At the outskirts of the city, behind the Piyong Academy, stood a row of delicate bamboo cottages nestled in the quiet mountains.
The sun had just reached its zenith when Feng Qiniang, carrying a covered food basket, ascended the stone steps and arrived at the bamboo cottage. She knocked lightly on the half-open door and heard a feeble voice from inside, sounding as though it might fade away any moment: "Come in." Shaking her head, she removed her shoes on the steps, lifted her skirt, and pushed the door open.
The interior of the bamboo cottage was elegantly furnished with an antique charm, its floors covered in thick, soft woven mats. Yet as soon as she stepped inside, she stumbled in surprise at the sight of crumpled papers strewn everywhere and worn-out brushes lying haphazardly about. Her foot even landed in a fresh puddle of ink—fresh because it had clearly just been spilled, still wet as it seeped into the mat.
Anger flared in her as she furrowed her brows and addressed the disheveled middle-aged man sitting dazed amidst the paper piles: "Father, how much longer do you intend to stay in this desolate wilderness before returning home? These past few days, Mother has been tending to Grandmother, who grows more senile by the day—she doesn’t even recognize anyone anymore and keeps hitting people with her cane! On top of that, Mother has to care for our unruly little brother. She’s barely holding on, yet she still worries whether you’re eating and keeping warm here!"
Dr. Feng clutched at his tangled hair, his arms flailing wildly. "I can’t write! I just can’t!" he cried in near madness. "Why is this happening? The Emperor said the Wenyuan is too verbose and the Guangji too fantastical—he wants me to compile a comprehensive book documenting historical facts and legal codes through the ages. But halfway through, I’ve hit a wall! I can’t write another word!"
Suddenly, he sprang up and began tearing and crumpling the stack of inked papers on his desk, howling like a mountain ape in a fit of frenzy. Only then did he seem to notice the young woman standing by the door. His bloodshot eyes lifted, his cheeks hollow from exhaustion. "What are you doing here? Get out! Don’t bother me with trivial worldly matters! I’m on the verge of a breakthrough… so close… don’t disturb me…"
With that, he grabbed his brush again and hunched over his desk, scribbling furiously.
Tears welled up in Feng Qiniang’s eyes as her frustration boiled over. She hurled the food basket to the ground with a loud clatter and sobbed, "Mother and I shouldn’t have wasted our concern on you! We even fought through crowds to buy this food for you! Fine—keep writing your book! Starve or freeze for all we care! We won’t lift a finger for you again!"
With a resounding bang, she stormed out, slamming the door behind her. The basket rolled to Dr. Feng’s feet, its woven lid broken, revealing half a fried flatbread that had tumbled out.
Lost in the tangled chaos of his writing, teetering on the edge of delirium, Dr. Feng suddenly caught a whiff of something tantalizingly spicy. The aroma cut through his haze, yanking him violently back to reality.
His dry eyes blinked, then slowly lowered to the overturned basket. After a long pause, he silently picked it up. Inside were two shattered pieces of flatbread, two lumps of congealed sauce, an egg, a few slices of meat, and some finely chopped, roasted vegetables.
At the very bottom lay a note in his wife’s delicate handwriting, each stroke tenderly penned: "My dear, remember to eat at proper times and not overexert yourself. A book cannot be written in a day—there’s no need to rush. This is a new instant noodle dish from a food stall in town. Just pour boiling water over it, and it’s ready to eat. It’s very convenient and won’t delay your work. Please make sure to eat it."
Tears welled in Dr. Feng’s eyes as he clutched the note, his heart aching with remorse for how harshly he had treated his daughter. He wiped his face, folded the letter carefully into his robe, then gathered the scattered pieces of flatbread one by one. Basket in hand, he stepped out to the back porch, gathered firewood to boil water, and prepared the noodles in a bamboo bowl.
The mountain breeze rustled through the bamboo grove as Dr. Feng sniffed the air in astonishment. The hard, brittle flatbread had transformed into a steaming bowl of fragrant, savory soup in mere moments!
It was nothing short of miraculous!
Having starved himself for days without writing a single word, Dr. Feng now found his troubles melting away under the assault of the rich aroma. He devoured the noodles greedily, barely minding the heat. Halfway through, warmth spread through his belly, and even his tangled thoughts began to clear.
"Yes! That’s it!" he exclaimed suddenly, nearly choking on his food. "Why not categorize by people, events, and objects, then arrange them chronologically? That way, the flow of history across dynasties would become perfectly clear!"
Overcome with excitement, he tipped the bowl back to drain the last drop, let out a satisfied burp, and leapt to his feet—only to trip when he realized he’d put his shoes on the wrong feet. Stumbling back into the cottage, he seized his brush and began writing feverishly once more.
Meanwhile, on the winding path down the mountain, Feng Qiniang led the family servant in a huff, only to find Xie Shiyiniang’s carriage still waiting at the foot of the hill. She sighed wearily and approached, lifting the curtain. "Shiyiniang, I told you not to wait for me. Why haven’t you gone back yet?"
"How could I leave you alone? I promised to accompany you to deliver food to Uncle Feng," Xie Shiyiniang replied with a grin. She had inherited all the round features from her parents—a round face, a round nose, and round eyes. Though not strikingly beautiful, she had a certain charm.
That morning, she had begged her mother for a day off to wander around with Feng Qiniang.
Normally, her mother would insist she stay home to learn household management.
She had just turned sixteen this year. While some girls married young, others waited until nineteen or twenty, but her family had already begun seeking potential matches for her. Since the New Year, her mother, Lady Xi, had grown stricter. Gone were the days when she could roam freely, visit their countryside estate, or even stay at her uncle’s house in Youzhou. These days, her outings were limited to accompanying her mother to social gatherings, collecting rents from the family shops, or inspecting the newly delivered grain at their suburban granary.
She hadn’t had a proper day of fun in ages.
Eagerly, she suggested, "Later, you can come with me to the jeweler’s to pick up my new hairpin. Then we’ll buy some tea and watch the street theater at Zhou Bridge! I heard there’s a new play called Minister Wang Divorces His Wife—they say it’s hilarious and beautifully sung."
"Whatever you want. Fetching things, watching plays… I don’t feel like going home right now anyway," Feng Qiniang muttered, her mood still gloomy. The mention of her father had brought back thoughts of the chaos at home—her grandmother growing more senile by the day, lashing out with her cane at everyone, including her poor mother. She knew she shouldn’t resent her grandmother, but her heart ached for her mother, who bore the brunt of it all. With a heavy sigh, she climbed into the carriage, her spirits too low to muster any enthusiasm for the outing.
"Qiniang, why must you torment yourself like this? Leave Father and Mother’s affairs to them—since we can’t help, we should at least take care of ourselves." Xie Shiyiniang tilted her head. At her age, she was fiercely righteous, so she crossed her arms and huffed, "Especially don’t waste your energy worrying about your father. You’re always thinking of him, but all he cares about are his books. Even the instant noodles we painstakingly bought from Shen’s shop were sent to him—did he even appreciate it? Look at you, clearly disheartened. From now on, don’t bother with him."
Feng Qiniang lowered her head gloomily. "It’s easy to say ‘don’t bother,’ but how can I truly ignore him? He’s still my father. I know you mean well to comfort me, but don’t say such things in the future. I understand your heart is in the right place, but if the wrong person overhears, they might accuse you of being unfilial."
"I know, which is why I only speak my mind to you. I’m not telling you to cut him off forever—just teach him a lesson. My mother says a woman shouldn’t be endlessly virtuous. Without a bit of temper, you’ll be treated like a pushover." Xie Shiyiniang puffed her cheeks indignantly. "Take my utterly detestable father, for example. This morning, he took every last pack of instant noodles from our house to his office, claiming he’d treat his colleagues to a feast! I was so furious I swore not to speak to him for three days—and I meant it!"
Speaking of those instant noodles, Xie Shiyiniang’s mouth watered. She had planned to enjoy a bowl this morning, but when she sent Juli to fetch one from the kitchen, Cook Fang helplessly spread his hands—her father had taken them all! Not a single crumb remained, not even the basket.
At that moment, Xie Shiyiniang felt as if the sky had fallen.
Luckily, her brother Xie Qi was acquainted with Shen Miao. After much pestering, he finally sent Zhou Da to Shen’s shop for more.
These days, the threshold of Shen’s noodle shop was nearly worn down. The line for instant noodles stretched all the way to Golden Beam Bridge. Shen Miao couldn’t keep up with the demand alone, so she eventually announced she’d only sell two hundred portions daily. Yet even that wasn’t enough. Soon, idlers began camping outside the shop, swarming in the moment it opened to buy dozens of portions at once, then reselling them at exorbitant prices to those who missed out.
Xie Qi said Shen Miao called these people "scalpers." Xie Shiyiniang didn’t understand why—perhaps because their frantic reselling resembled panicked cattle stampeding?
But yesterday, Shen Miao introduced a new rule: no more than three bowls per person per day. She even handed out bamboo tokens to those in line—one token per bowl. Once the tokens ran out, latecomers needn’t waste time waiting.
Other shops had begun imitating Shen Miao’s fried instant noodles, but without the proper recipe, some ended up with blackened, charred dough, while others produced noodles that wouldn’t soften in hot water. None could replicate Shen’s rich, flavorful broth. For now, Shen’s noodles remained the only ones that were both delicious and convenient.
Noodles, noodles—Xie Shiyiniang never imagined she’d crave them so much.
Just thinking about them made her hungry.
Glancing at Feng Qiniang’s still-sullen face, Xie Shiyiniang whispered, "Why don’t we go to Shen’s shop for a bite? They’ve probably sold out of instant noodles by now, but Xie Qi says Shen Miao’s other noodle dishes are just as tasty. Let’s try them."
Feng Qiniang shook her head. "I’ve no appetite."
"You’re acting just like your father now! How can skipping meals solve anything? Trust me, a hot bowl of noodles will do you good. If it makes you sweat a little, you’ll feel refreshed inside out." Seeing her unmoved, Xie Shiyiniang narrowed her eyes and played her trump card. "Xie Qi might be there too. I saw him leave earlier."
At the mention of Xie Qi possibly being there, Feng Qiniang’s expression softened slightly. Shyly, she murmured, "Well… I suppose we could try."
Perfect! Xie Qi had mentioned Shen Miao’s shop served an exceptional "muddled noodle soup." Xie Shiyiniang was eager to try it. Delighted, she ordered the coachman to turn the carriage toward Willow East Lane by Golden Beam Bridge.
Meanwhile, Shen Miao—the very person Xie Shiyiniang was dreaming of—sat across from Aunt Gu during the midday lull, listening fretfully to her advice on hiring help through a labor broker. She couldn’t take it anymore. For three or four nights straight, she’d been washing dishes and cleaning until midnight.
Business had boomed lately. The money jar was so full it overflowed, though she hadn’t had time to count it properly. Rough estimates suggested she’d earned over ten strings of cash.
But the money came at a cost—she was exhausted! She, Ji Brother, and Sister Xiang had been spinning like tops. Lack of sleep left them dull-witted, and lately, even she had been dropping bowls, breaking things, and mixing up orders. She could endure hardship, but the two youngsters were still growing. Seeing them stumble around, drained and unsteady, pained her. Today, she’d finally insisted they rest at the bookstore, forbidding them from working.
She had to hire help. No question.
The instant noodles’ popularity had taken her by surprise. While convenient to eat, they were laborious to make—more so than regular noodles! The process involved kneading, resting, and stretching the dough, parboiling the noodles, shocking them in cold water, then draining them thoroughly. Only this alternating heat-and-cold treatment ensured the fried noodles turned out crispy yet springy.
Then came seasoning the drained noodles with secret spices like Sichuan pepper and salt before frying them patiently at medium-low heat, flipping the coiled discs gently until golden.
And that wasn’t even counting the broth, dried vegetable flakes, marinated eggs, or braised meat!
Despite her past-life experience making her exceptionally efficient, mass production was impossible.
The frenzy had lasted several days now. Though slowly waning, daily demand remained high. For a sustainable business, she couldn’t keep straining like this. To meet the daily quota of two hundred instant noodle packs, she’d nearly halted her breakfast stall and other noodle offerings.
The emergence of "scalpers" alarmed her. This wasn’t sustainable—it felt like a bubble waiting to burst.
The instant noodles’ appeal lay in their novelty and convenience, but no food pleases everyone forever. She knew this hype would fade. Relying solely on them was risky. She needed diverse, smoothly operating menu options.
Otherwise, once imitators cracked the recipe, things would worsen.
But imitation was inevitable. In the Song Dynasty, intellectual property protection relied solely on moral agreements—such as imprinting books with notes like "Printed by So-and-So Publishing House, No Reprinting Allowed." But this was futile, as there were no formal legal protections. Artisans like Shen Miao or Old Man Yang relied on secret family or master-disciple traditions to maintain their competitive edge.
However, even in later eras, such practices were hard to eradicate, let alone a thousand years ago. The people of the Central Plains had always been exceptionally skilled in the art of imitation, and Shen Miao dared not underestimate the wisdom of the working class.
One day, the method for making instant noodles would inevitably be cracked, so she had to prepare for that eventuality.
The preparation, in practical terms, began with hiring help.
She needed to free her hands from tedious, repetitive chores and focus on cooking—creating more and more diverse delicacies.
"A blacksmith must first strengthen his own tools"—only exceptional craftsmanship could truly retain customers.
Aunt Gu, aware of her struggles, nodded approvingly when she heard Shen Miao intended to hire workers and explained:
"There are over a dozen labor brokers in the inner city. I recommend Zhang Yazi—he’s fairly honest. Tell him exactly what kind of person you need, and he’ll find candidates for you. In about half a day, he’ll bring four or five people for you to interview. If none suit you, he’ll search again. If you find someone suitable, agree on wages, and he’ll arrange for a familiar lawyer to draft a contract. That’s all there is to it."
Aunt Gu glanced at the dark circles under Shen Miao’s eyes as she sewed. "I’m not criticizing, but you should’ve hired someone before opening shop."
Shen Miao smiled bitterly. "I didn’t expect things to take off so suddenly."
Having grown up surrounded by countless brands and flavors of instant noodles in her past life, she had underestimated the ancient world’s frenzy for such food. Perhaps when instant noodles first appeared in Japan in her previous world, they had taken the globe by storm just as fiercely.
"But Auntie thinks you shouldn’t just hire workers—you should buy two servants," Aunt Gu suddenly lowered her voice, offering advice as if speaking from personal experience. "Our family holds a secret ancestral recipe for brewing liquor, and it must never be leaked! That’s why we only hire temporary laborers in March and September to move wine jars—nothing else. The rest of the year, your Uncle Xie and Tusu handle everything, and outsiders are never allowed in the brewery. Even the yeast is kept secret. But your situation is different. If you hire people to wash dishes, sweep, fetch water, or chop firewood, your kitchen is too small to keep them from seeing everything. What if they learn your techniques? It’s better to buy two servants, hold their contracts, and keep them bound to you for life—unable to serve another master. That’s the safest way."
Shen Miao pondered for a moment but remained hesitant.
First, it wasn’t a year of famine, so buying capable laborers would likely cost thirty to fifty strings of cash—no small sum. Second, she wasn’t cut out to be a ruthless taskmaster. Owning people didn’t sit right with her conscience, and she’d inevitably feel responsible for their well-being, including their lifelong care. Third, once bought, there was no turning back. What if the servant turned out lazy, slow, or ill-natured? Would she resell them like livestock?
Hiring was different. A contract meant a clear, equal transaction. If the worker performed poorly, she could return them to the broker and request a replacement. She could communicate openly and maintain a normal, equal relationship.
Yet Aunt Gu’s concerns were valid. In this era, her skills were her livelihood, and she didn’t want them stolen by someone who’d later compete against her. As the saying went: "Teach your apprentice, starve your master."
She didn’t want to starve.
After much deliberation, Shen Miao sighed. "I’ll think about it some more."
She bid Aunt Gu farewell and trudged back to her shop, where the empty space quietly awaited customers.
The night before last, she had stayed up frying four hundred noodle cakes to last two days, finally giving herself breathing room. This morning, she sold two hundred, with another two hundred stored in the kitchen, allowing her to calmly prepare the next batch without rushing or making mistakes.
But since the morning rush sold out quickly, the shop was much quieter afterward. Many customers seemed unaware she offered other noodle dishes, coming only for the instant noodles before leaving. The initial bustle faded, leaving the place deserted again.
Especially after noon, the emptiness was palpable.
Shen Miao sat in her shop, mulling over the hiring dilemma, while Thunder and the little dog sprawled by the entrance, basking in the sun until their fur fluffed up and their amber eyes drooped sleepily.
Just as the dog was about to melt into a pancake, an unusual commotion erupted in the street outside.
"You said I could try without pay! I tried for days and wasn’t satisfied—why can’t I dismiss her? Who’s going back on their word now? Wasn’t this the agreement? Stop harassing me, or do you want a taste of my fists?"
Shen Miao looked up. Though she couldn’t see the quarreling parties, the elongated shadow cast on the ground revealed a burly man shoving a smaller, frailer woman.
"Get lost! If not for my kindness, would you and your dim-witted daughter have eaten these past few days? Keep pestering me, and I’ll report you to the authorities—let the garrison soldiers teach a thieving old hag like you a lesson with their clubs!"
The woman’s shadow was flung to the ground, yet she clung desperately to the man’s hem. But at the threat of involving officials, she recoiled in fear and let go. The man snorted, spat contemptuously, and stormed off.
"Who’d hire an idiot? Dream on!"
As his footsteps faded, a heartrending wail drifted over. Unable to resist, Shen Miao stood and peered outside—only to recognize the woman.
Across the street, the once-neat old woman now looked disheveled, one cheek bruised, her hair wild. She sat in the dirt, her clothes stained from pleading. Behind her, her oblivious daughter crouched, hands still smudged with ash from firewood.
A crowd of onlookers gathered, pointing and murmuring. Instinctively, the old woman spread her arms to shield her taller daughter, swallowing her sobs and glaring defiantly. She tried to stand, but the fall had been harsh, and her palms slipped on the ground.
"What’re you staring at? None of your business! Scram!" she snarled, her voice sharp with fury.
Shen Miao didn’t hesitate much before pushing through the crowd and stepping forward. She bent down and, with a slight effort, helped the elderly woman up.
The old woman lifted her tear-streaked face, startled by the sudden assistance, and looked at Shen Miao in surprise.
Her tear-stained face bore the marks of dust and grime, washed away by the rivulets of her crying, leaving two muddy trails that stretched down to her gaunt chin, making her appear both pitiable and oddly comical.
Aunt Li had been watching the commotion from the crowd—wherever there was drama, she was sure to be found—especially since her own shop was nearby. She had been munching on melon seeds, thoroughly entertained, when she noticed Shen Miao suddenly squeezing her way in. Instinctively, she tugged at Shen Miao’s sleeve and whispered, “What are you doing, girl? Don’t meddle in others’ affairs, or you’ll end up tangled in their mess too.”
Her voice wasn’t particularly quiet, and the old woman’s already humiliated expression twisted further with indignation.
“You—you foul-mouthed woman! Don’t you dare slander me! I’m not here to cause trouble or swindle anyone! My daughter worked ten hard days for that Master Tao—carrying water, chopping firewood, even staying up all night to tend the kiln without a wink of sleep! And what did he give her? Two bowls of watery gruel a day, and now he refuses to pay a single coin! All I want is justice, but his servants beat and shamed me instead! How is this my fault?”
“Isn’t your daughter simple-minded? How can a fool even work?”
“They said you agreed to a three-day trial without pay—why go back on your word now?”
“Exactly, it’s already a mercy that they hired a fool at all…”
The old woman’s tears welled up again, her fists clenched in frustration. “We agreed on three days without pay, but she worked ten! Shouldn’t she be paid for the extra seven?”
Yet her protests were drowned out by the crowd’s mocking laughter over what a fool could possibly accomplish. Only Shen Miao heard her plea.
Shen Miao gently brushed the dust off the woman’s clothes, then made up her mind. Softly, she asked, “Auntie, my shop is hiring. Can your daughter wash dishes or sweep floors? If so, would she like to try working for me? If you’re worried, I can pay her daily—one day’s work, one day’s wages. But if she doesn’t do well, there’ll be deductions. If you’re willing, come inside, and we’ll discuss the details.”
The old woman’s head snapped up, as if only now recognizing Shen Miao as the one who had once served her a large bowl of noodle soup. Suddenly flustered, she tried to subtly pull her arm free from Shen Miao’s grip, stammering, “It’s you? You—you’re not… trying to trick me into paying for that soup, are you? I truly… don’t have a single coin left.”
So that’s why she had bolted that day when told to wait. Shen Miao chuckled. “If you’re penniless, what’s there to fear? Come on, let’s talk inside.”
And so, she led the old woman by the hand, who in turn pulled along her tall, sturdy daughter. Like skewered meat on a stick, the three of them squeezed past the murmuring onlookers and entered Shen’s Noodle Shop.
Truth be told, when this mother and daughter had come begging for work while eating at her shop before, Shen Miao had already been tempted to hire them. So today’s act of kindness wasn’t just impulsive charity.
She took them straight to the backyard, settling them under the eaves, then fetched two clean towels from the kitchen so they could wash their faces and hands. Only after they had regained some dignity did she sit down to talk.
The old woman accepted the towels with tearful gratitude, first tending to her daughter before cleaning herself up. After retying her loose bun, she sat properly and bowed to Shen Miao again, her gaze now brimming with deeper appreciation.
Shen Miao shook her head and brought two cups of hot tea. “Drink first, then we’ll talk.”
“Thank you, Miss Shen.” The woman cradled the cup, glancing at her daughter—who was staring blankly at the proud chickens strutting across the yard—before sighing and turning back. “Miss Shen, was what you said about hiring true?”
“It is. Running this noodle shop alone has become too much for me. I need someone hardworking and honest to help with chores—washing dishes, sweeping, carrying water, chopping wood. Nothing too complicated.” Shen Miao sat cross-legged under the eaves and asked carefully, “But can she really do these things?”
“She can! She can!” Hope reignited in the old woman’s eyes. She set down her tea, wiped her hands nervously on her clothes, then hesitantly grasped Shen Miao’s hand. Voice trembling, she explained, “Miss Shen, she’s very capable. I was forty when I had her, and her brothers were already grown by then. The age gap was too wide, and with her… condition, none of them wanted anything to do with her. They saw her as a burden. Even my husband urged me to abandon her in the mountains—let the wolves or tigers take her, just don’t drag the family down.”
“But she’s a living soul! I brought her into this world. She doesn’t understand much, yet somehow… she knows. She knows I’m the only one who cares for her. She clings to me all day, hugging my legs. How could I be so heartless? So no matter what others said, I raised her myself.”
“But the older she got, the more my daughters-in-law despised her. Once, when I fell ill, my eldest son tried to take her to the mountains and leave her. I dragged myself out of bed to search and finally found her in a ditch—filthy, wailing, clinging to me for dear life. That’s when I realized: I can’t just keep her fed. If I die, no one will look after her. No matter how much scorn I face, I must teach her to survive on her own.”
Wiping her unstoppable tears, the old woman’s eyes held no weakness—only unexpected resolve. “I don’t blame my sons or their wives. Times are hard, and they have their own children to feed. But I’ve stopped relying on them. So since she was eight or nine, I’ve taught her everything—chopping wood, carrying water, washing clothes, folding them, scrubbing bowls, wiping tables, sweeping floors. She learns slowly, but with patience, she manages. She really can do it—and well.”
“If you’re willing to hire her, Miss Shen, I stand by my word: let her work for you free for three days! If you find her useful, keep her. I ask for nothing more than two solid meals a day, clothes for the seasons, and thirty coins daily—she can only count to thirty anyway. With that saved up, she’ll have money if she falls ill. If she breaks a bowl or makes mistakes during the trial, I’ll compensate you. And if you decide she’s not fit, just say so frankly. I won’t resent you or cling where I’m not wanted.”
Her voice faltered as she bowed her head, trembling, as if awaiting Shen Miao’s verdict.
Instead, Shen Miao asked, “What’s her name?”
"Her name is Youyu. My husband's surname is Nian, so we call her Nian Youyu," the old woman said with a bitter smile. "For someone like her, I dare not hope for much. I only pray that she has enough to eat and wear every year, that she doesn’t suffer."
"Where do you live?" Shen Miao asked again.
The old woman hurriedly replied, "Just outside the city walls, in a shack near the water gate. My husband and son work under the local garrison soldiers guarding the gate. We have a small boat—they dredge and clean the filth from the riverbed to earn a meager living. Don’t worry, Miss Shen, we’re honest folk." She lowered her head. "I searched everywhere in the outer city, but no one would hire her. That’s why I came to the inner city to try my luck."
Who would have thought that in the inner city, she’d be tricked into working in a pottery kiln, nearly enslaved for life? The old woman shuddered at the thought.
Shen Miao nodded and called out, "Youyu?"
The girl was engrossed in watching two chickens fight, but at the sound of her name, she turned her head blankly, mouth slightly open. After a struggle, she managed a short "ah" before staring dumbly.
She responds to her name. Shen Miao noted inwardly.
Without hesitation, she stood and clapped her hands. "No need for a three-day trial. Whether she can work or not will be clear at once. Come, let’s test her now while it’s quiet."
"Youyu, follow me," she beckoned.
Youyu slowly turned to look at her mother. The old woman nodded encouragingly and waved silently: "Go on."
So she rose sluggishly and wordlessly followed Shen Miao.
She obeys. Another mental checkmark for Shen Miao.
In the kitchen, she handed Youyu a stack of bowls and half a loofah sponge, instructing her to wash them. Without a word, Youyu bent her head and scrubbed diligently. The old woman pressed her face against the kitchen window outside, watching nervously, as if fearing her daughter might drop the bowls at any moment.
After the bowls were washed, Shen Miao inspected them without comment, then had her sweep the floor, fetch water, and chop firewood. Just as the old woman had said, Youyu wasn’t fast, but she was focused and thorough—her work was surprisingly good.
Precisely because of her simple-mindedness, she had no distracting thoughts, never slacked off, and remained unaffected by her surroundings.
Once the tasks were done, Shen Miao turned to the old woman, whose heart had been in her throat, and smiled. "Let’s go."
Go? The old woman’s hope deflated. Despairing, she took her daughter’s hand, ready to leave.
But just as they turned, Shen Miao clapped her hands and asked, "Ah, did you bring your household register?"
"We did... Huh?"
"Let’s go find a notary and draw up a contract," Shen Miao said, unbothered as she took Youyu’s rough, calloused hand. "From now on, she’ll stay with me. I’ll make sure she’s fed, and instead of thirty coins a day, I’ll pay fifty. Since she can’t count, you can save the money for her. When she’s old and can’t work anymore, at least she’ll have something to rely on."
This time, the old woman’s eyes truly welled up with tears. She tried to hold back but finally crouched down and wept openly.
Youyu panicked, squatting beside her in distress. Hesitantly, she stretched out her arms and clumsily hugged the old woman, mumbling, "Ma... Ma... no hurt, no cry."
"No hurt, no cry."
Afterward, Shen Miao took Youyu and her mother to a notary to sign the contract, then bought the girl two sets of plain cotton clothes. Next, she brought her to a "perfume house"—not a place selling fragrances, but a public bathhouse in Bianjing.
Who knew what hardships the girl had endured in that kiln? She reeked of sweat, and her clothes were singed with holes. Shen Miao had the bath attendants scrub her fiercely, and after layers of grime were washed away, her skin looked noticeably fairer.
Once dressed in fresh clothes, Shen Miao didn’t hesitate—she handed fifty copper coins to Youyu’s mother and put the girl to work immediately.
Others might think her foolish for hiring a simpleton, but Shen Miao found it ideal. Youyu was the perfect worker—diligent, never complaining, never gossiping, never slacking off, and even cheaper than a normal employee.
Listening to the sound of Youyu washing dishes by the water basin, Shen Miao finally felt at ease enough to focus on making her noodles.
Just then, two young women in sheer gauze robes and pleated skirts stepped into the shop. Hearing the commotion, Shen Miao peeked through the window and noticed attendants waiting on them.
These were no ordinary girls.
The moment they entered, their eyes instinctively went to the menu on the wall. One, with an oval face, remarked, "How quaint," before spotting the two calligraphy scrolls hanging beside it.
At first, she didn’t seem to recognize the writing. The oval-faced girl turned to her round-faced companion and mused, "How curious—a humble little eatery like this, yet the walls are covered in calligraphy. Let’s see what it says... Hm? Wait—this brushwork... No, this can’t be..." Her voice trailed off, then sharpened in shock. "Isn’t this Ninth Brother’s handwriting?"
The round-faced girl was equally stunned. "You’re right. It is Ninth Brother’s writing. The signature says Xie Jiu, and the seal is his usual small one—the one carved with 'Guanshan.'"
The revelation struck like thunder. The oval-faced girl’s face twisted in distress as she pointed at the scroll, her finger trembling slightly. "I begged Ninth Brother so many times to write for me, and he always refused. Why is his work hanging here?"
