Zheng Fan ate thodically, bite by bite, while Xiao Yibo, beside him, wolfed down his food. For Xiao Yibo, the al itself wasn’t important; the crucial part was dining with his leader.
They had barely finished half a bowl of their small wontons when a second pair of custors approached the stall.
One was an old man in a coarse cloth robe, shivering and sniffling constantly. The other was a swordsman, bundled up tightly in cotton clothes, carrying a sword.
The swordsman appeared to be in his early forties, his face covered in blemishes. It was hard to tell if they were from the cold or if that was just his complexion.
The old man held a long pennant in his left hand. A corner of its flag, stirred by the cold wind, revealed the character for ’Divination’.
"Ten copper coins a bowl, for the two of you," the woman said, waiting to collect the money.
Her husband stood ready by the pot. If she didn’t receive paynt, his wontons wouldn’t be cooked.
The old man glanced at the destitute swordsman beside him. The swordsman, however, looked upwards, as if suddenly captivated by the beauty of the sky that day.
The old man rubbed his hands together, sowhat hesitantly. "Excuse ," he began, "could we perhaps offer a divination in exchange for a al?"
The woman imdiately shook her head. The man, who had been holding a handful of wontons ready, placed them back down. "Business is slow," he said. "We really can’t afford to give them away."
It was an honest admission. If business were good, they wouldn’t mind offering a bowl of wontons for free, perhaps even listening to a fortune-telling session for a bit of amusent.
But with business so bleak, they had neither the spare ti nor the ans for such generosity.
The old man licked his lips, clearly craving those small wontons.
The older people get, the more they can resemble children, especially in their cravings for food.
However, he still clung to a shred of his dignity, too ashad to throw a tantrum like a spoiled child demanding food.
The destitute swordsman patted his satchel. "We still have rations," he said.
Hearing the word ’rations,’ the old man’s expression soured. His lips trembled, tears welled in his eyes, and he looked utterly wronged. "Rations, rations! Is that all you’d have your father eat? Day after day, gnawing on that cold, hard stuff? Is this any way for a son to act!"
Zheng Fan, hearing this, glanced at Xiao Yibo.
Xiao Yibo offered a simple, bashful smile.
The swordsman looked disheartened; the old man still appeared aggrieved. The husband and wife selling wontons rely watched; business was slow, so there was no rush.
Xiao Yibo, holding his bowl and chopsticks in his left hand, reached into his pocket with his right. He pulled out a small piece of silver and tossed it onto the stall. "Cook for them," he said.
"Oh, excellent!" the vendor exclaid.
The wontons went into the pot, soon tumbling in the boiling broth.
The destitute swordsman glanced at Zheng Fan and Xiao Yibo, who were squatting nearby, then quickly looked away.
The old man, however, stared intently at the pot, eagerly awaiting the wontons. He showed no imdiate hurry to thank the kind Xiao Yibo for his generosity.
"Ready, they’re ready! Any longer and they’ll be overcooked!" the old man urged.
The husband nodded, ladled the wontons out, added a sparse sprinkling of seasoning, and handed a bowl to the old man. After a mont’s hesitation, the old man squatted down beside Xiao Yibo.
The destitute swordsman also received his bowl but squatted at the far end of the stall, his seemingly solitary nature keeping him from joining the others.
After eating several wontons and drinking so of the broth, the old man let out a long, contented sigh, a look of satisfaction spreading across his face.
Zheng Fan concentrated on his own wontons, paying little mind to what was happening around him. Perhaps it’s from encountering this trope too often in stories from my past life, he mused, but this kind of pair often gives off the ’reclusive master’ vibe.
The more disheveled and down-on-their-luck they seem, the more likely they are to be a true ’expert.’
Shatuo Queshi was certainly proof of that.
But after glancing at the small wontons they were holding, Zheng Fan had no intention of probing any further at this mont.
Whether you’re genuinely a destitute wanderer or so reclusive expert, you eat your bowl, and I’ll eat mine. Once we’re done, we can just pat ourselves off and go our separate ways.
The old man looked at Xiao Yibo. "Would you like a reading?" he asked.
Xiao Yibo shook his head. "No, thank you."
"Ah, well, it’s true you don’t really need one. You, sir, have a fortunate destiny, but it doesn’t extend to your kin."
The implication was clear: he was a jinx to his family.
Xiao Yibo’s hand, holding his wonton bowl, trembled slightly, but he remained silent.
He had once led a small faction. While it wasn’t considered significant by powerful figures, he had interacted with all sorts of people from various walks of life. He knew that individuals like this old man, who made their living on the streets with their clever words, were masters of flattery—telling people exactly what they wanted to hear.
If you paid them no mind, they’d have nothing to say.
But this old man didn’t seem ready to give up. He leaned towards Zheng Fan, an obsequious smile on his face. "This gentleman here," he said, "is a man of imnse nobility, truly beyond words!"
Zheng Fan rely smiled, blowing on his spoonful of broth before sipping it.
Without a signal from Zheng Fan, Xiao Yibo naturally wouldn’t draw attention to his leader and simply continued eating his wontons.
The old man ate half his bowl in silence, wiped his mouth, and then spoke again. "This nobleman’s aura of vitality is quite strong," he observed. "This is both a good thing and a bad thing."
We just killed soone the night before last, Zheng Fan thought. Even after bathing, can the stench of blood be washed away so easily?
Yet, Zheng Fan remained unperturbed.
It’s a sha the blind man is still unconscious, Zheng Fan mused. If he were here today, he’d definitely have co down for wontons with us. Plus, he’d be the perfect person to banter with this old fellow.
They’re in the sa profession, after all; they’d have plenty to discuss, or perhaps, to dispute.
"Nobleman, your path ahead will be broad and open. You need only remain true to your heart. Though the waters may be murky, conduct yourself as a clear fish. Only then can you establish yourself firmly in this world."
That sounds like auspicious words, doesn’t it?
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