The culinary heritage of Guanzhong stretches back through the ages, a tapestry woven with flavors that linger like ancient tales.
As the capital for dynasties past, Chang'an drew chefs from every corner of the realm, their hands crafting a mosaic of delicacies from the mountains and seas of the Nine Provinces. The dishes weren't just varied—they were an art form, each bite steeped in refinement.
Beyond the familiar *tangbing* (soup noodles) and *hubing* (flatbreads), there was *qingjing rice* from the south, made by pounding the "southern candle" plant into juice, soaking the grains, then steaming and sun-drying them nine times over. The result? Tiny, jet-black grains, glossy as ink pearls, said to strengthen sinews, brighten the face, and whiten the skin with long-term eating.
Then there was *tuanyou rice*, bursting with a dozen ingredients. *Qingfeng rice* cooled the summer's heat, *yujing rice* paired steamed lotus root with fragrant grains, and don't even get me started on *huai leaf cold noodles* or *cherry biluo* dumplings.
Pork, lamb, beef, horse—every beast was fair game, prepared in ways that dazzled the senses. Even now, with the capital shifted north, these traditions held fast, unbroken.
Li Yan, in his past life, was a glutton with a knack for cooking, his skills sharp as a butcher's blade.
Summer's heat had settled in, rendering some dishes impractical. Without an ice cellar, the better part of a fat pig had to be preserved. Guanzhong's smoked meats were best crafted in the depths of winter; made now, they'd likely rot and crawl with maggots.
But Li Yan? He had tricks up his sleeve.
He rendered the pork fat, using some for stir-fries and sealing the rest over chunks of fatty *wuhua* pork to keep it fresh for months. The rest? He turned into *bazirou* (braised pork), *lurou* (stewed meat), and crispy fried meatballs.
And, of course, a steaming bowl of *rou saozi*—minced meat sauce—was non-negotiable.
The aroma wafted through the courtyard, luring village mutts to pace hungrily outside the gate.
"Scram!" Li Yan chuckled, scolding them. "When Blind Third sneaks into the village, you lot cower without a bark. Useless mutts."
Still, he couldn't shake a nagging doubt. These village dogs would face down a wolf pack without flinching—so why did *Blind Third*, that rogue wolf, slip through unchallenged?
The moment had passed, and no one knew why.
Lunch was *rou saozi* noodles, dinner a spread of rice porridge, steamed buns, and pork-fat stir-fried greens. Li Yan and his grandpa ate until their bellies strained, then lounged on the doorstep, cooling off in the evening breeze, worries melting away.
Village life was peaceful, if monotonous.
As night fell, most folks were already asleep, save for a few men still tumbling with their wives. Farm season was here—early mornings awaited for fieldwork.
Soon, the village sank into silence.
…
Inside Widow Wang's main room, a candle flickered, casting a dim glow.
A small altar table stood laden with offerings. Before it, a circle of red wooden stakes, bound with red rope, enclosed a young girl lying on the floor.
She was just four, dressed in clean clothes—unlike her disheveled mother. Pale from rarely seeing the sun, her skin was soft and fair. But now, she seemed trapped in a nightmare, curled up tight, her face flushed, eyes shut, eyelids trembling, sweat beading on her brow.
This was Widow Wang's daughter.
Kneeling nearby, Widow Wang's face was ashen with worry. Her eyes darted between her child and the door, as if sensing something. Holding three sticks of incense above her head, she bowed repeatedly, her voice a trembling whisper: "Third Aunt, protect her… Third Aunt, protect her…"
…
In the side room, Li Yan jolted awake.
He sat up, puzzled, and touched his back. It was ice-cold, yet the skin around it burned, like touching frost in a heatwave.
What the hell?
His eyes flickered with unease. A lifelong martial artist, he hadn't yet broken through to *dark force* due to his youth and lack of real combat, but his body awareness was razor-sharp. He'd sense any problem instantly.
This feeling—it was familiar. It had hit him once before, after he killed *Blind Third*, that cursed wolf. It faded quickly then, and he'd dismissed it as a fluke.
Why was it back, and stronger?
Was that beast carrying some plague?
Li Yan stayed calm, reaching for his *stand-in idol*. This treasure could heal any physical ailment—poison, wounds, disease—swapping them out so long as his three *life flames* still burned, rendering him near-invincible.
But something bizarre happened.
The idol didn't work.
His back stayed cold—colder, even.
Was it all in his head?
*Thump.*
A sound came from outside, like something tapping wood. Faint, but piercing in the night's stillness.
Li Yan's sword-like brows furrowed. He leapt from bed, threw on pants, grabbed his *Guanshan blade* from the wall, and cracked the door open, peering out silently.
Guanzhong's countryside was tranquil, but not without threats. Wolves were one thing; bandits were worse. Li Family Village's sole landlord, Village Chief Li, wasn't exactly swimming in wealth, but desperate thieves might not care. Then there were the lowlife *jianghu* drifters.
His father had told him about the *jianghu*—a world of eight trades, split into the *Light Eight* and *Dark Eight*. The *Light Eight*—fortune-tellers, performers, peddlers—were mostly honest, though plenty were half-baked conmen. The *Dark Eight* were shadier: lone swindlers, like those under the *Ma* sect, posing as Taoist priests or monks. The skilled ones fleeced nobles; the dregs tricked villagers.
They'd smear eel blood on your door to draw bats, creating ghostly knocks. Or swap your lamp wick with sulfur-dusted paper, making the flame dance like a spirit's breath. Scare you witless, then swoop in as a "master" to extort cash.
Their tricks were endless.
But trying that on Li Yan? That was like an old immortal swallowing arsenic—courting death.
He smirked, peering outside.
The moonlight was dim. The courtyard was empty.
*Thump.*
The sound came again, clearer now, from beyond the courtyard gate.
Maybe a rat or a cat?
Li Yan didn't let his guard down. His eyes narrowed, glinting like a dragon's, as he drew his blade and crept toward the gate, silent as a shadow.
His knife was razor-sharp. If it was a thief or bandit, he'd skewer them through the wood.
But as he neared, his face darkened.
He sensed nothing beyond the gate—no presence, no life. Yet a foul, icy stench hit him, blood-soaked and rank.
It was *Blind Third*'s smell.
That beast was dead!
A chill gripped Li Yan's heart, goosebumps rising.
He focused, sensing again. Nothing was there, but the stench grew thicker, laced with malice.
A ghost?
This was beyond his understanding. *Blind Third* had been flesh and blood—stabbed, bled, and butchered. But now?
What did you do with a vengeful spirit?
*Thump.*
The sound came again.
Li Yan froze, looking up. It was clearer now, coming from above the gate—right where his grandpa's "Hundred Battles Mighty" plaque hung.
Then he caught another scent: metal and wood, mixed with a hint of incense.
It was an odd sensation—metal and wood shouldn't smell, but his mind screamed those words. Unlike *Blind Third*'s cold, foul odor, this carried a strange heat.
*Thump.*
The scents clashed, sparking another sound.
Li Yan's eyes lit up. That plaque—it was no ordinary heirloom. It stayed dormant until something sinister came knocking, then sprang to life.
And his strange sense of smell, picking up unnatural things? That wasn't from the idol—it was from his past life.
What was going on?
Sweat beaded on his palms. Facing this unknown, eerie thing, he felt powerless for the first time, fate slipping from his grasp.
As if sensing his fear, *Blind Third*'s stench grew thicker, its clashes with the plaque faster.
*Thump, thump, thump.*
The sounds were faint, lost in the night, but to Li Yan, they were a death knell.
He stood frozen, thinking of his sleeping grandpa. He couldn't retreat or open the gate. His trusty blade felt useless; all he could do was pray the "Hundred Battles Mighty" plaque would hold.
The thumping continued.
The cold on his back deepened, like a slab of ice radiating frost. *Blind Third*'s hateful, dying glare flashed in his mind.
A curse?
He couldn't be sure.
But as the two forces clashed, he sensed both scents weakening.
An hour passed.
*Thump.*
One final clash, and *Blind Third*'s stench faded, gone without a trace.
*Woof, woof, woof!*
Dogs barked in the night, shattering the eerie silence.
Li Yan exhaled, his face still grim.
The chill on his back lingered…