhat excited voice drifting from beneath my old squad leader’s funeral altar grabbed our attention.

As I expected, it was Zhao Shuihe, that spirited young woman, emerging again.

Ah, just as feared.

At this moment, Zhao Shuihe was clearly buoyed by my flowery praise. Climbing onto the altar, she boasted to me, “My ‘Plum Blossom Three Strokes’ technique was secretly learned from my brother. How about that! Far better than your Confucius Temple’s Lu cuisine noodles! Doesn’t it have the lingering charm of Xiao Meiren?”

Her words annoyed me.

Self-praise is one thing, but why must she disparage our Confucius Temple?

Moreover… this girl is quite narcissistic. She dares to compare herself to Xiao Meiren before proving anything. True, her skill is commendable, but her arrogance is excessive. No wonder Zhao Haikun mockingly calls her ‘Zhao Smackhe’—she needs a good slap or she’ll float away to the heavens.

For her own good, I refrained from flattering her. Since she belittled our Confucius Temple, I could not remain silent.

So, I smiled and replied lightly, “If you are Xiao Meiren, then I must be Wang Xiaoyu!”

Wang Xiaoyu is a red-dough master chef in Chinese culinary history, comparable to Xiao Meiren in prestige—but far beyond my humble self.

My words were meant as jest, to temper her arrogance and remind her that her head wasn’t truly a floating lotus.

The effect was immediate. Zhao Shuihe’s face fell, and she retorted, accusing me of shamelessness, saying I deserved to be poisoned by the White Food Curse, and that she wouldn’t save me.

Her words stunned me.

Good heavens! I was so focused on putting her in her place, I forgot she holds the key to breaking the White Food Curse!

I truly am a fool.

Helpless, I changed my expression to a gentle smile and said, “No... Lady Matron! Please don’t take it personally. This is a matter of life and death—we shouldn’t joke about it. Besides, I’m not the only one cursed with the White Food Curse. Could you perhaps show some mercy and spare me?”

After I spoke, Zhao Shuihe’s anger somewhat eased. She looked me over, then chuckled slyly.

That smile, paired with her cunning gaze, made me shudder!

A sense of conspiracy quickly radiated from her.

After laughing, she glared at me fiercely and said, “I already asked Sister Hongye about you. You’re really unlucky and bold! You provoked the Yin Shop, got cursed with the Food Curse, messed with the fiery tail poison, and there’s even someone with the Food Spell lying in the inner room. How do you manage to encounter such deadly and rare misfortunes? Are you the reincarnation of a broom star? Your nuts sure shine brightly!”

Her words genuinely frightened me.

So Hongye had told her everything! That means I’m completely exposed.

Zhao Shuihe is from Huainan, yet these words were pure Beijing dialect—sharp as knives, each sentence cutting me down.

After hearing her, I didn’t just feel vulnerable; I felt utterly trapped and terrified.

Helpless, I stammered, “Shuihe, you really know everything?”

“Of course!” she nodded.

“Then can you help me solve a few problems?” I asked cautiously.

Zhao Shuihe smirked but didn’t answer directly. Instead, she produced a coin, twirling it in her hand with a dismissive air, and said, “If your master Zhao Haipeng can do it, then so can I.”

Her words carried only one meaning.

My life and death rested on Zhao Shuihe’s single thought.

At that moment, tears nearly welled in my eyes.

Could it be that I must kowtow to her and acknowledge her as my grandmother?