The current emperor, Zhao Boyun, was still very young.
Born at the end of the year, he wouldn’t turn twenty-one until next month. He had inherited the square-jawed face and less-than-fair complexion of Zhao Kuangyin’s lineage, with a broad forehead and thick, long earlobes—considered a sign of good fortune. Like Emperor Taizu, he was a burly, dark-skinned man of sturdy build.
Just after dawn, Zhao Boyun was awakened by the clamor of street vendors outside the palace walls—more punctual than any rooster. The Song Dynasty’s imperial palace was small and compact, originally just a Tang Dynasty military governor’s office. After Emperor Taizu established the capital in Kaifeng, he simply renovated the place, added a few walls, expanded it slightly, and moved in.
Moreover, unlike other dynasties, the Song court never issued an edict to forcibly relocate residents near the palace. First, Zhao Kuangyin believed that seizing private property and displacing commoners would tarnish his virtue. Second, when he founded the Song Dynasty, resources were scarce—every copper coin had to be stretched thin. His mind was set on negotiating with the Khitans to reclaim the Sixteen Prefectures of Yan and Yun, so to save money, he avoided spending vast sums on demolishing homes and constructing grand palaces.
Make do with what we have!
Just how small was the imperial palace? Rumors said that standing atop the highest floor of Fan Tower, one could gaze down and see the entire palace grounds.
Thus, though the Song Dynasty was wealthy, generations of emperors lived amid the noisy bustle of commoners.
Kaifeng had morning markets and night markets, and vendors—known for their loud voices—loved to gather near Donghua Gate, waiting for high-ranking officials rushing to court, loose with their coins, or for clerks and eunuchs coming and going. Before dawn, they’d set up stalls along the modest palace walls, baskets in hand, carts pushed, or carrying poles on their shoulders, hawking their wares.
Freshly cooked rice, piping-hot ring-shaped pastries, olives from the south with their skins still on, walnuts from the northern frontiers.
Yawning as he sat up, Zhao Boyun could roughly guess what the court officials had eaten for breakfast just by listening to the noise outside.
But that was nothing.
Two years ago, the drum at Xuande Gate—silent for over a decade—was suddenly struck by a farmer. The newly enthroned Zhao Boyun, startled, assumed it must be some extraordinary injustice and immediately ordered an inquiry during court. But when the eunuchs investigated, they learned the farmer had no grievance—he’d just lost his pig.
While herding it near the palace, the pig had gone berserk, knocked him over, and vanished. He wanted to ask the guards if it might have slipped into the palace and if they could help find it.
Amused yet sympathetic, Zhao Boyun ordered the guards to search the palace grounds. Of course, they found nothing. Seeing the farmer’s despair, he had a eunuch fetch two thousand coins from his private treasury to compensate him for a new pig.
But his kindness backfired, encouraging mischief.
Soon, others began claiming lost livestock to knock on the palace gates. Some even tossed their chickens over the walls, pretending they’d flown in by accident. The guards had to chase chickens all over the palace, only for the owners to deny they were theirs—hinting they wanted compensation.
The furious guard commander had a few troublemakers beaten and thrown into Kaifeng’s jail for a few days. Then he ordered wire nets strung under the palace eaves. Now, any chicken that flew in could be shooed away before it even landed.
Only then was the audacious trend of commoners trying to swindle the emperor curbed.
Zhao Boyun, too, learned his lesson—no more indiscriminate generosity. He couldn’t endure a life of flying chickens and runaway pigs!
In short, even without water clocks or sundials, Zhao Boyun could tell the time just by the noise outside. The palace roosters had become utterly redundant.
After rising, a palace maid asked if he wanted breakfast served. He waved her off, asking instead, "Has Liang Qian returned yet?"
The maid, busy tying up the bed curtains and folding the quilts, hurriedly replied that he hadn’t.
The Song court convened late, between mid-morning and noon. Seeing it was still early, Zhao Boyun changed into lighter clothes and practiced a few rounds of Emperor Taizu’s Long Fist in the jade-paved corridor outside Funing Palace, working up a sweat. Then he bathed and changed again under the maids’ care.
Emerging from the bathhouse, stomach growling, he spotted Liang Qian waiting at the foot of the steps to his private quarters. The eunuch wore a curved-wing hat and a dark green robe, holding a food box.
Perfect timing!
Zhao Boyun’s face lit up, but with so many attendants around, he quickly schooled his expression. Clearing his throat, he dismissed the others, leaving only Liang Qian to serve him inside.
"My dear Liang Qian, you’ve finally returned."
Alone in the inner chamber, Zhao Boyun sat cross-legged on the heated platform, his square, slightly dark face betraying the exuberance of youth as he eyed the food box eagerly.
"Is this the first batch from Shen’s Roast Duck today?"
"Indeed, Your Majesty. This servant arrived precisely on time. As you said, the first batch uses freshly split fruitwood, so the aroma is richest. I also instructed them to pick the tenderest duck. The carcass has been sent to the imperial kitchen for broth, which you’ll have at noon." Liang Qian didn’t correct the emperor’s impression of Shen’s establishment. To Zhao Boyun, whether it was a noodle shop or a duck restaurant mattered little—as long as the duck was delicious.
Zhao Boyun nodded approvingly. He’d eaten Shen’s roast duck many times, and though it was always excellent, he firmly believed the first batch was the absolute best!
Experience had made him a connoisseur.
"Since Your Majesty tasked this servant with buying it yesterday, I invited Prefect Wang Yong along. He has what they call a ‘membership card’ at Shen’s. A duck usually costs 143 coins, but with his card, we saved sixteen. Rumor has it Prefect Wang has thirty ducks stored there—his wife eats one daily and can’t stop!" Liang Qian chatted amiably as he set up a small stove and low table, reheating the oil-paper-wrapped duck and thin pancakes.
The cold weather had cooled the duck on its journey into the palace, but a quick warm-up restored its flavor.
Zhao Boyun praised Liang Qian’s thriftiness. "Well done! Every penny counts. You truly know how to manage a household!"
The empress dowager insisted on light, bland meals, even ordering the kitchen to use less salt. If she learned he’d secretly indulged in greasy roast duck for breakfast, he’d face a stern scolding.
Thus, Zhao Boyun had no choice but to send Liang Qian out to buy ducks discreetly, using his private funds to avoid suspicion. His frugality had a purpose—he wanted to develop firearms!
This year, turmoil arose in Qinzhou, leaving the Ministry of Revenue unable to spare additional funds to support Zhao Boyun’s ambitious ideas about firearms. The officials also considered the incendiary bombs previously commissioned by the emperor to be rather useless against the swift cavalry of the Liao and Jin dynasties—given their speed on the battlefield, the bombs rarely hit their mark. Producing so many of them was a waste of resources with little practical benefit, so they refused to approve the budget.
But Zhao Boyun firmly believed that firearms would prove invaluable in the future. The incendiary bombs were just the beginning—craftsmen would surely develop more advanced weapons, though even he couldn’t predict what they might create.
After heated debates with his ministers, Zhao Boyun, in a fit of frustration, dismissed the Minister of Revenue and replaced him with a more compliant one. However, with the treasury already strained, he couldn’t justify diverting funds from the people’s welfare solely for firearms. Instead, he allocated a portion of his private treasury to dig fire wells and further research new weapons.
Every coin had to be spent wisely—not a single one could be wasted.
Especially not sixteen coins. Zhao Boyun pinched every penny in his mind.
As steam rose from the stove and the sizzle of melting fat filled the air, Liang Qian finally unwrapped the oiled paper. Instantly, an even richer aroma enveloped them—the roasted duck, sliced evenly and glistening, boasted a deep reddish hue, its meat tender and juicy with a faint greenish sheen.
This was duck at its freshest! Since childhood, Zhao Boyun had been a meat lover, and after lamb, his favorite was roasted duck. How much did he love it? He once considered setting aside a plot in the palace grounds to raise ducks, even drafting a title for the official in charge—the "Duck Herding Supervisor." But the Empress Dowager firmly vetoed the idea, complaining that the streets outside were already noisy enough without adding the quacking of ducks.
Left with no choice, whenever he grew tired of the imperial chefs’ cooking, Zhao Boyun would secretly send Liang Qian to buy roasted duck from the markets. Over time, he had sampled nearly every duck shop in Bianjing.
Before discovering Shen’s Roasted Duck, the flavors he encountered were all much the same—none could compare to the imperial chefs’ skill, so he’d eat a few pieces for novelty’s sake and move on.
That changed during the Lotus Festival in June. Late at night, Zhao Boyun summoned Wang Yong and other key ministers to the palace to discuss expanding the imperial examinations.
At the time, Wang Yong had been enjoying the festival with his wife in the city. The eunuchs searched high and low before finally dragging him straight into the palace, still clutching several roasted ducks from Shen’s—originally meant for his subordinates at the ministry.
The moment Wang Yong entered the hall, the rich aroma escaped the oiled paper, overpowering the solemn atmosphere. Zhao Boyun forgot all about state affairs as he and his ministers devoured three or four ducks, licking the sauce from their fingers before remembering why they had been summoned in the first place.
That was Zhao Boyun’s first taste of Shen’s roasted duck—and he never forgot it.
Now, every few days, he would borrow Wang Yong’s "VIP card" to order more. At first, he discreetly asked Wang Yong to buy them for him, but as his cravings grew, he felt guilty imposing on his minister.
After all, in his eyes, Wang Yong came from humble origins, lacking the wealth of noble families. He lived frugally, and spending hundreds of coins daily on duck seemed unfair—like the emperor was taking advantage of his subordinate.
So Zhao Boyun eventually started paying out of his own pocket, sending Liang Qian to fetch the ducks himself.
Wang Yong had also told him that while most duck shops in Bianjing sold leftovers the next day, Shen’s slaughtered and roasted fresh ducks daily—which explained the meat’s exceptional freshness and that mesmerizing sheen.
How could duck that had been alive just two hours before roasting not taste incredible?
If only he could raise ducks in the palace gardens! The imperial kitchen sourced its poultry from the Fengjin Gardens in the suburbs, where livestock and fowl were slaughtered before being transported through the East Gate.
By the time the duck reached his table, it had been dead for hours!
As Liang Qian wrapped the duck for him, the hall filled with the smoky aroma of fruitwood roasting. Zhao Boyun inhaled deeply—the rich scent of crispy skin, the slight sweetness of the sauce, the cool freshness of cucumber strips, and the nutty fragrance of wheat pancakes. Who had come up with this way of eating? Dipping roasted duck in sauce, wrapping it with pancakes, and pairing it with cucumber and scallions—pure genius!
The chef at Shen’s was truly exceptional.
"So fragrant," Zhao Boyun murmured, eyes crinkling with delight as he extended his chopsticks to pick up a neatly wrapped pancake.
One bite confirmed it—this was the taste!
The skin was crispy and glistening with oil, rich but not greasy. The meat was perfectly tender—neither too soft nor too tough, just firm and juicy. Paired with the pancakes and sweet sauce, each chew released more flavor.
Zhao Boyun adored the crispy skin so much that he’d wrap extra pieces with the meat, dipping them in sauce for an even more satisfying bite.
After polishing off a whole duck for breakfast, all the sweat from his morning exercises was for nothing. Rubbing his now-rounder belly, he whispered to Liang Qian, "Make sure the servants in Funing Palace keep quiet. If the Empress Dowager asks, they mustn’t let it slip."
Liang Qian smiled and bowed. "Your Majesty need not worry. This servant understands."
Though not the Empress Dowager’s biological son, Zhao Boyun had been raised in her palace after his mother’s death until he was named crown prince at sixteen. Despite his firm hand in politics, he still dreaded her lectures.
Reassured, Zhao Boyun continued, "Have you arranged for Shen’s chef? On the eighth of next month, I’ll host a banquet to welcome the two generals."
He had a major plan in motion and had secretly summoned Generals Xi and Yue back to the capital.
"All settled, Your Majesty. The deposit has been paid," Liang Qian replied with a bow. "Once Generals Xi and Yue arrive, this servant will personally visit Shen’s to discuss their preferences with Madam Shen and have her prepare her specialties. Rumor has it that the famous spicy soup served at the Feng family’s banquets was her creation."
"With you handling things, I have nothing to worry about," Zhao Boyun said, patting Liang Qian’s shoulder. Then, with a sigh, he added, "Pity General Xi couldn’t make it—he’s still recovering from quelling the Qinzhou rebellion. Otherwise, I’d have loved to drink the night away with all three of them. Oh, and let’s hold the banquet at the Jade Spring Gardens instead of the palace—it’s quieter. And invite Prince Lu too. He’s always complaining about the imperial kitchen’s food—let him taste something exceptional for once."
"Understood, Your Majesty."
The morning bell from the Bell and Drum Tower rippled through the palace like waves, signaling the approach of the hour of Si (9–11 AM). Without delay, Zhao Boyun changed into his court robes and hummed a cheerful tune, his spirits high from a satisfying meal, as he headed to the morning court.
The lingering chimes of the bell pierced through the morning mist, echoing between the houses of Willow East Alley. As soon as Shen Miao opened her shop, she sold three roasted ducks, four bowls of soup noodles, and six bowls of mutton soup. Indeed, as the weather turned colder, steaming broths and soups sold far better than in the summer heat.
She then went to the pottery kiln to order small wine-warming stoves. Hand-molded from clay, the stoves could be any shape—so long as they were palm-sized, with space for a small piece of charcoal underneath and a pot of wine on top. Odd shapes were even preferred, as they added to the rustic charm. A single piece of charcoal, once burned out, would retain enough warmth to keep the wine heated for an hour, ensuring that patrons’ drinks never turned cold, whether they came by day or night.
After the morning rush, with no customers in the shop, Shen Miao left Tao in charge and retreated to the backyard, where she and Fu Xing prepared duck blood and vermicelli soup in the kitchen.
With roasted ducks selling well, the leftover heads, feet, and offal were put to good use. Duck blood, intestines, liver, gizzards, feet, and heads weren’t just eaten by the household—they were also braised with pork head meat and sold as drinking snacks.
Some customers preferred only the roasted duck, leaving the carcasses behind. These remaining frames were saved by Shen Miao to make broth. Even the feathers were collected—she first picked out the long ones to make a shuttlecock for Sister Xiang, then cleaned, dried, and stored the rest in a hemp sack. When she had time, she would remove the coarse feathers, keeping only the soft down to stuff into quilts and winter clothing. They would surely be wonderfully warm!
In short, every part of the duck was precious, with nothing going to waste.
Fu Xing sprinkled a pinch of salt into fresh duck blood, stirring gently until it coagulated. Behind him, a pot of duck broth, simmered from the carcasses, had already turned milky white and thick, bubbling as it released its rich aroma.
Shen Miao slowly added two handfuls of hair-thin "silver-light vermicelli" into the broth. The noodles softened instantly, absorbing the duck stock until they turned translucent and glossy. By then, the duck blood was ready.
Fu Xing carefully slid the coagulated blood into the pot.
The duck blood, a deep crimson, became tender and silky when heated, melting in the mouth. The intestines and liver, already cleaned and prepped by Fu Xing, were sliced—the intestines into segments, the liver into thin pieces—then blanched just until crisp-tender. Overcooking would ruin their texture, so the moment they curled and changed color, they were scooped out.
A sprinkle of cilantro, scallions, and shredded ginger, followed by a drizzle of sesame oil, sent an irresistible fragrance wafting through the air.
This soup was almost entirely Fu Xing’s handiwork. By this time in the Song Dynasty, "duck blood vermicelli soup" was already a common street food, and he knew how to make it well. Shen Miao only occasionally chimed in with minor tips, hardly needing to oversee every step.
By the time Ji Brother and Xie Qi returned from their morning run, the soup was ready. Fu Xing ladled out bowls for everyone while Shen Miao fried pan-fried buns in the kitchen, filling the courtyard with warmth and mouthwatering aromas.
Ever since Xie Qi started teaching Ji Brother basic martial arts, Yan Shu had wisely begun carrying an extra set of clothes, saving Xie Qi the trouble of going back and forth.
Yan Shu grinned to himself—this way, he could also conveniently join the Shen family for meals.
After borrowing Ji Brother’s room to wash up and change into clean, cotton-padded clothes, Xie Qi stepped out to see Shen Miao frying meat buns in a flat pan. As the bottoms turned golden, she poured in a thin flour-water mixture and quickly covered the lid.
She cooked with such focus that Xie Qi, watching silently through the window, couldn’t help but smile.
Once the water had nearly evaporated and the bottoms crisped to a perfect golden brown, she scattered chopped scallions and sesame seeds over them, frying briefly longer until the buns were crisp on the bottom and fluffy on top.
Pan-fried buns were best eaten piping hot. Shen Miao carried out a large plate, calling, "Food’s ready! Come and eat!"
Yan Shu had already dutifully set the table, wiping down the chairs and benches beforehand.
Sister Xiang and Chen Chuan were dragged back by Lei Ting and Zhuifeng.
Chen Chuan’s leg had fully healed after the splint was removed, and he now ran and jumped without a trace of his former limp. These days, he took the dogs out for walks, using the time to readjust to using his leg.
After three months without walking, he had needed to lean against the wall for support the first two days after the splint came off.
Today’s breakfast was a bowl of duck blood vermicelli soup and two large pan-fried meat buns per person. Simple as it seemed, the meal was especially comforting in the crisp autumn air. A sip of the savory, velvety soup, followed by a bite of the crispy-bottomed, juicy buns, left Xie Qi feeling warmed from head to toe.
Having run a long way on an empty stomach, he was truly hungry.
Seeing him eat so quickly, Shen Miao worried he might still be hungry and asked, "There are more pan-fried buns in the kitchen. Would you like another one, Ninth Brother?" In her eyes, a boy his age—still in the "eating his parents out of house and home" phase—ought to have a hearty appetite.
Before Xie Qi could answer, Yan Shu had already picked up his plate, standing up with exaggerated politeness. "Many thanks, Madam Shen. This humble servant would gladly have another. I’ll help Youyu clean up afterward."
Xie Qi shot him a glare.
Youyu, hearing her name but not understanding the conversation, turned and beamed at Yan Shu, who could only grin back. The two of them ended up in a loop of silly smiles.
The whole table burst into laughter. Tang Er got up to fetch Yan Shu a particularly crispy bun from the kitchen, ruffling his hair affectionately. "Yan Shu’s about the same age as my little brother back home. Can’t help but dote on him."
Shen Miao glanced at Tang Er, relieved to see no sorrow in his expression when mentioning his sibling—it seemed he had made peace with the past. During the Lotus Festival, after getting drunk with Fu Xing, Tang Er had silently wept by the water vat, murmuring to himself about his stepmother.
From his drunken ramblings, Shen Miao had pieced together that Tang Er hadn’t been sold off by his stepmother—he had volunteered.
His stepmother was only eight years older than him! After his father’s death, she had planned to take her own young son to seek refuge with her uncle, but after the funeral, they were left penniless, unable to scrape together travel expenses for three.
"...We were truly desperate. And right at that moment, my little brother fell ill. The three of us together didn’t have a single coin to our names—couldn’t even pay for medicine. The pharmacy assistant held us there, refusing to let us leave. My stepmother hugged my feverish brother, crying in panic... so I told her to sell me instead."
"My old man died, and truth be told, I could’ve just sneaked off without a care for her. But I couldn’t bear the thought in the end. I wanted to leave her some money—enough for her and my little brother to cover travel expenses, medicine, and a couple of padded coats. Otherwise, in this freezing cold, they’d freeze stiff before making it home." Tang Er’s eyes were bleary with drink as he rambled to Shen Miao, his laughter uglier than a grimace. With his long face and single-lidded eyes, his smile reduced them to mere slits. His voice dropped low. "This is for the best. Sticking around would only drag her down. Without a cheap stepson like me weighing her down, she might even remarry someday, even with a kid in tow."
Only then did Shen Miao grasp the full story. She’d heard from the broker that Tang Er had been sold off by his stepmother and found it odd—how could a grown man, already of age, have no say in his own fate?
Now, the puzzle made sense.
But once sober the next day, Tang Er never mentioned it again. Neither Fu Xing nor Tao knew of this past, and Shen Miao had no intention of spreading it. She let it pass like a breeze, as if she’d never heard a word.
Lost in thought, she barely noticed Ji Brother pestering Xie Qi about next month’s academy exams.
The prefectural exam results had barely been posted when the yamen announced the academy exam dates, sparking chatter all over town about this year’s additional examination quotas. Most were thrilled—students no longer had to wait a full year to retake, while taverns, eateries, and inns rejoiced at the surge in business. Even Shopkeeper Zhou’s bookstore saw a spike in sales of ink, paper, and brushes. Everyone was happy.
Xie Qi smiled. "Perfect timing—I’ll accompany you all to Chenliu and return just in time for the exams."
The Xie family had left for their autumn retreat at the spring estate, taking even Chef Fang along. Left to their own devices, Xie Qi and Yan Shu paid thirty strings of cash for meals and ate three daily servings at Shen Miao’s place.
They ate whatever the Shen household did. So when Shen Miao headed to Bailiu Village in Chenliu Town to oversee a banquet, Xie Qi and Yan Shu trailed after her like little shadows.
Yet Shen Miao didn’t miss the flicker of worry in Xie Qi’s eyes. Softly, she asked, "Ninth Brother, are you concerned things might not go smoothly? Should we visit Taiqing Temple tomorrow to buy a couple of talismans? Just for peace of mind."
What else could they do? With his luck, divine intervention might be his only hope!
Xie Qi shook his head before he could speak, but Yan Shu sighed like a world-weary adult. "Don’t waste your breath, Mistress Shen. We’ve tried every charm and divination trick you can think of! Others pray to Confucius or the God of Literature, but our family? We bow to Zhong Kui, Guan Gong, and the local earth gods. Before exams, we make Ninth Brother leap over fire pits, burn mugwort, and deck him out in talismans, peachwood swords, and copper coins from every temple, monastery, and nunnery—none of it works."
He even threw his hands up for emphasis.
Shen Miao was stunned. What kind of curse was this, so stubborn it defied exorcism?
Xie Qi couldn’t help but laugh awkwardly under her gaze, turning away with a resigned shake of his head.
But...
His earlier worry hadn’t been about his own misfortunes. He’d been thinking of the emperor’s unspoken motives behind expanding the exam quotas and frequency—flooding the bureaucracy with commoners meant fewer spots for the elite. Official posts were like radish holes in Shen Miao’s garden: one per hole. For every newcomer, someone had to be uprooted.
Who would be demoted or dismissed?
Amid such turbulence, even passing the exams might not guarantee an appointment.
Xie Qi saw the situation clearly but never considered quitting.
The exams were, more than anything, a testament to his years of study. The emperor’s intentions were mere speculation—no one knew how far he’d go to curb aristocratic influence.
The tide was turning, and fretting wouldn’t help. Where the road ended, a path would surely appear.
With these distant worries set aside, life marched on. Soon enough, the day came to depart for Bailiu Village in Chenliu Town. Third Bai sent a large flatbed cart at dawn to fetch them.
