WSMTATMC C50

Chapter 50

The carriages jolted for two full hours, long enough that Master Liang Boqing nearly vomited his soul out before they reached the Chen family estate. At last they descended and walked into the village.

It was much as Liang had expected: simple surroundings, honest folk—one might also call it a poor, forgotten mountain hollow.

For someone born the pampered son of a wealthy clan in Yangzhou, seldom setting foot outside cultured cities, this rustic scene was strange novelty indeed.

As they entered, many peasants greeted Chen Qingyan and Wang Ying respectfully. More than a few directed their greetings toward Wang Ying specifically—asking about farming techniques or pest remedies.

“Master Wang, I mixed ash‑fertilizer with dung as you said. A few days ago I scattered some in my vegetable patch. But soon I saw many worms—what do I do?”

“You likely did not compost thoroughly—eggs survived. Mix in lime; about one jin of lime per three jin of dung. Moisten, stir, seal for a few days. Then dilute before using, else herbs may burn your seedlings.”

The farmer beamed. “Ai! That will save us!”

Another came: “East fields’ wheat show yellow streaks. Some leaves dried already.”

Wang frowned. It sounded like wheat rust disease (锈病). “I’ll have a look later today.”

When they passed out of earshot, Liang asked, “So this young husband knows farm texts?”

“Some small knowledge,” Ying replied with modesty.

Liang said nothing, but inwardly his opinion of these two softened.

At last they reached the new villa. Young Qinghuai gawked, eyes wide. “Cousin—this, this is where you live?!” He had imagined crude cottages. Instead, this estate looked grander than town homes.

Steward Chen Bo opened gates at once: “Young Master, Young Lord, welcome!” Spying the extra guests, he realized these must be the ones Lord Chen Jing spoke of, and ushered them in.

Passing the threshold, Liang’s beard curled in a rare smile. He stroked whiskers, nodding in satisfaction.

Five great halls, flanked by kitchens and guest chambers, roofed by covered corridors. Reclining chairs beneath the eaves—perfect for observing rain.

The courtyard bloomed with flowers and planted trees, lively with grace. In its center ran a clear brook bridged by an arched walkway, animating what might otherwise be rigid symmetry.

Inside, the sitting hall amazed Liang further. A set of sofas, cushioned and wide. He flopped onto one, posture far from scholarly—yet so comfortable he could not resist sighing: “Never have I seen such chairs!”

Ying offered bland explanation: “This follows border Hu peoples’ design. For private homes only—we use what relaxes.”

Liang nodded: “Excellent, excellent.” He rose, exploring rooms one by one. When he reached the bathhouse, he tested the pool—and his eyes bulged. The water was warm!

“Marvelous! To think in wilderness I’d find such treasure!”

In his own chamber, Liang scratched the stone kang (炕, heated bed). “They build stone beds here in the north? Won’t it be cold?”

“No,” explained Ying. “Channels lead from a hearth. Firewood heats the platform, warmth lasts half a night.”

Liang’s eyes went wide. “And you won’t roast alive?”

Ying laughed. “Stone insulates. Exhaust vents run to chimney. It stays warm, never scorching.”

“Ho! I must try!”

(Indeed, the first time Qingyan saw one, he too had asked if it would roast him; once he slept upon it, he never wanted to rise again on frozen mornings.)

Servants carried luggage into two guest rooms. Since younger brother Qingsong had come too, he shared a chamber with cousin Qinghuai. The two boys quickly bonded, one questioning, the other answering; conversation turned to scrolls and classics.

Meanwhile Liang reclined to rest. In the back garden, Qingyan tugged Ying, voice euphoric: “Ah Ying—you know who he is?!”

“I recall you mentioning… Jiangnan’s famed prodigy, Liang Liufang.”

“He is not mere prodigy!” Qingyan rattled off legends: how at seven he had learned primers, at eight memorized the classics, at nine composed lines as famous as “Mountains loom, rivers stretch, autumn deep yet southern grass not withered.” At sixteen he debated famed scholar Bai Shouwen for three nights, triumphing even so, hailed as “the pride of the South.”

Yet next year, cheated of exam chance, accused of fraud. In fury, he penned scathing verses against the exam system—shaking the empire.

Ying’s jaw dropped. “That’s a great fortune!” (Secretly: Who knows—perhaps many of the poems I memorized in school were his works, only I never knew!)

Qingyan added, “He could have sat again—granted by court—but refused, too proud.”

“For real?”

“True!”

At once, heads turned, their hearts lit—was not this hope again? If Liang, disgraced, had yet received pardon once, might Qingyan too?

Qingyan’s eyes brightened with vigor unseen for months. To Ying, he looked dazzling—so much that he ignored words, gazing only at lips moving.

He kissed him.

Qingyan, joy surging, kissed back with passion—desire bursting. Only Ying, breathless, pulled away. “Later… I must prepare food to greet your Master.”

“Oh—he likes meat. Shall we make mutton hotpot?”

“Good. I’ll send Bo to buy lamb. You fetch greens.”

With little staff here, meals fell to them. Ying’s cooking had been honed in solitude years before—basic fare, yet skilled. This time, he would impress.

He blanched tomatoes, peeled, diced, fried to sauce. Then simmered with pork bones, ginger, star anise, bay leaf, pepper. Out came rich broth—base for hotpot.

The fragrance drifted, waking Liang from sleep. He staggered out, drooling, drawn by scent, forgetting fatigue. Seeing the young couple stir pots together, he swallowed heavily.

When all was set, they dined in the courtyard. Iron hotpot, like later copper cauldrons, sat with coals blazing in the middle, broth bubbling around edges.

Lamb had been flash‑frozen in the magical field, sliced thin like petals, neatly arranged. Surrounding were tofu threads, lotus root, fungi, cured pork. (Beef forbidden by rural law, else tripe would grace the feast.) Fresh greens piled high.

Liang stared, confused how to start. Ying demonstrated: “When broth boils, swish slices until color changes, dip in the sauce, then eat.”

Liang tried—chewed—and his eyes shone. Exclaiming, he broke instantly into verse:

“Red furnace bubbles broth divine,

Hundred flavors swirl in brine.

Sour spice dances on the tongue,

Human fire rivaling immortal wine!”

Wang Ying sat frozen. What kind of monster is this? Eating hotpot—composing poetry on the spot?!

“What is this called?”

“F-firepot. A hotpot.”

“Then my lines shall be known as Ode to Hotpot.”

Qingyan and Qingsong gaped in awe—while Qinghuai, long used to his Master’s habit of composing poems even after using latrines, stuffed his mouth serenely.

This meal won Liang completely. Truly worth the miles of dust if only for swishing lamb in broth!

Next morning, they performed formal disciple rites. One purchase gained two—Qingsong also knelt and bowed. Liang accepted both beside Qinghuai.

Though eccentric, he possessed undeniable mastery. Every page of the Classics, every wide‑known chronicle, he had studied. His critiques were sharp, his insights unique. Each day he guided them clear from confusion.

Qingyan soaked it in like parched sponge. Within one short month, he seemed transformed—bearing more composure, calm, and light in his eyes.

Liang too changed—his belly swelled seven, eight jin heavier. He dined daily on Ying’s dishes, lived free of scholar gossip, free to fish, to stroll, to feast. By dusk, young Wang would present some new delicacy, each time novel. Tonight rumored “spicy broth”—he salivated already.

Entering, Qinghuai rushed with a letter. “Master—my father sent word!”

“What, from Zhenghe? Show me!”

The pages thick—six, seven sheets. Inside, Chen Jing wept through ink of hardship: robbed by bandits on the road, saved only by guards; in desolate Shanzhou, peasants starved, robbers rampant, commerce dying. He doubted whether in his lifetime he might leave that forsaken land.

In the end, he beseeched: “Treat both my son and nephew as your disciples. Strike them if they err. Do not spare the rod.”

Liang stroked his beard, then with decision muttered: “Tonight’s theme shall be Banditry and the State. I’ll test all three boys.”