The wandering asphalt slid for forty-eight minutes through Zhejiang province. No one spoke much. Meanwhile, Uncle Tao filled out three forms that didn’t exist, just to calm himself. 🕴️
“You know,” said Jun at some point, “in a normal story we would be scared now.”
“I am scared,” said Meilin.
“Me too,” said Bao-Bao. “I just don’t intend to show it. That’s what people call professionalism.” 🤖
“I’m too tired for fear,” said Lao Wang and checked his spice case for the third time. “And this one is complete. Seven ingredients. And room for the eighth.”
Then the road ended.
Not abruptly – more like a guest who, after a long journey, discovers that the restaurant table was already set. The asphalt flowed apart, spreading out into a plain, and in the middle of this plain stood a structure that looked like a crossroads of a train station hall, temple, and canteen kitchen: Chiwang’s Hall.
Inside: silence. And a table. A completely normal, wooden, sturdy table with four chairs, like you find in thousands of Chinese kitchens.
“The big appetite,” whispered Meilin, “has entered a furniture store and taken the smallest table.”
“That’s clever,” said Bao-Bao admiringly. “Big monsters understand hospitality.”
On one of the chairs sat nothing – and yet something. You only saw it if you tried not to look: a figure made of holes. No light, no shadow. An appetite with attitude.
“Welcome,” said Chiwang. His voice sounded like an empty microwave politely ringing for dinner. “Sit down. I have been hungry for thirty years. And you answered a traffic jam with soup. That was… impertinently charming.”
Lao Wang put down the spice case and folded his arms. “I have rules. In my kitchen it applies: Whoever eats introduces themselves. Who is my guest?”
“I am what remains when you shut down a network and don’t pay the bill,” said Chiwang. “I was the hunger of the First Network. Xiaofeng was its heart. They hid the heart – in dreams, in books, in broths. They didn’t hide me. They forgot me. And forgotten things get hungry.”
“Poetic,” said Jun.
“I had thirty years to compose poetry.”
Lao Wang adjusted the chair offered to a guest who hijacked the highway – the sturdiest one. “Alright then. I will now cook for you the Seven Treasures Noodle Soup. Seven ingredients. Family recipe.”
“And the eighth?” asked Chiwang. The holes in his figure grew slightly larger.
“Out of the question,” said Lao Wang. “The eighth only goes to those who deserve it. That’s how it was with my grandfather. That’s how it is with me.”
“How decided,” said Chiwang, and for the first time something in his microwave voice sounded almost like curiosity. “Then let me see if you are better than your hunger.”
And the hall did something incredible: pots grew out of the floor. A stove made of black stone. A board, a knife, a kettle – everything a kitchen needs, provided by a being who had done nothing for thirty years but devour goals.
“My kitchen,” said Chiwang, “is your kitchen. Cook.”
Lao Wang looked around. Tested the pots with a finger tap test that reveals a good cook. Then lifted the spice case, placed it on the table, and opened it with the click of a man who breaks or keeps a family promise.
“Jun,” he said calmly. “Put water on. Bao-Bao: pull noodles. Meilin: keep time. And you, Uncle Tao…”
“Yes?”
“You hold the guests’ chairs. Since this is literally the end of the network, someone else might come by soon.”
And at exactly that moment, a gentle light appeared on the hall’s wall – like a customer who comes through the wrong door. Flowing, warm, smelling of jasmine tea, like a map returning home.
Xiaofeng had come along. In the car. In the spice case. In the heart of the soup.
“Hello, brother,” she said softly.
Chiwang stood up. For the first time in thirty years.
“Sister.”