A Hidden Master in Seclusion? No—Just the Dumpling Uncle

"I shall come again tomorrow."

The words Namgung Seol left behind were no simple promise of a return visit. They were as good as a death sentence passed upon my peaceful life in seclusion.

"Damn it. Why did my very first customer have to be the Young Family Head of the Namgung Clan?"

I sat alone in the empty shop and tore at my hair.

Namgung Seol. Only daughter of the Murim Alliance Leader, and the undisputed front-runner to succeed him. The fairy and living symbol of the orthodox murim—and she was about to become a regular at my shop? It was like a constable of the magistrate's office dropping in every day for lunch at a tavern opened by the very fugitive he was hunting. I might be a master of the Turtle Breathing Technique, the art that erases one's presence entirely, but a tail grown too long is a tail that gets stepped on.

"No. Absolutely not. I have to run this place as plainly as possible. Nothing that draws the eye."

I clenched my fist with grim resolve. My goal was not to become the finest restaurant in the jianghu. I wanted a perfectly ordinary dumpling shop, quietly loved by the neighbors and no one else. Fine. Starting tomorrow, I would lower the standard of the food. Cut back the juices, make the wrappers a little dry and tough, and disappoint her badly enough that she never came back.

As expected. I'm a genius.

I smiled, thoroughly pleased with myself, and started the dishes.

The next morning I carried out the plan and dragged the dumplings' standing down by several ranks. Instead of Samadhi True Fire, I used an ordinary wood fire. Instead of the Revolving Demonic Hands, I gave the dough a halfhearted pass with a rolling pin.

This ought to land somewhere around a passable market noodle stall.

The Chen hour came—that stretch of morning between seven and nine—and it was time to open. I unlatched the door with my nerves drawn tight.

The bell chimed, and a familiar figure in white stepped inside. Namgung Seol. The same martial robes as yesterday, the same cold expression. And yet something about her was unmistakably, subtly alight.

"I have come."

She settled into yesterday's seat as naturally as if it were the inner room of her own house.

"Wel...come."

I offered the greeting with deliberate bluntness. I meant to play the unfriendly host. If the food was poor and the owner's manner worse, even a gourmet would give up and leave.

"Your order?"

"Two plates of meat dumplings. There is no need to wrap them. I shall eat them all here."

Ten dumplings, first thing in the morning? Was her stomach a bottomless pit? I clicked my tongue and pulled a batch from the steamer, the steam already gone flat. I had undercooked them on purpose, and they looked thoroughly unimpressive.

"Here you are."

I set the plate down without a shred of care. Namgung Seol paid it no mind. She lifted her chopsticks, picked up a dumpling, and put it in her mouth.

Chew. Chew.

I held my breath and watched her face. Go on. Be disappointed. This isn't yesterday's impossible flavor, is it? No juices, dry as sawdust. Hurry up and shout that you won't pay good money for trash like this, then walk out!

And yet—

"......"

Namgung Seol closed her eyes. Her long lashes trembled, and a faint smile spread across her lips.

"As expected... remarkable."

"...Pardon?"

She looked at me with eyes bright with feeling.

"If yesterday's dumplings were the taste of the Hegemon's Way, pursuing strength, then today's are the taste of the King's Way, steeped in ease."

"......Excuse me?"

"To cast aside every flourish and contend with nothing but the ingredients' own flavor. Is this the martial principle that truth dwells within austere simplicity?"

No, young lady. I made them carelessly because I couldn't be bothered.

"Yesterday the force was so fierce my stomach nearly took fright. Today they are plain, easy on the belly, and far better. They taste like the home cooking my honored mother used to make."

She emptied both plates in a flash, looking even more satisfied than she had the day before.

I'm doomed.

Despair settled over me. The woman already had stars packed solid in her eyes. I could shape dumplings out of mud and she would eat them, declaring that she could feel the energy of the earth.

"The bill."

Once again she produced a single tael of silver. I no longer had the strength to refuse, so I simply took it.

"I have eaten well. I shall come again tomorrow."

The moment she was gone, I dropped my head onto the table. Operation failed. A complete disaster.

A few days later, Namgung Seol's visits had become routine. Every morning, once her training was done, she stopped by my shop the way a sparrow haunts a mill. Sometimes she came at lunch as well, and in the evening she had dumplings wrapped to take away as a late snack. Thanks to her, the place quietly became the talk of the Murim Alliance trainees.

"Hey, have you been to that dumpling shop the Young Family Head goes to every day?"

"Yeah, Murim Alliance King Mandu? It's seriously good."

"The owner looks a bit scary, but the dumplings are unbelievable."

The rumor spread at a frightening speed. By lunch, trainees in the blue robes of the Murim Alliance were lining up at the door. Overnight I was being treated like the Alliance cafeteria auntie, and I had to shape dumplings like a madman.

"Owner! Three more plates of meat dumplings over here!"

"Are the kimchi dumplings still not ready?"

"More pickled radish, please!"

"Aigo, pipe down! Are your hands and feet just for show? Fetch it yourselves and eat!"

I howled under the flood of orders. I had retired because I wanted a quiet life, so why was I busier than in my prime? I would rather have been crossing blades with the orthodox sects. At least back then, lunch was guaranteed!

That was when it happened.

The door flew open hard enough to break.

No—one of the hinges actually tore free and went flying. The cheerful noise filling the shop died in an instant. Trainees with dumplings halfway to their mouths turned toward the entrance, faces gone pale with fear.

Five rough-looking men stood in the doorway. Their silk robes were gaudy, but they could not hide the cheapness they had been born with. Short axes and daggers hung at their waists.

The Hao Gate. An information syndicate that ruled the back alleys of the jianghu, and a pack of thugs besides. Leeches who bled shopkeepers for "stall tax" on the pretext of managing the trade in this district.

The big man who seemed to be their leader spat out the toothpick he had been chewing and strode in.

"Hey, owner! Business looks real good, huh?"

He ground his mud-caked shoes across my floor on his way to the counter. Customers edged out of their seats or ducked their heads. Even Murim Alliance trainees were still green chicks, not proper martial artists, and none of them wanted trouble with the Hao Gate's drifters.

I kept rolling dumpling wrappers and looked up at them without a word.

"What do you want? I'd be grateful if you left without disrupting my business."

"Disrupting your business? Ha! This fellow doesn't know how the world works."

The leader slammed a fist down on the counter.

"You want to do business here, you come pay your respects to our Black Tiger Hall! We've been watching your back, and you wipe your mouth clean and suck up all the honey by yourself?"

I pointed out the window as if I could not believe my ears.

"Brothers. Do you not see the blue Murim Alliance banner flapping right out there? Shout once on this street and a patrol will come running. Where do you get the nerve?"

The leader snickered.

"Heh. Innocent, this one. You think the great lords of the Murim Alliance spare a thought for small fry like us? Those gentlemen are busy catching the Demonic Cult and debating the fate of the world. They don't even notice the rot under their own lamp. This right here is the blind spot. You follow?"

"Besides, you know how much we slip the patrol captain every month? Who's gonna touch us?"

"Ah... so the Murim Alliance is too big to notice the ants under its feet?"

"Quick on the uptake. From now on, we're looking out for you! So show a little sincerity. Fifty taels of silver a month. Counting what's overdue, hand over a hundred."

"You've never looked out for me."

"We're looking out for you starting now! So show a little sincerity. Fifty taels of silver a month. Counting what's overdue, hand over a hundred."

A hundred taels. I would have to sell twenty thousand dumplings to earn that much. Common robbers, the lot of them. I let out a long sigh.

The man I used to be would have pulled their heads off and hung them over the door as decoration. I could not do that now. I was an ordinary dumpling-shop owner. Use martial arts here, and my identity would be exposed on the spot.

Endure it. I must endure.

I decided to play the cringing shopkeeper for all I was worth.

"Brothers, I only just opened. I don't have the money. Have mercy."

"No money? Then what's that pile back there, if it isn't a cash box?"

The leader's eyes fixed on the money chest behind the counter.

"If you can't pay, you pay with your body. Boys, turn the place over!"

"Yes, Boss!"

The underlings lit up and started kicking chairs, reaching to flip the tables.

Crash!

A little soy-sauce dish hit the floor and shattered. My precious soy-sauce dish. I had bought it at the market for a few copper coins.

In that instant I heard the string of my reason snap.

"......"

I looked down at the flour dough in my hands. White, soft dough. And if I used this as a weapon? Not a sword, not a palm art—just dough that happened to fly because a cook slipped?

"Hey, owner. What are you standing there gaping for? I said hand over the money!"

The leader reached for my collar. In that moment—

Pap-pap-pap-pap!

"Urk?!"

"Aaaagh!"

It was over in the blink of an eye. White dumpling wrappers clung to the underlings' faces, arms, and legs. They had not merely stuck. Dough spun with tremendous force and viscosity wound around their joints and cinched tight.

"Wh-what is this! ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠It won't come off!"

"M-my arm won't move!"

They flailed like flies in a web, bound so fast ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠by the sticky, tough wrappers that they could not twitch. The leader had a wad of dough jammed in his mouth and could manage nothing but muffled grunts.

I put on a show of shock and cried out.

"Aigoo! I'm so sorry! I was practicing hand-pulled dough and my hands slipped!"

I scrambled over the counter and hurried to them.

"Hold still! I'll get it off for you!"

I took hold of the leader's shoulder. Then, ever so lightly—truly, only the faintest touch—I worked the method of the Tendon-Splitting, Bone-Shifting Art into the way my fingers found the bone.

Crack.

"Mmmph!!!!!!"

The leader's eyes rolled back.

"Oh dear, looks like the dough stuck to the bone. I'll have to pull a little harder."

Crunch. Pop.

I kindly (?) went down the line, laying a hand on each underling's joints in turn. The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shop filled with a grotesque sound that might have been a scream or a groan.

"Mmph! Mmmmmph!!! (Spare me!)"

The leader crawled across the floor, tears and snot streaming. He looked up at me with eyes drowned in terror. What he must have seen, rising behind my good-natured smile, was the shape of a dark-crimson asura.

"Customers, I'm sorry, but we're closed for the day. We've run out of ingredients."

I threw the door wide and rolled the five dough-bound lumps outside, as lightly and cheerfully as if I were setting finished dumplings into a steamer.

They tumbled away and landed in the dust outside, Hao Gate drifters reduced to squirming grubs.

Inside, the shop had gone as quiet as if someone had dashed it with cold water. The trainees sat frozen like stone statues, chopsticks still in hand. They had just watched an ordinary dumpling-shop owner put down five sturdy men with nothing but flour dough, and in less time than it took to draw a breath.

Oh no.

I had gotten too excited. Was there any way to smooth this over? I scratched the back of my head and offered the trainees an awkward smile.

"Haha... I must have let the dough rest too long. The gluten got a little out of hand."

"......"

No one answered. Their eyes traveled back and forth between does that even make sense? and touch that man and you will regret it.

Then someone who had been watching quietly from a corner seat rose to her feet. Namgung Seol. She came toward me at an unhurried pace, picked up a scrap of dough from the floor, and crushed it between her fingertips as she murmured.

"...Pardon?"

She lifted her head and looked at me. Her eyes burned more fiercely than I had ever seen them.

"To fold the mystery of the Taiji into a single dumpling wrapper. You were never an ordinary cook."

"No, look, young lady, that's just the elasticity of the gluten—"

"I have learned another thing today. Master."

She offered a formal fist-and-palm salute and bowed her head.

Master? Had she just called me Master?

"No, wait a moment! Who is anybody's master! I'm just a dumpling—"

She had no intention of hearing me. Face shining with emotion, she walked out of the shop. Starting tomorrow, she would not be coming for dumplings. She would be coming to learn martial arts.

Doomed. Truly doomed. So much for an ordinary seclusion. Now I had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Hao Gate on one side and the Namgung Clan tangling itself around the other. I sank down in the empty shop and screamed a silent scream at the empty air.

Please, just let me make dumplings in peace!!!!