Chapter Twenty-Seven: Tai Chi

Zhen Qian was well aware that the Xing family and their steward would not be so easy to deal with—especially Madam Xing, who fiercely protected her offspring, never allowing anyone to lay a hand on what rightfully belonged to her son. The discord between them had been irreconcilable from the very start.

Just thinking of such tedious matters gave Zhen Qian a headache. If it weren’t for the knowledge that An Lushan was about to launch a rebellion, his old temperament would have seen him leave the Zhen family long ago, empty-handed and without regret. He wouldn’t have contested with Madam Xing over the inheritance, not even for what his birth mother had left him. A few more years of hard work would have made up for it; it was nothing worth fretting over.

But time waits for no one. Suddenly, Zhen Qian realized he didn’t know exactly which year of the Tianbao era the Anshi Rebellion erupted. This was a deadly omission: not knowing meant the rebellion could break out at any moment beyond his control. With this in mind, he picked up the court gazette from his desk, hoping for a clue.

“Tenth year of Tianbao, first month: Gao Xianzhi, Military Commissioner of Anxi, entered the capital, presenting the captured Khan of the Turgesh, a chieftain of Tubo, the King of Shiguo, and the King of Qieshi.”

…

“Ninth year of Tianbao, fifth month, twenty-eighth day: Emperor Xuanzong conferred the title Prince of Dongping upon An Lushan.”

Zhen Qian carefully pondered the information in the gazette, noting that An Lushan had only just been ennobled. This meant his wings were not yet fully grown; he was still far from possessing the power to rebel. There ought to be at least two or three years left.

“Master Zhen, the meal is ready. Would you like to dine now?”

Hearing the voice, Zhen Qian turned to see a man at the door, carrying a tray of dishes. “Come in, Song Dalang.”

The visitor was Song Yi’s eldest son, Song Jiang—a wide-faced, broad-mouthed, high-nosed man with large eyes. He was not tall and a bit stout, always wearing a genial smile. He walked in cheerfully, announcing, “Tonight’s dishes are braised pork with bean curd sheets, salt and pepper prawns, vegetables with mushrooms, and tiger-skin pork. Please try my cooking, Master Zhen, and see if it’s any good!”

“All these are your handiwork?” Seeing Song Jiang nod, Zhen Qian tasted each dish, very satisfied. “Not bad at all! In such a short time, you’ve already mastered the Zhen family’s secret cooking methods. You must have worked hard.”

Receiving Zhen Qian’s praise, Song Yi’s eyes gleamed. “Still, compared with your cooking, Master Zhen, something seems to be missing. I just can’t grasp that final touch…”

“You must mean the ‘Thirteen Spices’.”

Recently, the entire Song family had been learning to cook in Zhen Qian’s kitchen, swelling the staff by five or six people. Xiao Zhu and Xiao Mei, once busy, now found themselves with little to do and followed Zhen Qian to the woodshed to brew wine.

The Song family, being professional cooks, learned much faster than Wang Sheng and the others. Their dishes, though, retained traces of their habitual styles, creating a kind of bridge between Tang cuisine and Zhen Qian’s own, blending the two eras and resulting in a unique flavor.

For all that, their ingrained habits limited their skill. No matter how they tried, that elusive something was always missing.

“It has nothing to do with the Thirteen Spices! The Song family’s lamb dishes are superb, after all—skills honed over generations. New methods require the same spirit. For instance, when stir-frying, there’s a saying you should remember: ‘The art of stir-frying is not simple—main ingredients must be briefly oiled or blanched. High heat, quick fry, thicken the sauce; the dish is crisp and tender, cooked in no time. Choose tender, crisp ingredients for stir-frying; that’s the key.’ Do you understand this maxim?”

Song Jiang gazed at Zhen Qian in a daze, never imagining there was such a formula for the seemingly simple art of stir-frying. He hastily bowed in thanks. “Thank you for your guidance, Master Zhen!”

Zhen Qian gave a few more instructions for Song Yi to practice, but he said not a word about the Thirteen Spices. That was his own secret, and while he could teach the Song family his cooking techniques, the secret recipe must remain his alone. Otherwise, he would have no way to keep the Song family in check—not out of pettiness, but out of prudent self-preservation.

That day, Zhen Qian was exercising in the courtyard. In an age of primitive medicine, a strong body was worth more than a fortune—a truth Zhen Qian understood better than anyone.

He stood in the courtyard, feet shifting slowly, arms moving sometimes with speed and force, sometimes with the languid smoothness of a gentle stream.

Not far away, a woman in fitted clothes leaned against a pillar, arms folded across her chest, a blade of grass in her mouth. She cast a mocking glance at Zhen Qian’s unhurried movements. “Dalang, are you practicing old men’s boxing? Can you even kill a mosquito like that?”

Zhen Qian shot her a sidelong look. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re after. If you want me to teach you, just say so!”

“Bah! That old-woman’s boxing of yours might kill a chicken at best. Who would want to learn it?”

“Don’t believe me? Try it for yourself.”

“Fine! Let’s see who’s afraid of whom. You never beat me as a child, and you won’t now or ever again!”

Unwilling to bicker, Zhen Qian beckoned with a hooked finger, taunting her. “A real man doesn’t fight a wicked woman. I let you win before—do you really think you can best me?”

“What did you say?” Her brows shot up as she launched herself at him, fists whistling through the air. “Looking for a beating?”

“Look at you! Your stance is all wrong—you’re no fighter at all.”

With a low shout, Zhen Qian shifted his weight, feet planted like roots in the earth. His upper body slid along her arm in a strange movement, and he gave a playful shout: “Off you go!”

In his previous life, Zhen Qian wasn’t an ordinary wage-earner. Once he had money, he learned to enjoy life. While others caroused, he preferred the gym, and though his physique had changed, his knowledge of exercise remained. Given time to recover and adapt, he might not rival the era’s generals, but he would be more than able to protect himself.

The woman took a hard hit to the shoulder and stumbled back several steps. If Zhen Qian’s explosive power had been at its peak, that shove would have floored her.

She stared at him in astonishment, unable to fathom how he had suddenly become so strong. Was this still the Zhen Qian she knew?

“When did you pick up these tricks?”

“What, feeling lazy? I told you before, I let you win. You never believed me.”

“I still don’t!” Taking advantage of his distraction, she suddenly swept at his legs.

“Did you really think that would work?”

Zhen Qian dared not meet her head-on; his body was still recovering, his strength perhaps half restored at best. He was far from his prime.

He slipped aside, spinning, patting her leg as he leaped up, grabbing her thigh and giving a gentle tug. “Splits!”

With a yelp, she lurched forward into a full split on the ground. Fortunately, she was quite flexible. In a flash, she pressed her feet together, forcing herself upright, her face flushed with anger. “Not bad! I really underestimated you. If we don’t settle this today, I’ll take your surname!”

Zhen Qian pulled a face and retreated, hands raised in surrender. “You win! Lady Chrysanthemum, you’re a heroine among women. I beg your pardon for my offense—please have mercy on me!”

“No way! Today we settle this, or you’re not leaving!” She lunged at him again, forcing Zhen Qian to leap away in alarm. Was this girl mad? He’d only used a clever trick—if it came to a real fight, he’d be no match for her. Best to quit while he was ahead.

But she would not relent. She’d been humiliated and would not be satisfied until she’d made him pay.

“Help! Chrysanthemum’s gone mad!”

Zhen Qian darted through the corridors, shouting for help. Plenty of onlookers watched with glee, but none stepped in. Some even egged them on. “Catch him! Run faster!”

“Chrysanthemum! Stop this nonsense!”

Suddenly, a sharp voice rang out. The girl instantly wilted, turning with tearful eyes. “Mother! Dalang bullied me!”

An old woman with a wrinkled face appeared, broom in hand, swiping at her daughter’s legs. The girl dodged aside. “Mother, I’m telling the truth—Dalang really bullied me!”

This was Lady Wang, Chrysanthemum’s mother. Zhen Qian put on his most ingratiating smile. “Aunt Wang, we were just playing around.”

Aunt Wang glared at her daughter. “Dalang’s been bullied by you since you were children. When did he ever bully you? You think I don’t know?”

Zhen Qian grinned. How true—words to live by! If only reality were always so straightforward.

Chrysanthemum ground her teeth in frustration but dared not argue in front of her mother. Stamping her foot, real tears welled in her eyes. “Mother! Dalang has really learned some kind of strange martial art. Ask him if you don’t believe me!”

“Nothing of the sort!” He would never admit to such a thing. “Chrysanthemum, if you can’t beat me, don’t slander me. Once I’m fully recovered, we can have three hundred more bouts!” Finding a good sparring partner wasn’t easy, and Zhen Qian had no intention of letting her go. Not that he expected to win—she’d trained since childhood and was in a different league altogether.

“Mother, you hear that? He admits it himself!”

“What I practice is for health and wellness, not some dark art, and I certainly won’t admit to anything else.”

“Enough!” Aunt Wang, exasperated, was not about to side with her daughter. She knew her child’s nature far too well. She asked Zhen Qian what martial art he was practicing. Zhen Qian, of course, couldn’t reveal that it was from a later era, so he lied, “It’s a system I devised myself, based on the five elements and eight trigrams, for health and strength. Let’s call it Tai Chi.”