The Sound of Rain — No, of Frying
The sound of rain — no. The sound of frying.
"Ate well, boss! We're off!"
The morning trade had torn through like a storm. Once the dawn-market merchants drained away like an ebb tide, the shop sank back into quiet.
The quiet would not last. Lunch was coming, and the mere memory of yesterday's Trainee Jiangshi Incident sent a chill up my spine.
"This won't do."
I muttered it while wiping out the empty steamer. Steamed dumplings simply took too long. From the moment an order came in, the steaming ran close to a quarter of an hour, and once a crowd hit I could not keep up. I needed something faster, sharper, something I could sell in volume.
My eyes went to the cast-iron pot shoved into a corner of the kitchen, and to the jars of vegetable oil stacked beside it.
Right. Fry them.
Frying was far quicker than steaming, and they say even a straw sandal tastes good once it has been through hot oil. If I meant to catch trainees in the full flush of their blood, rich fried dumplings would beat mild steamed ones every time.
"New menu, effective immediately. Its name: the Heavenly Demon— no. Murim Alliance Fried Dumplings."
I set to work at once, hung the iron pot over the stove, and poured in oil until it gushed. These would be no ordinary fried dumplings. Crisp on the outside, juice bursting within — the very limit of a hard exterior and a yielding heart.
There was a problem, though. The fire.
Too hot, and the skin burned while the filling stayed raw. Too cool, and the wrapper drank the oil and went soggy. I had to hit the perfect heat. But in an age without so much as a thermometer, how was anyone meant to strike an exact temperature?
"There's a way."
I stood before the pot, closed my eyes, and drew qi up from my dantian, gathering the fire-qi of the Blazing Flame Palm into both palms.
Whoosh — the palms flushed crimson, and heat moved not as wild flame, but as will.
I did not set my hands to the bottom of the pot. I wrapped them around its sides, where the oil waited, and used internal energy to carry heat evenly through the whole bath. Not the fitful burn of firewood — a precise heat under my own control.
The oil began to simmer. I sharpened my qi-sense until I could feel every fine current moving through it.
A little more... a little more...
"Now."
The instant a clean white smoke rose straight up, I dropped in the dumplings I had wrapped ahead of time.
Chiiiiii—!!!!
A tremendous noise filled the kitchen, like a midsummer cloudburst hammering a tile roof. It was the crack of moisture in the wrappers flashing to steam inside the hot oil.
But that was not the end of it. Left alone, the dumplings would stick to one another or scorch against the bottom. They had to be stirred, and a ladle would tear the skins.
Stir them without touching.
I swept a hand through empty air and applied repulsive force, the inverse principle of the Star-Absorbing Great Art. Unseen qi plunged into the oil and spun a vortex.
Woom— woom—
The oil began to turn on its own. Like a great waterspout it whirled furiously inside the pot, and the dumplings surrendered to that spin, drifting as if they were dancing. Every face of every dumpling met the oil equally, and gold crept over them.
"Perfect."
A secret art no one without martial skill could ever imitate. Mine alone.
That was when it happened.
Jingle—
A customer, and it was not even lunch yet. Namgung Seol. Alone, today. The moment she stepped inside she glanced about with a peculiar look on her face.
"Proprietor. Is it raining outside?"
"Pardon? It's clear out."
"How strange. I am certain I heard rain. A most fierce downpour..."
Her gaze turned toward the kitchen, and she saw the oil and the dumplings spinning like mad inside the pot.
"...!"
She could not close her mouth. No ladle, no chopsticks — the oil whirling all by itself, and from within it that grand roar of frying.
Chiiik—
"So that was the sound. Not rain falling... the oil was crying."
She drifted to the counter as if spellbound.
"That... what martial art is it? No — what manner of cookery?"
"Ah, I'm developing a new dish. Fried dumplings."
I answered as if it were nothing and gestured at the air. The spinning oil slowed, then stopped. I lifted a strainer and scooped out dumplings fried to a perfect gold.
Tap, tap.
I shook off the oil and laid them on a plate. Fresh from the bath, the smell was so savory it was nearly dizzying. Lethal.
"Just out, still piping hot. Would you care to taste?"
I held out the plate. Namgung Seol swallowed and took up her chopsticks. As she lifted a dumpling, the crisp shell met the tips.
Crunch.
The moment she bit down, a bright crack rang through the shop. A shell as crisp as a cracker shattered, and the hot juices and tender filling trapped inside wrapped her tongue.
"..."
She could not go on. If steamed dumplings had been a gentle comfort, these were a hard strike. The savor of the oil slammed her palate, and the rich depth of the filling slid down her throat until her whole body shivered.
"This is..."
Her eyes flew open.
"Lightning."
"Sorry?"
"Thunder and lightning seem to strike within the mouth. The crispness lashes the mind like a bolt, and the juices roll through like thunder."
She picked up another.
"And this wrapper... it has taken in oil, yet it is not greasy in the least. Rather, the oil has seeped between the pores of the skin, left only its savor, and withdrawn. Is this the realm of Shifting Form and Exchanging Place?"
No, young lady. It was simply fried hot enough that the oil never soaked in.
But her reading was already wandering off into the hills.
"Proprietor. What is this dish called?"
"Just fried dumplings..."
"No. So plain a name does not suit it."
She shook her head, firm.
Thunder... what? That is a great deal of name for a dumpling.
But she was in earnest.
"Eat one of these, and a mind grown idle will snap awake. For martial artists who have struck a wall in their training, it will be the finest of elixirs."
She emptied the plate in a blink and shot a thumb into the air.
"Luncheon today shall be this. I must tell the trainees. I shall bid them come and listen to the rain."
And her prophecy struck true.
The Hour of the Horse. Noon.
The moment the lunch bell rang, the trainees poured in — more of them than yesterday.
"Hey! Over here! The place I told you about!"
"Did dumplings really raise your internal energy?"
"Who knows — just get in line!"
The shop became a battlefield in an instant. I set out the dumplings I had fried ahead of time.
"Today's special — fried dumplings! Fast, and delicious!"
"Oh! Fried dumplings!"
"That smell is unreal!"
Every time a trainee bit in, the shop filled with a chorus of crunch— crunch—
"Whoa! They're actually crispy!"
"How do you even fry them like this? Outside like a honey-fried pastry, inside still moist!"
"Boss! You got any sweet-and-sour sauce? I want to dip!"
"Dip it in soy sauce, you lot!"
I fried without a pause. The oil pot never stopped turning, and the customers waiting outside murmured at the enormous sound pouring from within.
"Hey, is it raining in there?"
"No — that sounds like a waterfall."
"Just hearing it makes me hungry..."
Then one trainee cried out in awe.
"This isn't just the sound of cooking! It's a kind of sonic art that stirs the ear!"
"What? Sonic art?"
"Yes! That rain-like frying is whetting our appetite and cleansing body and mind! The owner's not a cook — he's a master of sonic arts!"
No sooner had the words left him than the trainees shut their eyes and began savoring the sound of the fry.
"Mmm... I can feel it. The waves in the oil..."
"It's as if the afflictions in my heart are being washed away."
"Boss! Make the sound louder!"
Lunatics. They really will try anything.
But thanks to them, business was a roaring success. Five hundred fried dumplings vanished in half a shichen — one hour.
"We're closed! Ingredients are gone!"
"Nooo! I haven't even eaten yet!"
"Please make more tomorrow!"
Leaving the disappointed customers behind, I killed the fire under the pot. The smell of oil had soaked into me from head to foot, but one look at the silver piled in the till and the fatigue vanished clean away.
"Haa... survived another day."
I wiped the sweat from my face and leaned on the counter. Namgung Seol, looking thoroughly satisfied, was putting the last dumpling into her mouth.
"Proprietor."
"Yes."
"This art of frying... could you teach it to me as well?"
"...What?"
"If, when I swing the sword, I could turn the resistance of the air aside by such a rotation... I believe my sword art could advance another stage."
Now she's coveting the frying. Of all things.
I let out an empty laugh and waved her off.
"It's only a knack of the wrist. Nothing like martial arts."
"Modest, as ever. But one day I will learn it. I am resolved."
She swore it with a grim light in her eyes and left the shop. I watched her go and shook my head. The orthodox world's future was bright. Dazzlingly bright. Off to study how to fry dumplings.
By the time I had roughly put the shop in order, it was a little past the Hour of the Goat — early afternoon. The ingredients were gone again, and I was wondering whether I would have to face the dawn market a second time.
Thud— thud— thud—
Heavy, dull footsteps sounded outside. Not an ordinary customer's tread. Steps that seemed to shake the ground, loaded with a massive weight.
Who?
I looked out the window. A middle-aged man was coming from a distance. He wore a red official robe, but he was a mass of muscle, the buttons ready to burst. A thick scar crossed his face, and his eyes shone hard and bright. Flustered aides scrambled along behind him.
"I-Instructor! You must not go there! The trainees—"
"Quiet! I'll see it with my own eyes."
The man's voice rolled like thunder.
That man...
I knew him. The Murim Alliance's tiger of an instructor — the Iron-Blood Instructor, Jang Mugi. Infamous for drilling trainees through hell, something like the Alliance's own chief of discipline.
Why was he here? Don't tell me the trainees had been caught skipping training to eat dumplings.
"This the place? Murim Alliance King Mandu?"
Jang Mugi stopped in front of the shop. His enormous shadow swallowed the entrance. He sniffed at the oil still hanging in the air.
"Hmph... the smell's convincing enough."
He shoved the door open and came in.
Jingle—! The wind chime nearly came off.
"Proprietor! You in there!"
At his shout the paper doors whined in their frames. I swallowed and stepped forward.
"Yes. I'm the owner."
"You, is it? The one who snatched the wits clean out of my boys?"
He looked me up and down. A killing presence — the air of a man about to grab me by the collar. The aides behind him tried, "Instructor, please calm yourself!" It did no good.
"Trainees, putting dumpling after dumpling into hands that ought to be on swords! Enough to make a man choke!"
He slammed a fist down on the counter.
Damn it. One mountain after another, they say.
I had sent off the Hao Sect, sent off the petty thieves, and now a Murim Alliance instructor? And I was out of ingredients besides.
"Um... I'm sorry, but we've just run out of—"
"What?!"
Jang Mugi's brow twitched.
"You'd dare send this Jang Mugi home on a fool's errand? Bold of you!"
His fist cracked. He truly looked ready to demolish the place. I spun my thoughts as fast as they would go. No ingredients. No wrappers, no filling. What remained was scrap dumpling skin left over from the frying, and one bottle of cloudy rice wine I had set aside to drink myself.
Forget it.
I went into the kitchen, plated the leftover fried skins, and drew a cool jug of unfiltered rice wine from deep in the cupboard.
"There are no dumplings, but... would this do?"
I set the crisps and the wine down in front of him.
"What is this?"
"Fried wrapper crisps. Crisp and savory — perfect with a drink. You must be parched from the walk. Have a cold cup, and let the anger pass."
Jang Mugi stared at me as if he could not believe it. Offering the great Iron-Blood Instructor a handful of cracker crumbs? But the wine's tart-sweet smell reached his nose. He was famous as a drinker.
"Hmph... let's taste it, then."
Suspicious, he picked up a piece and put it in his mouth.
Crunch.
"...?"
His expression shifted, subtly. Plain fried flour — so why was it this savory? Not a trace of stale-oil stink. Clean, even mild. And then he knocked back a bowl of the wine...
Glug, glug — kaaah!
"...!"
Jang Mugi's eyes went wide. The pairing was insane. A clean coolness, as if the fatigue of training had been washed straight off him, and the crisp of the fry filling every dull corner of the mouth.
"Proprietor."
"Yes."
"You got another bottle?"
The killing intent had left his face. A ruddy flush of drink was rising in its place. I cheered inwardly. For martial artists, fried snacks and cloudy rice wine really were the pinnacle.
"As much as you like. Shall I fry more to go with it?"
"Yes! Fry a lot — a whole heap of it!"
He dropped into a chair and let his martial bearing fall away. The aides stared at their instructor, blank. The tiger had become a lamb in front of a plate of fried scraps.
So today, too... am I actually going to get through it?
But I did not yet know. I did not know that this drinking session with the instructor would turn my shop into the Murim Alliance's official banquet hall — the worst outcome imaginable.