Chapter Text
"Your kitchen. I need it. They say you have the best menu in town. Good ingredients."
The young cultivator looked deranged as he slammed his money pouch into the counter, fine clothes covered in ash and mud. The innkeeper nearly turned him away in fright, mouth open to refuse him.
"We do not allow outside chefs to experiment. If a meal is what the daozhang requires, please sit in the restaurant area. We would be honored to serve you. There are rooms available for the night." She glanced at his disheveled appearance, fighting off a grimace. "Baths as well."
"Is this not enough?" He reached up to tear the pin out of his hair and tossed it down. The bun unraveled down his back.
The old woman pushed the pin back at him with a weary sigh. "Is this for a case?"
"A ghost," the young man said.
Couldn't have evil spirits running amok... the kid had a named sword at his hip. Those orthodox cultivators with named swords were decent at handling problems like this. A bit of discourtesy would be pardoned. He must be having a rough day at work.
The innkeeper guided him to the kitchen, holding onto his money pouch. "Whatever you use, you will be charged for. If you can avoid it, do not break my things."
"Thank you. Thank you."
The old woman patted his shoulder and left him be, barking orders at a cook on break.
It was the oddest thing.
According to the cooks in the room with him at the time, the cultivator did not make medicine or tinctures with their equipment. He cooked regular dishes and plated them with bowls and plates he brought himself.
Then he went out in the back and set them on fire after setting up incense and a spirit tablet, wooden bowls and wooden plates and wooden table and all.
It looked like he was just feeding a hungry ghost, but... he was a cultivator. It must have more meaning than that.
Yue Qi was feeding a hungry ghost.
There was no more meaning. No trap. No ulterior motives.
He needed to feed Xiao Jiu. The more violent or unnatural the death, the more likely the person would not move on and remain as a ghost. There were few deaths more violent and unnatural than burning alive. Xiao Jiu must be a ghost.
There was no body to find. Yue Qi should have been able to recognize the boy he grew up with, but he couldn't, not like this. The flames were too hot, melting off flesh and all distinguishable features. There were several male corpses, but none he could identify as his friend. He couldn't say how large Xiao Jiu had grown in their time apart.
Useless Qi-ge.
What good was he, arriving late?
He put to rest and helped along all the spirits he found wandering the bones of Qiu manor, sending them off before they grew into malevolent wraiths. There was no Xiao Jiu. He could not find him, but that did not mean he was not there. Somewhere.
Not all new ghosts lingered where they died.
Xiao Jiu was good at hiding. Xiao Jiu liked to explore. He could be anywhere, really.
Anywhere and starving.
Unacceptable.
Xiao Jiu liked beggar's chicken.
It was rare that they stole a chicken or caught a wild bird that could be cooked in place of one, but when they did, Qi-ge made a feast of it. Edible herbs and mushrooms gathered from the woods outside town, any old leaves they could wrap around the meat, easily accessible and free mud to bake it in.
"When we're rich, I expect this every single day," Xiao Jiu had told him once, cracking the bones open with his teeth to suck at the marrow.
"Won't you get sick of chicken every single day?" Yue Qi had teased.
"Nope. I want chicken."
Qi-ge got him chicken.
Every chicken dish he could think of but especially beggar's chicken.
One could put anything they wanted inside, so he put a little of everything. Fresh vegetables, every herb he could think of, probably too many spices, even extra meat for variety.
Yue Qi wrapped the stuffed chicken with bamboo leaves and coated it with a thick layer of mud before setting the meat to bake in a fire.
He got to work on the side dishes and other mains.
Xiao Jiu would never starve. Not if he had something to say about it.
He could not feed him as he deserved in life. He could only make amends to the dead.
Tears splattered onto the cutting board, and Yue Qi tilted his head back to keep the scallions from being contaminated. His breath stuttered as he fought off another sob that would drive him to his knees.
Xiao Jiu needed to eat. It had been two entire weeks since he died.
He must be starving. There was no other family to remember him and honor his memory. No one else to feed him.
No time to cry.
Yue Qi watched his efforts blaze in flames and bent his head in prayer, hoping the words might reach his friend, wherever his soul wandered.
Please eat well, Xiao Jiu. Qi-ge is thinking of you. You are not alone.
One of his more common dreams when he dared to fall into a fitful sleep had him stuck in that hell still and burning in place of Qiu Jianluo, sword driven through his heart and into the wall. He could never leave. He was trapped. No one was coming.
He could not run.
He was helpless. Unable to fight back.
Confined to endlessly looping corridors that turned him back into that room, where that specter approached him with a sword dripping with his own blood.
"Xiao Jiu," he would purr, venomous with hatred.
Shen Jiu could not breathe. Smoke and ash filled his lungs.
He was stuck.
He could not breathe.
He could not breathe.
He could not breathe.
He could not breathe.
He smelled camphor.
Camphor. Incense?
The beast prowling after him halted, as if wary of the incense permeating the air. Shen Jiu inhaled once, filled his lungs with the scent. Distantly, he recalled a saying that camphor dispelled negativity and cleared the mind. In the line of defense against evil spirits, it was one of many tools. A ward. A barrier.
Camphor was burned for ancestors and deities.
This scent was for temples and sacred places.
Shen Jiu followed his nose, feet unstuck from the ground. No longer leaden, no longer rooted. Freedom carried a pungent aroma, fresh and prickling at the nerves inside his nostrils. It led him through a door he would swear was not there previously, the divider sliding open with no trouble.
The faceless man with his luxurious purple robes did not follow his steps.
An evil being could not enter this hallowed ground.
The darkness encroached on the edges of reality faded, leaving the world aglow with a sunrise's brilliant oranges and pinks. The forest was alive with spring insects and birdsong. He recognized it as the forest he had passed through when departing his prison.
A table stood before him, laden with fragrant foods he could smell even through the heavy cloud of camphor.
Chicken dishes upon chicken dishes.
Shen Jiu knelt and split the chicken, served whole, in two, confirming his suspicion. It was beggar's chicken. The simple dish was elevated by the rich spices and cured chunks of pork and beef. He tore off tender breast meat and wrapped it around a mushroom before stuffing it into his mouth.
He dipped the next bite into the ginger scallion sauce provided in a wooden saucer. Delicious.
Eating in a dream had never left a full sensation in his belly nor warmed him down to his very bones. Each bite had vivid flavor, flooding his senses. From the texture of the vegetables to the grease coating his fingers, it felt obscenely real.
Noodles, stir fries, soups, dumplings, buns.
He ate well past the point he should have been bursting at the seams. There were no limits to his stomach, and to waste food did not sit well with him.
Upon waking, the dream dripped out of his mind as all dreams did, hazy and difficult to recall. His body remained relaxed and comfortable, the only evidence of his nightly feast. His stomach was empty.
His master had lit no incense during the night. There was no evidence of him cooking either.
The watery congee he ate was bland.
The next time he fell asleep, there was another platter of beggar's chicken. It was surrounded by chopped fruits of every color and little bowls of nuts. Camphor filled his lungs.