After deliberating for a long time, Li Ziqing finally formulated a plan. Without wasting another second, she stepped out of her room and made her way toward the kitchen, her steps light yet determined.
The house was quiet—eerily so. Li Jianfang hadn't returned yet; she was likely still in the process of packing up her food stall for the day. As for Li Zian, he had probably gone straight to the Internet café after lunch, as was his daily routine.
Li Ziqing glanced at the wall clock ticking steadily in the living room.
3:15 PM.
By her estimation, her mother would be back around 4:00 PM, and would head straight to the kitchen to begin preparations for dinner.
She drew in a steadying breath, squared her shoulders, and walked into the kitchen—a space she had rarely stepped into before with any purpose.
The moment she entered, she was reminded of how little had changed in all these years.
The kitchen was small and cramped, barely wide enough for two people to stand shoulder to shoulder. Its walls were lined with faded, cream-colored tiles, and a single window near the ceiling let in a sliver of dusty afternoon sunlight. Despite its modest size, the space was meticulously clean. Not a single speck of grease clung to the stove, and the utensils hanging from the wall hooks gleamed under the filtered light.
A modest gas burner stood in the corner, next to a steel sink and a narrow counter, which bore the signs of long-term use—a few knife marks, faint discoloration from spices, and the polished wear of decades of meal preparation. A wooden chopping board leaned against the wall, and a small rice cooker sat quietly in the far corner, its cord coiled neatly beside it.
It was a kitchen built for utility, not comfort—unadorned, efficient, and quietly dignified, much like her mother.
Li Ziqing took another deep breath and opened the lower cabinets one by one, inspecting the contents inside. Then she moved to the upper cupboards and finally checked the narrow pantry shelf beside the refrigerator.
She was scanning quickly but carefully.
Her fingers brushed over jars of soy sauce, vinegar, Sichuan peppercorns, chili oil, and fermented bean paste. There were bags of rice, a few heads of garlic, a small bundle of spring onions, and ginger root in a basket on the floor. Inside the fridge, she found eggs, tofu, leftover cabbage, and some half-used packets of noodles.
Not everything she needed was available in the kitchen.
Li Ziqing closed the last cabinet with a soft click and stood still for a moment, then made up her mind. She had to go to the market. If she was going to make her point to her mother, she couldn't settle for less than perfection.
She slipped on a light jacket, tied her hair into a neat bun, and stepped out of the house.
The moment she stepped outside, a wave of familiarity washed over her.
The alley.
It was the first time she had truly seen it again after her rebirth—this place where her childhood began and her life had once quietly unraveled.
It had been seven, maybe eight years since she last stood here. In her previous life, everything had changed after her brother's death. Her mother, emotionally and financially vulnerable, had eventually married Zhao Shide. Not long after, they had moved far north to a forgotten, backwater village, a place that barely had electricity, let alone opportunity.
And this home—this modest but warm courtyard in Wuhan's Northern District—was sold under the pressure of Li Jianfang's mother, who insisted they invest the proceeds into her second son's struggling business venture.
After that, Li Ziqing never came back.
Not to this alley.
Not to this city.
She had avoided Wuhan like a cursed word, terrified that Zhao Shide might find her. That the past would chase her down again.
But now…
Now, fate had brought her back. And everything looked just as it had before the storm.
The narrow alley was lined with familiar red-brick buildings, their exteriors weathered by time and the elements. Clothes fluttered like flags from bamboo poles sticking out of balconies. A line of bicycles leaned lazily against the old walls, and a grandmother swept her stoop with rhythmic patience, glancing up as Li Ziqing passed by.
The air carried the scent of frying oil, fermented pickles, and damp concrete—a scent she had once taken for granted, now startling in its clarity. Somewhere nearby, a radio crackled with an old tune, and the distant clang of metal hinted at a repair shop still open down the road.
Though the Northern District was close to the heart of Wuhan, it had remained the city's forgotten limb—underdeveloped and slow-paced, separated from the bustling center, this neighborhood had barely changed in decades.
No glossy buildings.
No high-speed railways.
Just the quiet rhythm of ordinary lives carried out in humble anonymity.
The streets were uneven and riddled with potholes, the old drainage grates rusting in place. Stray cats wove between scooter wheels, and vendors called out half-heartedly from small storefronts selling buns, thread, and incense. It wasn't poverty, exactly—but a persistent sense of stillness. Of forgotten ambition.
She walked as she reached the main road. There, a crowd was already forming at the bus stop, waiting for the Number 3 City Bus that would take her toward Wuhan's Central District, where the largest vegetable and grocery market was located.
She stood quietly among them, waiting for the Number 3 city bus.
The bus soon screeched around the corner, its faded red-and-cream exterior bearing the marks of age and long use. Inside, the scent of metal, sweat, and engine oil mixed with the faint aroma of something fried lingering from someone's lunchbox.
Li Ziqing stepped up into the bus behind a small wave of passengers. She dropped a one-yuan coin into the rusted fare box and accepted her thin paper ticket.
There were no empty seats.
She held onto the metal bar above her head as the bus jolted into motion, swaying with the motion as it rumbled through the uneven roads of the Northern District. Li Ziqing leaned her shoulder slightly against the pole and allowed her mind to drift.
She had made up her mind: Tonight's dinner would not be ordinary.q
If she wanted to awaken her mother's ambition—pull her from the haze of routine—then the meal needed to do what words could not. It had to shock the senses. Stir emotion. Demand attention.
And so she began to plan.
Eight dishes.
Eight masterpieces.
All taken from the culinary vaults of Qing Dynasty imperial banquets—recipes gifted to her through the Culinary Sage Scroll of Yi Yin. These weren't simple home-cooked meals. They were once served to emperors, crafted by royal chefs with decades of mastery behind each fold of dumpling skin, each delicate layering of flavor.
Her choices came sharply and clearly, like silk unraveling in her mind.
Braised Sea Cucumber with Scallion Essence, Crystal Duck Tongues in Osmanthus Jelly, Imperial Stir-Fried Deer Tendon with Chestnut, Lotus-Seeded Shrimp Dumplings, Steamed Mandarin Fish with Fragrant Oil, Braised Quail in Yellow Wine and Ginseng Broth, Jade Tofu with Minced Abalone, Dragon Beard Pastry with Honeyed Jujube Core.
As the bus shuddered once more over a pothole, it finally rolled to a slow halt in front of the largest vegetable and grocery market in Wuhan's Central District.
The moment her feet touched the pavement, she was enveloped by a burst of sound, color, and motion. The Central Market was a world of its own—sprawling, bustling, and richly fragrant. Rows of tiled stalls stretched endlessly beneath a high, arched metal roof stained with time and humidity.
Vendors called out with practiced voices, each more enthusiastic than the last.
"Fresh abalone! Just flown in from Fujian!"
"Snow fungus, premium quality, straight from Yunnan!"
"Wagyu beef! Australian origin—look at that marbling!"
The air was thick with the mingling aromas of spices, fresh seafood, cut herbs, and roasted peanuts. Live fish splashed in shallow tanks, while stacks of fragrant lychees, plump and red, sat next to neat bundles of baby bok choy still glistening with dew.
This market had everything—even ingredients that would never be found in ordinary wet markets. Rare mushrooms from deep Sichuan forests, rock sugar aged in caves, Japanese seaweed, Thai lemongrass, Korean chili paste, and even imported French butter sat neatly in refrigerated shelves. Some items were displayed behind glass counters like jewelry, their price tags almost intimidating.
Li Ziqing didn't flinch.
She reached into the inner pocket of her canvas sling bag and pulled out a worn red envelope bound with an old rubber band. Inside it was the total of years of quiet self-discipline—1,800 yuan, saved bit by bit through New Year red packets, scholarship awards, and months of unspent allowance.
---
As she moved through the market, she examined each stall with an expert's eye—the gaze of someone who now held the knowledge of centuries of culinary masters.
At the seafood section, she stopped in front of a tank filled with sea cucumbers. The vendor eagerly reached for a large one, but Ziqing shook her head and pointed instead to a smaller, less impressive-looking one tucked in the corner.
"This one has tighter flesh fibers. It's wild, not farmed," she said quietly. "And it'll hold its shape during slow braising."
The vendor raised an eyebrow, surprised, but nodded in approval. "You know your stuff."
Next, at the spice and herb vendor's stall, she sifted through a pile of dried ginseng roots, lifting them one by one. She rejected the ones that were too thick or too pale. Finally, she selected a single root—long, slender, with a rich golden hue and a tight, woody aroma. "This one's been aged at least six years," she murmured to herself, slipping it into her basket.
At the poultry section, when the butcher held out a regular quail already plucked and gutted, she frowned.
"Do you have the mountain quail from Enshi?" she asked.
The butcher blinked, impressed. "Yes… but that's almost triple the price."
She nodded. "I'll take two. I need the leaner meat and stronger bone marrow for broth extraction."
She even selected her vegetables with surgical precision. When picking bok choy for the jade tofu, she checked the tightness of the heads, the vibrancy of the leaves, and even tasted a raw stem for bitterness. She chose mandarin fish with bright, clear eyes and silvery scales still firm to the touch. When she passed the dried goods section, she spotted lotus seeds that were uniform in size and weight—perfect for lotus-seeded shrimp dumplings.
No time was wasted.
No coin was spent carelessly.
Every item she chose was not just for taste, but for balance—of color, aroma, texture, temperature, and symbolic meaning. She knew now that the banquets of the Qing court weren't just about feeding the body. They were an art form. A language. A performance of culture, status, and elegance.