The mountains stretched endlessly, a thousand peaks blanketed in white. Though October should still be thick with autumn’s hues, the towering heights of Juyong Pass had ushered in the year’s first snowfall far too early. The wind howled, driving sleet into the Dinghao Beacon Tower, its gusts squeezing through the gaps in the stone bricks, warping into a mournful, unceasing wail.
This beacon tower at Juyong Pass guarded a critical strongpoint, manned by eight garrison soldiers under the command of Captain Chen Zhong. Once a lowly soldier under General Xi, Chen Zhong had distinguished himself years prior during a desperate Liao invasion. His reckless bravery in battle earned him the title of "Vanguard," though it cost him a crippled leg. Young General Xi, the elder brother of the Xi family, promoted him to captain for his valor.
Since then, he had been stationed at Juyong Pass, watching over this stretch of the beacon tower day after day.
The sky had darkened beyond any discernible hour. Chen Zhong and his men had just returned from patrol below the walls, all frozen stiff as dead dogs, their armor soaked through with melted snow. Shivering violently, they hastily shed their heavy gear, changing into patched cotton jackets before huddling around a newly lit brazier.
The soldiers sat in a tight circle, only now realizing how numb their hands and feet had become. Wu Da tugged at his tattered coat, its stuffing spilling out, and begged a comrade with better needlework to mend it while grumbling, "This cursed weather—it’s barely late autumn, and already freezing like the depths of winter. Two months ago, we were panting like dogs in the heat, and now snow falls without warning. Feels like my bones are rattling apart."
Li Shi, still trembling from the cold, chimed in, "The chill came too early this year. The camp hasn’t even sent anyone with winter coats yet. How are we supposed to survive the nights?" He stretched his hands toward the brazier, but years of frostbite scars, worsened by a day soaked in sweat and snow, flared up at the heat. A sharp pain made him hiss through his teeth.
Chen Zhong removed his helmet, peeling off the fur-lined ear flaps, and wiped his face carelessly. "I knew this was coming—the skies have been overcast for days. I sent Fei Mao galloping back to Youzhou with a message earlier. We should hear back soon."
Only then did Li Shi notice that Fei Mao, usually the first to crack jokes, was missing. Worry crept into his voice. "In this blizzard? Fei Mao’s only wearing a lined jacket. Poor lad."
Fei Mao was the youngest of the eight soldiers stationed at Dinghao Beacon Tower—just seventeen, and of mixed heritage. His story was unusual: his father was Liao, his mother a Han border villager once abducted by raiders. After his mother’s death, unable to endure his father’s beatings, he fled. Two years ago, he risked his life crossing into Song territory, nearly executed as a spy. But he revealed over a dozen hidden Liao outposts surveilling the border, earning a pardon. Young General Xi secured him a post as a minor officer, and the imperial court in Bianjing approved his assignment to the Great Wall garrison.
Rumor had it that when he led Song troops to raid those Liao outposts, the first one they struck was his own father’s cavalry unit. He watched as his father, cursing and disgraced, was dragged away by Song soldiers. Fei Mao didn’t shed a tear. Instead, he walked alone into the wilderness to retrieve his mother’s discarded bones.
He carried his mother’s remains tightly bound to his back, journeying all the way back inside the Great Wall, where he found a hillside blanketed with wild apricot blossoms and reburied her there.
Fei Mao, known for his speed—so fast he could even stand on horseback without holding the reins—no longer wished to go by his Khitan name. So he asked Li Shi and a dozen or so comrades to give him a new one. These rough-and-tumble men, however, couldn’t come up with anything particularly refined. After arguing for ages, they settled on "Fei Mao" because he ran as swiftly as a "flying-furred leg."
He didn’t mind the name. Ever since returning to the Song dynasty, he had been in high spirits.
No sooner had Li Shi finished speaking than the distant thunder of galloping hooves reached their ears. Chen Zhong immediately gripped his saber and rose alertly, peering out through the narrow arrow slit of the watchtower. Through the swirling snow, he spotted a convoy of wagons racing toward them.
Wu Da’s expression darkened as he raised his repeating crossbow.
As the riders drew closer, Chen Zhong relaxed and waved for Wu Da to lower his weapon—the figure leading the charge wore Song armor, with the dynasty’s five-colored banner strapped to his back, embroidered with a large, unmistakable character: "Xi."
At Juyong Pass, many soldiers might not even recognize their own names, but this intricate "Xi" character was one they would never forget.
"It’s Fei Mao! He’s done it this time—managed to pry a whole wagonload of supplies from those tightfisted quartermasters!" Li Shi exclaimed, spotting him too. He leapt up, suddenly oblivious to the cold, and hurried down to crank open the gate. Outside, the snow had already piled over a foot deep. Fei Mao, bundled in thick cotton and layered with leather-and-iron riveted armor, was completely caked in snow, his eyelashes crusted with frost by the time he stumbled into the watchtower.
Gasping for breath, he leaned on Li Shi for a long moment before finally lifting his face with a grin. "Brother Li, I brought back some real treasures!"
"What treasures?" Li Shi wrinkled his nose. "What could the camp cooks possibly make that’s worth eating? More flatbread?" Then, after a pause, his expression brightened with sudden hope. "Don’t tell me you got us mare’s milk? That wouldn’t be half bad."
The Great Wall stretched endlessly, guarded by hundreds of soldiers. Scarce luxuries like mare’s milk were doled out based on two things: whether their captain had enough clout and connections, and whether their squad could outfight the men in the neighboring watchtowers. The thought of mare’s milk made Li Shi’s heart ache. Their eight-man unit, mostly lean archers, stood no chance against the hulking brute from the neighboring post—a man built like a door plank who could send them flying with one charge. They’d lost every "mare’s milk battle" for a year straight.
"Better than mare’s milk!" Fei Mao licked his lips as if he’d already feasted back at camp.
Li Shi couldn’t help but grow curious, his heart itching with anticipation, though he tried to play it cool. "Look at you! Acting like you’ve never seen anything decent!"
"You haven’t either, I bet!"
Soon, the clatter of the arriving convoy echoed below. Li Shi rushed to crank the massive winch. The supply crew, unable to keep up with Fei Mao, had nearly run themselves to death chasing his trail. Gasping for air, they loaded winter clothing, charcoal, and a month’s worth of rations for eight men into large baskets, which creaked and groaned as they were hoisted up via the wooden gears and ropes.
Then, braving the snow once more, they trudged onward to the next watchtower.
Li Shi and the others worked together to haul the baskets one by one up to the narrow watchtower. They opened the first crate and found it packed with thick winter clothes, fur vests, hats, and even sturdy fur-lined boots studded with hobnails! Li Shi’s eyes lit up as he ran his hands over the fabrics, reluctant to let go. "This is incredible—just what we needed! And feel this, it’s like new cotton! Fei Mao’s done it again!"
Chen Zhong laughed. "Let’s credit him for this! At least we won’t freeze this year."
Fei Mao removed his armor, his face flushed red from the biting wind and snow. As soon as he stepped into the warmth, several bloody cracks split across his cheeks. He wiped the blood away carelessly, then dabbed some ashes from the brazier to stop the bleeding, looking smug. "I almost got crushed by that fatso Hei Shi trying to grab these new cotton coats! And the guys from the Wuhao post got there early too—it was a close call!"
Wu Da gritted his teeth. "Once the cold hits, every outpost sends men back to the main camp for supplies. That cunning Captain Meng from Wuhao always sends Hei Shi! Damn it, they get to drink mare’s milk and eat cheese curds every winter just because Hei Shi’s built like a mountain. By spring, they don’t lose weight—they might even gain a few pounds!"
But at least they had Fei Mao. He rode like the wind, never losing his way even in blizzards, often getting there first. The good stuff in the military depot—like new cotton coats and mare’s milk—had to be snatched up fast, or their own beacon tower would be stuck with the old, worn-out supplies while others took the best.
Between mare’s milk and cotton coats, Fei Mao always chose the coats for them.
"Why is there an extra basket? Fei Mao, you’ve outdone yourself this year—what’s in it?" Li Shi, already bundled in a thick coat, couldn’t resist peeking at the enormous basket nearby. "Don’t tell me you actually beat Hei Shi and got us a load of milk bricks?"
"Take a look for yourself." Fei Mao crossed his arms, deliberately keeping them in suspense.
Chen Zhong stepped forward and lifted the lid. Inside were oddities wrapped in oiled paper—round, deep-fried dried dough cakes—along with clay jars. Some held roasted dried vegetable scraps, others congealed, fragrant meat fat with chunks still visible. A few jars were filled with powdered dried ginger and prickly ash, their pungent aroma hitting Chen Zhong’s nose the moment he opened one, making him sneeze violently.
Hearing Chen Zhong’s sneezes, Li Shi and the others crowded around, staring in bewilderment at the dough cakes and jars, turning them over but failing to make sense of them.
It wasn’t until Chen Zhong spotted a picture with writing at the bottom of the basket that the eight of them—barely literate among them—craned their necks, heads bumping together as they tried to decipher the drawings.
The first was a steaming teapot with two characters beside it. None of them recognized it. Chen Zhong squinted hard and ventured, "Looks like the word for ‘water.’ See, that’s the character! What, none of you know ‘water’?"
The others shook their heads—no clue.
Fei Mao swaggered over, chin raised. "You lot are hopeless. It says ‘boiling water’!"
The second instruction showed the dried noodle cake placed in a bowl, followed by a handful of chopped vegetables and a scoop of oily paste. Four more characters were written, but this time even Chen Zhong couldn’t explain them—they were too obscure. Fei Mao grew even more smug, pointing at the words and declaring, "It says 'pour boiling water'! And the water must completely cover the noodle cake."
Li Shi was baffled. "You were only gone for half a day—how did you learn so many characters?"
Fei Mao grinned. "I’m just clever."
Wu Da rolled his eyes. "Why even ask? He doesn’t actually know them. This brat must’ve already eaten this so-called 'boiling water noodle cake' back at the camp! That’s how he knows what to do."
The third instruction: Cover the bowl with a plate or lid and count to two hundred.
The fourth instruction: Uncover, stir, and voilà—a steaming bowl of noodle soup, ready to eat!
The rough-and-tumble soldiers all jerked their heads back, eyes wide. "You mean just pouring water over it and waiting turns it into hot noodle soup? That’s really possible?"
Fei Mao smirked and jabbed a finger at them. "Never seen anything like it, huh?"
Chen Zhong promptly kicked him in the rear.
So the group asked Fei Mao to teach them how to make this miraculous noodle dish. Wu Da hurried off to fetch some dried dung. The Great Wall garrisons had a tradition of stockpiling fuel—after all, if disaster struck, they needed to light the beacon fires immediately to alert Youzhou. This was as crucial as weapons and equipment, requiring daily inspection without fail.
In spring and summer, the border soldiers gathered firewood and charcoal, and Youzhou periodically sent supplies. They’d also adopted the Khitan practice of collecting and drying cattle and horse dung for fuel, so they never ran short.
Soon, a large pot of melted snow water was boiling.
Everyone dug out their earthenware bowls and followed Fei Mao’s instructions—first the dried noodle cake, then a handful of mixed vegetables, and finally a spoonful of that fragrant oily paste. Even before adding water, Li Shi could smell it, and he swallowed hard, mouth watering.
The jars were passed around until everyone had their ingredients ready, then the kettle followed, each man pouring boiling water into his bowl.
The hot water hissed as it hit the dried noodles, and the brown oil melted instantly. Li Shi and the others scrambled to find something to cover their bowls. Chen Zhong, exasperated by their clumsiness—one even considered using his helmet—went down to the kitchen and brought back the big pot lid from the stove. He lined up all eight bowls and covered them at once.
They counted to two hundred together.
Li Shi couldn’t wait. He lifted the lid, and a rich, savory aroma burst forth, filling the small watchtower. The scent was so intoxicating that for a moment, all seven men—except Fei Mao—stood frozen, too dazed to reach for their bowls.
The journey to Juyong Pass was treacherous, especially in winter. The barren plains outside were buried under snow deep enough to cover a horse’s legs, making supply deliveries difficult. Most rations were lightweight, dehydrated flatbreads—easy to transport and long-lasting, but even when reheated, they stayed hard. Soaking them in hot water was an option, but that only made them worse. The damned beacon towers at least had mare’s milk to soften the bread.
But this? A piping-hot bowl of noodle soup, with actual meat and vegetables?
"It smells like a dream," Li Shi murmured, rubbing his eyes as steam blurred his vision. He reached out slowly, touching the earthenware bowl. It was warm. Almost too hot to hold.
"It's like magic—just pour hot water and it's ready, and the smell is unbelievably good!" Wu Da gulped, his beady eyes practically turning green with greed as he grew restless. "Brothers, why just stare? Let's all have a taste!"
With that, he reached for a bowl, scooped a mouthful with his chopsticks, and the moment it touched his tongue, he was spellbound. He couldn’t even bring himself to swallow right away, mumbling through the rich flavors, "So gooood! So—so gooood! Even better than the mutton soup noodles they only make for New Year’s back at camp..."
The others quickly followed suit. Li Shi took one bite and blurted out, "What—what is this flavor?! Is this pork? Braised pork? I think it’s braised pork, but how is it this delicious? Not a hint of gaminess... I’ve never tasted anything this good in my whole life!"
He paused, stunned, his eyes inexplicably welling up. That single bite of noodles seemed to dredge up all the hardship and cold he’d endured over the years.
Fei Mao had already eaten this once back at camp, so he wasn’t as overwhelmed this time—but it was still incredible. Though the cuts on his face still stung, he couldn’t stop slurping up the broth-soaked noodles. Seeing Li Shi on the verge of tears, he teased, "Brother Li, are you about to cry? Over a bowl of hot noodles? Really?" But even as he joked, his own chopsticks never stopped moving. Soon, his bowl was empty, and he couldn’t resist licking the rim, savoring the last traces of flavor.
No matter how many times he ate this, it never got old. And this time, he’d outdone himself—he’d snatched three different jars of flavored fat. The one they’d just eaten was the brown braised pork kind, but there was also a yellow chicken-bone version and a greenish one floating with Sichuan peppercorns and pickled cabbage. He’d lifted the lids to sniff each one, found them irresistible, and taken them all!
The quartermaster had glared at him like he’d lost his mind.
Chen Zhong, warmed from the inside out, still had a little broth left in his bowl. He sipped it slowly, reluctant to finish it all at once. Watching the snowflakes whirl outside, he thought, This is so good. How many years has it been since I’ve had such a fine bowl of hot noodles in the snow? With something this warm and delicious, it feels like I can endure any hardship, any cold.
And where on earth had these miraculous, instant noodles come from? The cook who invented them must have been a genius!
No—not just a genius, but a master of their craft!
Had Young General Xi hired some brilliant new chef for the camp? But what kind of fool would willingly stay in this frozen wasteland?
When he asked Fei Mao, even he didn’t know. "They’re still making flatbread back at camp!" Fei Mao said. "The supply officer told me Young General Xi led a raid and seized fifty horses from the Khitans and thirty cows from the Jurchens. Those Khitan horses are tall and strong—they sell for seventy taels each! The general sold them to the livestock traders and made thousands. Then he handed the silver to the quartermaster and ordered him to buy these from some new noodle workshop outside camp. The place just opened, and it’s run by a young woman!"
Li Shi was also licking his bowl and sighed, "Young General Xi has gone off to feast again. Our Young General Xi is clever—he only raids a little each year, never wiping them out completely. Then the next year, when they’ve bred new calves and lambs, he estimates they’ve grown big enough and goes to raid again. Sometimes he hits one pasture this year, then moves to another next year. Back when I farmed with my father at home, we did the same—after tilling a field for a year, we’d let it lie fallow the next, or else the crops wouldn’t grow well."
"Exactly. Not like the Yue Family Army in Yanzhou—they always end up hitting too hard by accident, storming straight into the enemy’s stronghold. Then the Khitan and Jurchen emperors write angry letters to our emperor, complaining, ‘We agreed on friendly relations and trade between our nations, how can you be so untrustworthy?’ I hear our emperor gets scolded every year for this, and after the scolding, he has to send out a golden edict to Yanzhou to recall General Yue, who’s always too fired up to stop fighting."
"Funny, isn’t it? How many golden edicts have they collected by now?"
"At least five or six."
"That’s quite a few. Are they pure gold?" Fei Mao grinned. "A chunk of gold that big—if you melted it down, you could trade for a lot of provisions!"
"How’d you know? General Yue actually did melt them! Just recently, he traded them for a batch of steel-reinforced blades for the Yue Family Army!"
"Hahaha… Brother Li, rub my belly for me, I’m laughing so hard it hurts!"
"Rub your own damn belly."
Everyone burst into laughter, except for Chen Zhong, who noticed Wu Da staring intently at the basket of flatbread. He immediately reacted, lunging to cover the basket and scanning the group warily. "Since these were bought extra, there probably aren’t many. Wu Da! Let go! There’s only one basket of this good stuff—how can we afford to eat it every day? Next month, the snow will be heavier, the roads harder to travel. Fei Mao will have to go to the main camp to ‘claim’—ahem—get more provisions, and who knows if there’ll even be any? Everyone, ration it! Not every three days… no, every five days. Tomorrow, we’re back to plain naan!"
The group groaned in protest, but there was a hint of hopeful anticipation in their voices.
Their howls drifted through the dimly lit window holes, mingling with the sound of snow falling softly in the endless night—along with a few contented belches.
Shen Miao also received news from Zheng Neizhi that the instant noodle workshop was up and running. The letter from Youzhou was brief, simply stating, "All is going smoothly." Naturally, she was delighted—if things continued this well, she might even start receiving dividends next year!
Zheng Neizhi also urged her to come up with a few more flavor recipes, saying the instant noodles were selling like wildfire in Youzhou. They could barely keep up with demand—every batch sold out in a day or two. Lady Cui, whom Shen Miao had met at the Xie household, had indeed gone to Youzhou to oversee the noodle workshop’s parent company. Under the alias Tang Wan, she arrived in Youzhou in August and immediately began networking with the city’s major merchant guild leaders. Within two days, she had secured distribution channels.
Now, the noodle workshop not only supplied the military camps but also delivered to restaurants, grain shops, and general stores. Youzhou was a melting pot of ethnicities, and many border residents—whether heading beyond the frontier to hunt or herd horses, or merchants traveling for trade—were buying crates of noodles to take home.
This "Lady Tang" was full of drive. After securing the Youzhou market, she braved the snow, taking her clerks and gifts, along with a letter of recommendation from Young General Xi, straight to the government horse pastures thirty li outside the city to negotiate business.
Ever since the Sixteen Prefectures of Yan and Yun were bought back, the Great Song Dynasty also established thirty-two horse ranches along the border, dedicated to breeding warhorses for the imperial court. By now, they had already raised three hundred thousand horses. The studs were mostly Shaanxi’s Qin horses, Khitan horses seized from the Liao people, and Jingdong horses bred in the Jingdong Circuit. There were also Xixia horses, Guang horses, and Jurchen horses taken from the Jin people. These horses were treated like ancestors—not a single day could they go hungry—while the herders themselves were far less precious. It was common for them to endure hunger and cold while moving the herds between pastures.
The overseer of the horse pastures tasted the instant soup noodles just once and immediately ordered two thousand crates, requesting them to be delivered in batches. Later, he even signed a long-term supply contract with the workshop.
After all, the pastures were vast, and the herders often spent days away from home while rotating the grazing grounds with their herds. Such convenient provisions were exactly what they needed.
It was said that the emperor had been determined to reopen trade routes to the Western Regions in recent years, partly because he coveted the legendary Ferghana blood-sweating horses. If they could bring them back and crossbreed them with the Song’s warhorses, the resulting stock would surely surpass the warhorses of the Liao and Jin.
For now, the three kingdoms of Liao, Jin, and Song were locked in a stalemate, none able to overpower the others. Yet the emperor often declared, "The Great Song may have no immediate worries, but it must prepare for future perils." He repeatedly issued edicts to the military governors of each prefecture, urging them to take advantage of this peaceful lull to train troops diligently, innovate weaponry, and breed (or seize) as many horses as possible.
Shen Miao had heard the first half of this from Zheng Neizhi, while the latter half came from patrons drinking and boasting in her shop. She couldn’t help but agree—though this emperor had dealt harshly with noble families, there was no denying his clear-headedness and foresight. He was truly promising material for a wise ruler!
Then there was Lady Cui, whom Shen Miao had only glimpsed briefly at the Xie family estate. After hearing Zheng Neizhi’s account, she was astonished. Back then, Lady Cui had seemed listless and frail on the boat, but now, having gone to Youzhou, she had been reborn, proving herself an astute businesswoman! She wasn’t much older either, yet she knew exactly how to navigate a new place—even with powerful backing, she first won over the local power brokers by sharing profits, making it clear she was there to enrich everyone. Only after securing her footing did she expand into new markets.
Moreover, Lady Cui had the vision to collaborate with the official horse pastures—backed by the Xi family, who commanded the Youzhou garrison, it was an easy partnership to arrange. Most importantly, a government-run horse pasture was a lucrative institution, bound to be generous with payments.
Shen Miao was thoroughly impressed and silently chastised herself for ever doubting the judgment of the Xie family’s eldest daughter.
After seeing Zheng Neizhi off, Ninth Brother and Ji Brother were still out running along the city walls and hadn’t returned yet. With few customers around in the early hours, Shen Miao settled back behind the counter to tally the accounts, the rhythmic clatter of the abacus beads soothing her heart. It sounded like a rain of copper coins falling before her eyes. Just thinking about how every piece of instant soup noodles sold in Youzhou meant a share for her, she couldn’t help but grin secretly.
She was nearly laughing aloud as she worked through the numbers.
By the time she finished calculating yesterday’s earnings, two familiar figures stepped into the shop. Shen Miao looked up, quickly tucked the ledger into a drawer, and came out from behind the counter with a smile. "Mr. Wang, Old Mr. Liang, welcome! The usual, then? Three roast ducks, sliced to go?"
"Yes, please pick the tenderest ones for us."
"Every one of them is tender—you can rest assured of that!"
This Mr. Wang appeared to be in his thirties, with a long, glossy black beard meticulously groomed. Each time he visited, he wore plain, unadorned robes, yet his spending was far from frugal. Initially, he would come with his wife to the shop to dine on roast duck, then take several more home. Later, he began visiting frequently to purchase ducks but no longer ate in the shop. Eventually, he often arrived accompanied by Old Mr. Liang.
Old Mr. Liang was quite elderly, with sparse, graying hair—so thin it seemed even his facial hair had receded—and a slightly hunched back. Yet he must have been wealthy, for though dressed in the same unassuming fine cloth as Mr. Wang, he was plump, with fair skin, nothing like an ordinary commoner.
Most strikingly, he had a full set of well-maintained teeth—a rarity. Shen Miao noted that by Old Mr. Liang’s age, most commoners had lost theirs entirely. In her experience, only the affluent retained such healthy teeth.
He seemed perpetually cheerful, always wearing a warm smile whether speaking or not, exuding an approachable air. Yet Shen Miao found something oddly unsettling about his demeanor. Alone, he carried himself like a man who had enjoyed decades of luxury, dignified and refined. But when speaking with Mr. Wang, he appeared almost deferential.
Yet Mr. Wang treated him with great respect, deferring to him in all matters.
It was contradictory.
But these were the private affairs of customers, and Shen Miao never pried. Her business was selling ducks, nothing more.
Tang Er expertly sliced the duck and carefully packed it into the three-tiered lacquered food box inlaid with mother-of-pearl and gemstones that Old Mr. Liang had brought. The remaining carcass was also wrapped—Old Mr. Liang always took it home to make soup, never opting for it to be fried.
That food box alone told Shen Miao they were no ordinary folk. They were either as wealthy as the Xie family or the Fengs.
But was there even a prominent Liang clan in Bianjing?
Though puzzled, Shen Miao kept her thoughts to herself, smiling warmly as she handed the packed food box to Old Mr. Liang. Usually, he would pay and leave, but this time, after accepting it, he lingered and asked, "I’ve heard that Mistress Shen is occasionally hired to cater banquets—twice a month, is it?"
"Indeed, but only twice, as I must also manage my own shop," Shen Miao replied with a smile. "Regular patrons usually book in advance. However, this month’s slots are already taken."
Ever since the Feng family first hired her, Shen Miao had been frequently booked for private events. During the recent Mid-Autumn and Double Ninth festivals, families had nearly fought over securing her services. The Fengs, in particular, hosted monthly banquets and had practically won her over with gold.
"Then might Mistress Shen be available on the eighth of next month?"
"Yes, I’ve only one booking so far for early next month," Shen Miao mused. She was scheduled to cater a feast in Third Bai’s village, Baili, in Chenliu Town—Second Bai’s eldest daughter was getting married that day.
Third Bai invited her to prepare just one grand dish—a whole roasted lamb. Though the payment from Third Bai wasn't as generous as the Feng family's, offering only a few strings of coins, Shen Miao agreed without hesitation. After all, on her very first day setting up a stall in Bianjing, Third Bai had been her first customer. Even after she opened a shop and expanded her business, he remained a frequent patron.
Shen Miao also saw this as an opportunity to take Ji Brother and Sister Xiang outside Bianjing for a little autumn outing.
"Then it's settled with Madam Shen for the eighth day of the eleventh month. Here's the deposit." Old Mr. Liang pulled out a small silver ingot from his sleeve.
Shen Miao accepted it—it was heavy, weighing at least five taels! Her smile instantly brightened with genuine delight. "Thank you, Old Mr. Liang, for trusting me. May I ask where your residence is located? That way, I’ll know when to arrive and what carriage to take."
Old Mr. Liang chuckled. "Not far—just on Imperial Street. I’ll send a carriage to fetch you."
Even better—that would save her the cost of a long-distance ride! Shen Miao thanked him again warmly. With a slight nod of acknowledgment, Mr. Wang and Old Mr. Liang boarded their carriage and departed.
Shen Miao eagerly saw them off at the door. The unassuming green-canopied carriage indeed headed toward Imperial Street.
No wonder they were so generous—they lived on Imperial Street!
Affectionately, Shen Miao rubbed the silver ingot between her fingers. Glancing around to ensure no one was watching, she quickly slipped into the cellar to hide her earnings.
Meanwhile, inside the carriage slowly making its way down Imperial Street sat none other than Wang Yong, the Prefect of Kaifeng. When the carriage reached the gates of the Kaifeng Prefecture, he clasped his hands in farewell to "Old Mr. Liang" and stepped out. "Eunuch Liang, I’ll take my leave here."
"Of course, Prefect Wang, take care." Liang Qian also alighted respectfully to see him off, watching as Wang Yong entered the government office before returning to the carriage.
The carriage continued forward, passing Imperial Street before turning east toward a vermilion gate adorned with copper nails.
That gate was none other than the Donghua Gate of the imperial palace.
