Chapter 4: A Cake Worth a Thousand Gold

Late autumn. Jingzhou City. The Cui family compound.

“What happened? Song Baoqing! Why didn’t you ensure Cui’er’s safety?” The head of the Cui family thundered, jabbing a finger at Song Baoqing’s nose.

Song Baoqing, the short man responsible for Cui Miao’s protection, hung his head, enduring the master’s wrath.

“Father, Song Baoqing wasn’t there at the time. I sent him to the Scarlet Knot Pavilion on an errand for me.” Cui Miao rose unsteadily from the couch, but a sharp pain in his groin forced him to half-crouch.

“You! All you know is chasing after women, day and night at the Scarlet Knot Pavilion! You’ve ruined your own reputation and ours as well!” Cui Lie slammed his knee in fury, spittle flying.

“Father! It’s just my one indulgence...”

“Silence, you wastrel! Look at Gu Renyi of the Gu family—he’s gone to the capital to sit for the imperial exams!”

“Father, to die beneath peony blossoms, even as a ghost one remains dashing! What use is studying?”

“You unfilial child! You’ll be the death of me!”

“Father, if I don’t avenge this, I’m no gentleman—I’ll strip her bare, hang her up for sport, and toss her corpse to the wilds for wild dogs to devour!”

“You! You know very well if Prefect Liu hadn’t intervened in that Yangtze waterway affair, not only would you be finished, but the whole family would be in jeopardy!”

“Father, if anything happens to me down there, I won’t be able to give you a grandson! Don’t expect me to continue the family line!”

“You! You! You! Song Baoqing, do as I instructed!”

Song Baoqing looked up, walked over respectfully to Cui Lie, listening intently. When the master finished, he nodded and bowed, then withdrew. Soon, the sound of the father and son’s bickering rose again—one retorting, the other cursing him unfilial.

Of the three Cui sons, Cui Miao was by far the most incorrigible womanizer. The other two were useless, but at least not so troublesome.

The third son, Cui Sheng, was fond of polo; everyone who played with him—whether servant or street tough—received ten coins per game. The eldest, Cui Hao, was a glutton, forever lurking around eateries. Once, to eat beef during a government ban, he colluded with the restaurant manager to secretly slaughter cattle, only to be exposed and made a laughingstock. If his father weren’t close with Prefect Liu, he’d have landed in jail.

The sun rose early. Wu Yueling got up from bed, sniffled, and found her head fuzzy—certainly a cold. She touched her forehead; it was indeed hot.

With no other choice, she headed to the Lu family home, fetched water, heated it, washed her face, and drank some plain water.

Soon, Madam Lu was up. Despite her dizziness, Wu Yueling helped prepare hot water for the old woman to wash up. Looking at Madam Lu’s hair, she noticed several new silver strands had appeared overnight. With a sigh, she realized how deeply a mother could love her son.

Just yesterday her hair was black, today it’s graying.

When Madam Lu finished, she turned to Wu Yueling, noting her pallor and bloodless complexion. Her sharp eyes flashed with worry, and she furrowed her brow. “Yueling, have you caught a chill?”

Wu Yueling could only nod in response to the old woman’s discerning gaze.

“This won’t do—a chill is no small matter. Your body is weak; illness would be a disaster! Help me up the hillside to gather some herbs for colds.” Madam Lu grabbed her cane and held out her hand.

Wu Yueling tried to wave it off, but the old woman was stubborn, insisting she accompany her up the slope to gather several unfamiliar herbs. Back home, Madam Lu brewed them into a thick, green decoction. Wu Yueling eyed the steaming, fragrant medicinal soup, took a cautious sip, and winced at the bitterness, doubting if this was truly drinkable.

“Good medicine is bitter but cures illness. When I was young, before I married, I too caught a cold. My mother had me gather herbs, brew a medicinal soup, and I recovered after drinking it,” Madam Lu consoled her, seeing Wu Yueling struggle with the taste.

Glancing at the kindly smiling old woman, Wu Yueling pinched her nose and gulped the concoction, tears streaming from the bitterness.

Madam Lu patted her back gently, offering comfort. After preparing flatbreads for lunch, Wu Yueling set off for Jingzhou City. On the way, a sweat broke out, and the weakness from her chill eased somewhat.

At the cloth shop, she helped with the accounts, then was invited by the manager of the Gu family restaurant, who said they’d prepared special dishes for her.

Finishing the books, Wu Yueling asked for leave and accompanied the plump manager, learning along the way that his name was Zhao, a local of Jingzhou. Arriving at the Gu family restaurant, she was seated at a choice table. The waiter brought out a platter of steamed goose, a bowl of seasoned sauce, all aromatic and tempting, and a large bowl of fluffy white rice.

Feeling a bit better, Wu Yueling’s appetite surged at the sight of the feast. Just as she picked up a piece of goose, she thought of Madam Lu and asked Manager Zhao for some oil paper, packing up half the goose with extra sauce to take home. Only then did she start to eat.

Manager Zhao pretended to look at the accounts but was actually glancing at Wu Yueling. Seeing her pack away half the goose, he understood. The Lu family’s son had gone to Chang’an to seek fame, and this betrothed bride was still so filial to his mother—a blessing the Lu family had earned over generations. He sighed, wondering when his own young master would find such a wife. But perhaps this quest for fame would turn in his favor. Should his master succeed and Lu Zijie fail, perhaps he could propose on his master’s behalf—Wu Yueling wouldn’t be able to refuse then, having no other match. The thought made him chuckle to himself.

Outside, the autumn sun blazed. Soon after, a man in a blue robe entered, fan in hand, glancing at the menu, followed by two lackeys, and chose a seat.

The waiter hurried over with tea, but the customer dismissed the bamboo cup with a flick, sending it tumbling to the floor, tea spilling everywhere.

“Bring me your finest wine! And stop embarrassing yourselves with this wooden trash!”

The waiter forced a smile, nodding obsequiously as he cleaned up and asked the guest to wait.

Wu Yueling glanced over and guessed he must be another pampered young master, likely a spoiled official’s son. Her guess wasn’t far off; this was the eldest son of Prefect Liu of Jingzhou, Liu Wenfu—a hothouse flower used to having his way.

Manager Zhao recognized him at once and hurried to the kitchen, instructing the staff and personally bringing out porcelain bowls to apologize.

“Haha, such an honor, Young Master Liu! It’s our great privilege to host you. Allow me to pour you some wine and beg your forgiveness—please don’t mind the waiter’s ignorance,” Zhao fawned, pouring wine and grinning.

“Were it not for being bored of the Scarlet Knot Pavilion’s food and women, I wouldn’t have come here,” Liu Wenfu replied haughtily, his contempt barely concealed.

Soon, Liu Wenfu’s table was filled with dishes and a fine jar of wine. Satisfied, he gestured for his lackey to pay upfront.

Wu Yueling watched the extravagant spread, wondering if he could finish it all.

Liu Wenfu sampled the dishes and sipped wine, scanning the room. His eyes landed on Wu Yueling’s delicate, if slightly thin, features, and he felt a stir of interest.

“Go, tell that girl to come pour my wine!” he ordered his lackeys, pointing at Wu Yueling.

Manager Zhao’s heart sank—trouble was brewing. He had only invited her per his young master’s orders, but who could risk offending Young Master Liu? Sweat beaded on his forehead.

Wu Yueling saw the two approach, eyes glinting with ill intent, and gripped her rice bowl warily—were they here to rob her lunch? One of them barked, “Come along, our young master wants you to pour his wine!”

She stared, thinking these must be the blue-robed man’s flunkies. Pour wine? Did they want her to play hostess? She ignored them and kept eating.

“Are you deaf or dumb? Didn’t you hear—Young Master Liu, son of the Prefect, wants your company! Take it as an honor!” the other lackey barked.

Liu Wenfu merely sipped his wine, unconcerned.

Manager Zhao, seizing the moment before the lackeys turned violent, hurried over. “Sirs, she’s mute—a disabled girl! If she accompanies Young Master Liu, wouldn’t that lower his status?” he said, emphasizing the words “disabled” and “mute” for Liu Wenfu’s benefit.

Liu Wenfu paused, considering. He glanced at Wu Yueling—perhaps it was true.

Manager Zhao winked at Wu Yueling, signaling her to slip away. She took the hint, gathered her parcel of goose, hunched her head, and mimed speech without a sound, then slipped past the lackeys and out the door.

Manager Zhao returned to Liu Wenfu’s side, grinning ingratiatingly and offering to fetch a singing and dancing courtesan instead.

Liu Wenfu shook his head, bored—he’d seen enough at the Scarlet Knot Pavilion, and this mute had lost her charm. He finished his meal, leaving the leftovers for his lackeys, and departed.

Wu Yueling returned to the cloth shop, finished the accounts, and strolled through the market, observing the street vendors hawking their wares—a far cry from the respectability of the Gu family’s business. It was clear the life of a small-time trader was tough.

Business was strictly regulated; one couldn’t peddle goods just anywhere, which made things much harder.

As dusk neared, Wu Yueling headed for the city gate, goose in hand, planning to surprise Madam Lu. Meat was a rare treat, and this was a way to repay her kindness. Once Lu Zijie returned, she would leave and use her savings and travel permit to visit Chang’an—if she ever made it back to modern times, she could brag about having walked the bustling streets of the imperial city and even played cricket with the emperor.

Lost in thought, she left the city, her steps crunching rhythmically over the dry, sandy road. Withered wild grasses lined the path, and the last leaves were falling from the lonely locust trees.

She sneezed—her head was growing heavy again. Was the cold returning? She certainly hoped not; there was no amoxicillin here. Tomorrow, she’d have to find a doctor and see what ancient medicine was like.

Walking along, she spotted a monk sitting amid the roadside grass, bowl in hand, his red robe threadbare, a beggar with nothing but his alms bowl.

Was he a fake monk? Wu Yueling took out her uneaten midday flatbread, wrapped in cloth—she’d saved it for breakfast. Unexpectedly encountering a hungry monk, she placed the bread in his bowl.

He opened his eyes, saw the young woman, and smiled gratefully. “Amitabha. Thank you, little benefactress!”

Wu Yueling opened her mouth, waved her hand, indicating he needn’t thank her. The monk, seeing her gesture and lack of speech, guessed, “Are you mute, young lady?”

Wu Yueling nodded, then gestured farewell and continued on her way.

Watching her go, the monk pressed his palms together in thanks before taking a bite of the bread—then heard a sudden gust sweep the grass. He looked up to see a short, fierce man stalking after his benefactress, and frowned, sighing, “Good people suffer hardship. Today, for this gift of food, I shall lend a hand.”

With that, he rose and followed, his steps light as a swallow.

Wu Yueling’s head grew heavier as she walked. The cold was coming back. Where could she find medicine now, with the city gates closing? She’d have to make do with more of the bitter brew at home.

Suddenly, a gust of wind and a dark figure leapt from the roadside like a tiger, startling her. The figure lunged, clearly up to no good. Dizzy, she was slow to react, and before she knew it, he was upon her.

A large hand reached for her throat—just as a stone whistled through the air, striking the attacker’s elbow and knocking his hand away.

The masked, short man yelped in pain, leapt back, and glared at the source of the stone: the poor monk in red robes, who pressed his palms together and smiled, “Amitabha.”

All this happened in a flash. Only when she heard the monk’s voice did Wu Yueling realize her attacker had been driven off by a flying stone. She glanced back and recognized the monk she had fed.

“I have a word for you, noble warrior. Will you hear me out?” The monk approached, still smiling, intent on persuading the attacker.

The masked man gripped his knife warily. “Where did this bald monk come from? Don’t ruin my business!”

“I hope you can turn back before it’s too late—cease these evil deeds.” The monk kept Wu Yueling behind him, his expression peaceful.

The masked man’s eyes flashed with menace. With a clang, he drew his saber. “You have three breaths to get out of my way, or I’ll kill you first!”

“Alas, noble warrior—”

“Yaaah!” Without waiting for the monk to finish, the attacker raised his saber and charged, howling like a beast, blade flashing coldly.

The monk shook his head, gathered his robe, and stepped into the attack until the saber clashed with explosive force. The assailant was sent flying.

In a single move, the outcome was decided. The monk was a grandmaster at the very least; the attacker, a mediocre fighter at best.

The monk tossed the saber, now missing its hilt, to the ground, pressed his palms together, and intoned “Amitabha.”

Clutching his chest, numb and bleeding, the masked man stared in shock. That blow could have killed him had it landed full force. He staggered up and fled, fearing for his life.

Watching him go, the monk sighed, “I spared your life. But fleeing with force like that, you’ll need months to recover. Alas!”

Wu Yueling was thrilled. The duel had been swift, but to best an opponent with one strike was a marvel. She approached, gesturing her gratitude and hoping to become the monk’s disciple. But he didn’t understand her signs.

“I’ll escort you a ways. If you don’t mind, might I have some water and a place to rest for the night?”

Wu Yueling nodded eagerly, delighted. She led the way to Ten Mile Village, but her head grew heavier, her steps faltering, until she finally collapsed at the village entrance.

When she awoke, the pungent smell of medicine filled her nose. She was lying in bed, a torch lit the room.

“Ah, you’re awake! Drink some medicine first!” Madam Lu, who had sat vigil, was overjoyed and helped her up, motioning for the monk at the hearth to bring the medicine.

Wu Yueling saw Madam Lu’s worried, careworn face and was deeply moved. In this strange era, she was grateful for such kindness. Weak as she was, she let Madam Lu feed her spoonfuls of the bitter broth, which sometimes dribbled down her chin, and Madam Lu wiped it away with her sleeve.

After the medicine, sleepiness overcame her. In a haze, she heard Madam Lu and the monk talking—the monk seemed to be an abbot of some temple, stranded after losing his travel permit, having sent word for someone to fetch him a month ago... Exhaustion overtook her, and she drifted off.

At the crow of the rooster, Wu Yueling awoke—her cold cured, her spirit restored. She rose quietly, covering Madam Lu with the quilt, dressed, and stepped outside.

The monk was already up, practicing his martial art. His movements flowed with a profound balance of stillness and motion—deep yet simple.

Wu Yueling watched for a long time before he finished and turned to her, smiling kindly. “Would you like to learn, little benefactress?”

She nodded eagerly—this was her dream, to become a heroine of the martial world.

“I see you are gentle and kind, though mute, which is a pity. I am Wushi, a disciple of a disciple of the Tang dynasty’s great monk, Xuanzang. I can teach you the ‘Pure Heart Sutra’—a Buddhist breathing technique that harmonizes the body’s energy, bringing calm and peace. It subdues all other energies but is not meant for violence. Since fate has brought us together, I will teach it to you.”

He explained patiently.

Wu Yueling, delighted, scrawled on the ground, “Can a woman learn it?”

“Of course!”

With that, he began teaching. The breathing technique didn’t require breath-holding, but rather balanced energy through natural inhalation and exhalation. Unlike the hard qigong practiced by some, which forced energy through the body for power, this practice fostered gentle harmony.

Within an hour, Wu Yueling had grasped its basics. With each breath, she felt lighter, her body and mind at ease.

The autumn sun rose, gilding the earth. Her cold gone, Wu Yueling set about her morning chores—steaming flatbreads, heading to the river to wash clothes, and beginning the day’s work as an ordinary woman.