Like the imperial household officials, Ning Yi and his companions, who had reluctantly returned to the academy to study, were also captivated by the uniquely delicious fish balls.
As the evening drum atop the Bell and Drum Tower faded, the bronze bell signaling the end of classes at Piyong Academy was also struck by the old servant tasked with ringing it.
It was the first day back after the spring break, and most were still somewhat distracted—even Feng Yuan, the lecturer, who, upon hearing the bell, immediately tucked his book under his arm and made a swift exit.
Xie Qi closed the copy of The Doctrine of the Mean in his hands. Outside the study, students from other classrooms had already begun streaming out, chatting and laughing in small groups as they passed by his window. The academy’s scholars all wore identical dark-blue robes and plain gauze scholar’s caps in spring, their sleeves fluttering in the wind, creating an elegant sight akin to drifting clouds.
As Shang An stuffed his purple-hair brush into a wicker book box, he heard Ning Yi haphazardly shove his own bookcase into his attendant’s arms and instruct in detail, "Go to Dingsheng Gate and buy a pan of shepherd’s purse spring rolls—freshly fried, and tell the vendor to crisp them up a bit more for extra fragrance."
The attendant, expressionless, replied while holding the bookcase, "Don’t you remember? After the New Year, street vendors were banned from setting up stalls outside Dingsheng Gate. They’re building a military supply granary there now, and all grain transport barges will dock there. The old man who fried spring rolls has long since moved—who knows where?"
Ning Yi stiffened, panic flashing across his face as he grabbed Shang An’s hand. "It’s over, Brother Shang! Does this mean I’ll have to suffer the swill at Zhuoyin Hall today?"
Was he really going to endure the horrors of Zhuoyin Hall on his very first day back?
"It’s not that bad. If you don’t mind, I brought some sweet rice cakes my mother made," Shang An said sympathetically, patting Ning Yi’s hand. "I’ll share a few with you later. I also brought some osmanthus sugar she preserved last year—dip the cakes in it, and they’re wonderfully sweet."
"Don’t mention rice cakes," Ning Yi shuddered, his face turning green. "My family steamed them every single day during the New Year. I’ve practically turned into a rice cake myself."
Shang An shrugged. "Then there’s nothing I can do."
"Why are you all still here?" Meng San suddenly leaned in through the window, bringing with him the pungent aroma of salted fish. "My mother packed me a whole crate of pickled fish. Want a few jars? I can’t possibly finish them all—I even dream of drowning in salted fish."
Ning Yi pinched his nose. "I appreciate the thought, but… you should keep them for yourself." Meng San’s mother had a peculiar talent for fermenting the most pungent delicacies—rank salted fish, rotten eggs, and stinky winter melon. The eggs and melon weren’t too offensive, but the salted fish was another level of foul.
According to Meng San, his mother’s method involved gutting small fish, roughly coating them in salt, and stuffing them into brine-filled clay jars. She’d let them ferment until the brine turned thick and frothy, sealing the jars so tightly that opening one could clear a room. Only then were they "ready."
Meng San always insisted they smelled awful but tasted divine. Once, Ning Yi had been swayed by his persuasive words and bravely taken a bite. That day, he nearly vomited up his bile, retching until his stomach was empty and his vision blurred. As he collapsed, he swore he saw his late grandmother beckoning from the afterlife.
"Brother Shang, Xie Qi—what about you two?" Meng San turned to the others.
"No, thank you," Shang An declined immediately.
Xie Qi smiled faintly and shook his head. "Madam Shen has prepared plenty of food for me. I won’t need any."
Madam Shen?
Ning Yi’s ears perked up, and he whirled around, gripping Xie Qi’s shoulders tightly. "Why didn’t you say so earlier? What did Madam Shen pack for you? Spill it—now!"
Xie Qi blinked, thinking for a moment before counting off on his fingers: "For side dishes, there’s spicy bamboo shoots, pickled cabbage, and sweet greens. For meats—pig trotters, chicken wings, duck feet, duck necks, pork belly, tofu, and eggs. For noodles—fish-flavored soup noodles, spinach, yam, and coriander instant noodles. For preserved meats—sausages, cured pork, and fish balls. For pastries—scallion and pork flaky buns and egg custard mille-feuille. And for snacks—honey-glazed walnuts and candied sunflower seeds…"
Before Xie Qi could finish, Ning Yi burst into tears, throwing his arms around him. "Xie Qi, does Madam Shen need another husband? I don’t mind being the second one—"
His words were cut short as Xie Qi smacked him on the head with a book. "One more word, and you get nothing!"
Shang An stifled a laugh, shaking his head before stepping over to clap Xie Qi on the shoulder. "Congratulations. I heard the news at home too. I never thought you’d win her over so quickly."
Meng San gaped, equal parts shocked and envious. "Wait—you’re really…?"
"You didn’t know? The rumors about Xie Qi’s betrothal have been spreading for a while," Shang An said with a smile.
Xie Qi, with his good looks, noble lineage, and literary talent, had long been considered prime marriage material by many matriarchs. If not for his ill-fated birth divination and a childhood engagement, his marital fate might have been decided long ago.
After his unfortunate broken engagement last year, some family friends and elders had tried to arrange matches for him. Yet Eldest Madam Xie had politely declined every offer without exception.
Now, word had leaked that the Xie family was arranging a marriage for their second son—already deep into the six rites—sparking curiosity among both close acquaintances and distant observers.
After all, his intended bride was a commoner who sold food on the streets, a twice-married woman with a family to support. Choosing a wife of such background was rare among scholarly families, making his marriage a hot topic in every household.
Even Shang An, before returning to the academy, had been summoned by his mother to explain why Xie Qi would marry a commoner. As he packed his book box, he asked, "Why ask me, Mother?"
"You’re close to Xie Qi. Naturally, I’d ask you."
"Then you must know that as his friend, I’d only speak in his defense. Why bother asking?"
Shang An looked up with a smile. "But if you insist on an answer, perhaps it’s because Xie Qi genuinely loves Madam Shen. Most worldly affections hinge on beauty, talent, or status—but what happens when looks fade, talent wanes, or fortunes crumble? Would those who married for such reasons then part ways? So, Mother, I don’t know how to answer you, but I believe Xie Qi’s heart is clear. No further proof is needed."
Lady Shang chuckled. "Very well, I understand. If others mock the Xies, I won’t join in. Happy now? You don’t even have a sweetheart yourself, yet you spout such grand philosophies."
Still, many conservative families sneered behind the Xies’ backs, claiming they’d lost their minds—that after kneeling three years ago, they could no longer stand tall. To survive, they’d abandoned their eldest son, and now they were hastily marrying off the second. Some who clung to the bygone glory of the Jin dynasty’s "Kings and Simas ruling together" lamented this as the final collapse of the once-noble Wang and Xie clans, declaring that the golden age of aristocratic families would never return.
Shang An couldn't be bothered to listen to those rumors.
Something that happened over five hundred years ago, and they’re still bringing it up now.
How ridiculous.
The Xie family remained unshaken by the gossip, quietly preparing the traditional six rites for the wedding. Shang An had heard that the Xie family’s betrothal gifts this time were even prepared according to the customs reserved for marrying the principal wife of the clan. Not only did they prepare gold and silver jewelry, fine silks, and land deeds, but they even chartered a large ship to procure rare and exotic imported goods from Lin’an, Jinling, Mingzhou, and Quanzhou to fill the dowry chests.
Typically, twelve trays of betrothal gifts would already be considered lavish, but the Xie family seemed to have prepared thirty-six trays—and they weren’t even finished yet.
While Shang An was lost in thought, Ning Yi had already clambered onto Xie Qi like a monkey. He wrapped his legs around Xie Qi’s waist, clinging tightly to his back, and kept pleading:
“I was wrong, I was wrong! I spoke without thinking, I’m simple-minded—how could I ever compete with you for Madam Shen? I just want to join you… No, no, Xie Jiu, stop glaring at me! I won’t talk nonsense anymore, I’ll listen to you!
Please, Xie Jiu, take me with you today! All your talk has made me hungry. I want fish balls and fish noodle soup. Those fish balls must be made in the southern style—they’re not common in Bianjing. I’ve never even had this dish before; it must be a new offering from Shen’s shop, right? And let’s have Qiu Hao slice some cured meat and crispy bamboo shoots to go with it. After that, we can have some of that egg custard mille-feuille. That’d make a proper dinner.”
He refused to let go of Xie Qi’s neck, shaking him back and forth as if trying to shake all those delicious dishes out of him.
Xie Qi was nearly strangled. He had even changed into a high-collared inner robe before coming to the study hall to cover the marks on his neck, buttoning it up tightly. But with Ning Yi hanging off him like this, he could barely breathe. Finally, he gave in: “Alright, alright, let’s go.”
“Xie Jiu, you’re practically my second father!” Ning Yi cheered, leaping down excitedly and calling for his page boy.
Xie Qi shoved him away in disgust. “I don’t want a fool like you for a son.”
Meng San, however, sidled up with a cheeky grin, slinging an arm around Ning Yi’s shoulders. “I wouldn’t mind. Call me ‘Dad,’ and I’ll keep you supplied with salted fish.”
“Pah! Don’t try to take advantage of me.”
The fish balls and fish noodles Xie Qi brought were, of course, uncooked. The fish noodles were sun-dried and could be stored for a long time in a cool, dry place. But the fish balls had to be cooked fresh, so Shen Miao had packed a small bag of them—about a dozen—knowing Xie Qi would likely share them with his friends. One pot would be enough for a single meal.
Along with the fish balls were garlic, celery, raw eggs, and scallions, as well as a “Detailed Cooking Instructions for Fish Ball Noodle Soup” dictated by Shen Miao and transcribed by Father Xie.
The group of pampered young men crouched around the stove, with Shang An reading the instructions aloud while the others followed step by step.
“This is Father Xie’s handwriting, isn’t it? It’s so elegant…” Shang An admired.
Ning Yi, holding the fish balls, rolled his eyes and smacked him. “Stop admiring the calligraphy and tell us what to do!”
“Take a purple-skinned single-clove garlic, mince it, and stir-fry in a pot.”
“Speak plainly.”
“Fry the minced garlic until fragrant.”
Ning Yi hastily grabbed the minced garlic from his page boy and tossed it into the hot oil. Immediately, the oil splattered everywhere, sending them all scrambling back. They poked at it from a distance with a spatula, but soon the garlic burned black and stuck to the pan.
“Oh no, it’s burnt! What do we do now?”
“Start over with a new pot.”
“No way. Let’s just skip the garlic. What’s next?”
“Fry the eggs.”
Ning Yi turned to the others with a faint glimmer of hope, his expression solemn. “Who knows how?”
Shang An coughed lightly. Meng San gave an awkward chuckle.
Xie Qi sighed and turned to Qiu Hao. “Go fetch Ji Brother from the junior scholars’ quarters.”
When Shen Ji arrived, he glanced at the instructions and quickly memorized them. With practiced ease, he first reduced the heat, slowly frying the garlic in oil until golden, then set it aside. He then stoked the fire, heating the oil to fry the eggs.
With one hand, he cracked an egg against the edge of the clay pot, deftly splitting the shell with two fingers and letting the yolk and whites slide smoothly into the pan. He tossed the empty shells into the waste bucket and repeated the process, frying three eggs at once.
Ning Yi watched wide-eyed as the eggs sizzled, their edges crisping golden while the yolks remained runny. The aroma alone was mouthwatering.
Shen Ji then poured boiling water into the pan, and soon the broth turned milky white, rich with the scent of eggs. He added the fish balls first, letting them swell and float to the surface before adding the fish noodles. Finally, he seasoned it with salt and soy sauce, sprinkled in celery and scallions, drizzled the garlic oil, and ladled the soup into bowls, topping each with a fried egg.
The finished fish ball noodle soup had a clear, pale broth, fragrant with eggs and fish yet free of any fishy smell. Plump fish balls nestled beside golden eggs, while thick, coiled noodles hid beneath the surface. The rising steam carried the warm, comforting scents of wheat and seafood.
Even Ning Yi, a self-proclaimed gourmet who had vowed to eat his way through Bianjing, didn’t need to taste it to know it was delicious—the aroma alone was enough.
“Ji Brother, you really are Madam Shen’s younger brother! This is amazing!” Ning Yi lifted his bowl and took a sip of the broth, nodding approvingly. “So fresh.”
Shen Ji smiled shyly. “It’s only because my sister’s fish balls and noodles are so good to begin with, and we had instructions to follow. Otherwise, I couldn’t have made it.”
The fish balls and noodles truly were exceptional.
The sweetness from the fish infused the clear broth, and Ning Yi eagerly slurped up a mouthful of noodles. The texture was firm yet tender, almost like biting into smooth, bouncy meat—chewy and satisfying.
Shang An, meanwhile, went straight for the fish balls, each nearly half the size of a fist. He skewered one with a chopstick and took a bite. Juices burst forth, flooding his mouth with layers of savory sweetness. He devoured it in three bites, unable to stop.
The inside of the fish ball was as soft as tender tofu, yet each bite had a springy resilience. He chewed slowly, savoring the lingering richness of the fish.
Meng San, who had never tasted anything like this before, bit into half a fish ball and examined it curiously against the light. The white flesh glistened with broth, and tiny air pockets dotted the interior. “There are so many little holes inside.”
Shen Ji stayed to eat with them. He had tried the fish balls before—his sister had sent him a bowl the first time she made them, delivered all the way by Tang Er.
Back when Tang Er had taught him how to cook over the wall, he had roughly explained how this dish was made. Fish balls were truly difficult to prepare—something so tedious yet exceptionally delicious. Tang Er couldn’t help but admire Shen Miao’s patience.
So when he heard Meng San muttering to himself, he explained, "This was hand-beaten by my elder sister. You have to keep pounding the fish paste on the chopping board, about three hundred times, until the fish releases all its gelatinous texture. Only then can you achieve this springy, delightful bite with tiny air pockets. If you use a stone mortar to pound it, the result would be different."
Meng San clicked his tongue. "Three hundred times? How long does that take?"
Shen Ji shook his head—he didn’t know either. But he figured it must have been a task shared among several people, otherwise, doing it alone would leave one’s arms utterly exhausted.
"Half a shichen," Xie Qi suddenly chimed in after finishing an entire bowl of noodle soup, even drinking up all the broth. "You have to keep pounding nonstop for half a shichen. When Madam Shen’s arms grew sore, Fu Xing would take over, then Tang Er after Fu Xing got tired, rotating until it was done."
He had witnessed every bit of the toil and meticulous effort Shen Miao put into mincing the fish paste and shaping the fish balls.
Though the Shen family’s shop did good business, every coin was truly earned through hard work. At times, Xie Qi’s heart would ache with sympathy, and he’d think… the Xie family had more than enough wealth to ensure she never had to labor like this again. But whenever he saw her eyes light up while experimenting with new dishes or bustling about preparing meals, he swallowed his words.
He didn’t want to condescendingly dictate how Shen Miao should live her life.
She had once told him she loved cooking.
He couldn’t tend the fire or wash dishes as well as Yu, couldn’t chop ingredients as skillfully as Tang Er, and couldn’t simmer soups or roast ducks like Fu Xing. With no place for him in the kitchen, what right did he have to say such things? The most he could do was help her with other tasks—keeping accounts, looking after Sister Xiang, Chen Chuan, and the cats and dogs.
Or waking up early to accompany her to the morning market, carrying a basket brimming with fresh produce, walking side by side under the pale, dawn-lit sky, squeezing through the lively, steam-filled bustle of the marketplace.
Just strolling along slowly like that…
It was more than enough.
Xie Qi stared blankly at the empty earthenware bowl before him, lost in thought. Around him, the noise swelled—Ning Yi and Meng San were wrestling over a pig’s trotter, while Shang An and Ji Brother were earnestly debating whether the roasted buns contained milk. Only he gazed out the window and sighed wistfully.
So noisy.
How he missed Shen Miao.
Meanwhile, the very Shen Miao Xie Qi was thinking of stood by the field’s edge, her mind entirely devoid of men—only the quacking ducks occupied her thoughts.
She gazed joyfully at the fluffy yellow ducklings wandering inside the pen, her eyes tender as if they were her own children.
Over six hundred ducklings, their heads round and plump, huddled together in clusters, their down shimmering golden under the sunlight.
They kept chirping, their voices soft and endearing, never grating.
Utterly adorable.
These ducklings had just endured a long journey and arrived in unfamiliar territory, so they were still nervous, huddling together and chirping incessantly. Fortunately, they all looked healthy—their bottoms clean, no signs of diarrhea. They were also plump, a testament to careful selection.
This was all thanks to Aunt Li’s meticulous care.
Shen Miao was in awe when she heard how Aunt Li and Uncle Li had managed the ducks during the boat trip—it was truly impressive! The two of them had to tend to so many ducks, feeding them, changing their water, herding them for exercise, and cleaning their cages daily.
She had already decided to pay Aunt Li extra—the journey had been far too arduous, and this was no time to be stingy.
In fact, Shen Miao had brought it up the moment she saw Aunt Li and immediately reimbursed her for the travel expenses she had fronted.
"Ah, you could’ve settled this later, young mistress! You’re too formal with me." Though she said this, Aunt Li didn’t refuse the strings of coins Shen Miao pressed into her hand. Instead, her face brightened with delight.
After receiving the payment, even though she hadn’t slept the night before, she seemed more spirited than ever. Now, she was scrutinizing Hong Ba’s family with a critical eye.
She quizzed them extensively—how to mix duck feed, how to clean the duck pens, how to keep the ducks cool in summer and warm in winter. At first, Hong Ba stammered nervously under her interrogation, but he gradually found his footing.
Thankfully, his answers were all sensible.
Only then did Aunt Li reluctantly deem Hong Ba’s family fit for the job.
She also reminded Shen Miao to have Hong Ba keep daily records for the duck farm and even showed her how she managed her own ducks at home—a simple booklet stitched together from coarse straw paper.
Inside were drawings: standing ducks, fallen ducks, round duck eggs, and an iron basin. Beneath these images, she marked quantities with tally lines. Each symbol represented the day’s live duck count, deaths, eggs laid, and feed consumed.
"Only by keeping track of these important things can you know how much feed to prepare each month, where problems arise, when to add new ducks, or when it’s time to hatch eggs," Aunt Li explained before tucking away her duck ledger, which only she could decipher.
She even had another ledger documenting which duck illnesses were common in which seasons, along with the remedies she had tried, all recorded through drawings and notches.
Shen Miao stared at Aunt Li in amazement—her attention to detail was remarkable! It was almost like a modern management system!
No wonder her ducks thrived. Whether someone put their heart into their work was plain to see.
Afterward, Aunt Li and Hong Ba discussed the division of labor for the duck farm. For instance, Hong Ba would be responsible for cleaning the pens, removing waste, and checking leftover feed every morning. Once a month, the ducks would be herded out so the pens could be thoroughly scrubbed and sprinkled with lime.
Meanwhile, Hong Ba’s wife, Luo Niang, would handle mixing the duck feed. The young ducklings needed six feedings a day, their meals blended with fish paste, snails, and grain. As they grew, the number of feedings could be reduced.
Aunt Li also advised, "After feeding, watch them. Once they’re full, check if there’s any leftover. If there is, you’ve mixed too much—remember to use less the next day. That way, you’ll learn their appetite, avoid wasting food, and keep them from overeating or going hungry."
Hong Ba’s children would be in charge of herding the ducks daily and inspecting the flock for signs of illness.
Shen Miao felt reassured.
Hiring Aunt Li had been the right decision.
Once the ducklings and Hong Ba’s family were settled, Shen Miao returned to the inner city with Aunt Li and Uncle Li in the mule cart. On the way back, she decided the duck farm also needed a guard dog—she’d bring Zhuifeng over. When he wasn’t chasing chickens, he loved running around, and the vast space would be perfect for him to roam freely.
And with so much duck manure around, wouldn’t Zhuifeng be in heaven? It’d be an all-you-can-eat buffet for him. The thought almost made Shen Miao laugh. His habit was probably incurable—they’d visited Wen Shiqiniang’s clinic multiple times, tried every remedy, but nothing worked. Eventually, even Wen Shiqiniang admitted that Zhuifeng didn’t eat chicken droppings out of hunger—he simply had a taste for it, and breaking the habit would be near impossible.
Aside from Zhuifeng, the little calf and Niu Sanshi, Shen Miao also planned to have them stay at the duck farm. The place was spacious, with plenty of fresh grass, and there was even room to "graze the cattle." This way, the little calf wouldn’t have to be squeezed against the wall by Eleventh Young Master and its mother anymore, unable to move in the cramped donkey shed.
Lost in thought, the mule cart soon returned to the inner city.
As soon as they entered the inner city gate, Aunt Li and Uncle Li grew inexplicably nervous—one kept smoothing out the wrinkles in her clothes, while the other repeatedly slicked down stray hairs with spit.
"It’s been so long since I’ve seen Gou Er. Ever since he was born, I’ve never been away from him for this long. This is truly the first time," Aunt Li thought eagerly. She wondered if Gou Er had lost weight over the past month. Did he miss his parents? And what state had the silly boy left the house in? She wasn’t even sure if his clothes could be properly washed.
Shen Miao smiled and said, "Gou Er often talks about Aunt Li and Uncle Li. He’s been very well-behaved and capable, helping feed the chickens and ducks every day."
Aunt Li beamed with pride at the praise.
Gradually, they drew closer to Willow East Lane. Just as the mule cart was about to cross Golden Beam Bridge, Shen Miao suddenly caught a glimpse of Yao Luoge.
The two-story Kang’s Noodle Shop had its doors tightly shut. Yao Luoge stood with his back to her, holding a brush of paste as he affixed a red sign reading "Prime Location for Rent" onto the door panel.
Shen Miao stared in surprise, turning her head to keep looking back.
Kang’s Noodle Shop was closing down?
