044. THE MOST PERFECT APOLOGY

Ming Shi’s first instinct had been to decline the duel. He didn’t see the point in fighting over the obvious. He’d gone too far with Chang. He knew it. Everyone knew it. Ping Guoshen and Sister Bing had told him so to his face right after the congee-slap.

He’d just apologize. Why duel?

But!

What if this duel … was the apology?

Ming Shi would lose. Of course he would lose. He was under no illusions that he could win a duel against a chef at Peak Qi Condensation.

And that …

… that made this duel … kind of perfect.

This duel was the most perfect apology that Ming Shi could give Chang.

As in, not just the most perfect apology for Chang.

It was the most perfect apology for Ming Shi too.

Under the unblinking glare of Angry Chang’s eyes, Ming Shi was enlightened.

Cook things, don’t die!

See, there were two parts to an apology to Chang.

1. The apology

2. Surviving the apology

Chang wanted to end him. He really did. He’d made it so clear. “I. Am. Going. To. Kill. You,” remember?

So what to do?

Sure, Ming Shi could freestyle it and experiment with methods of atonement for Heaven-knows-how-long while hoping he didn’t further insult a man who’d reported juice bottles for inappropriate condensation.

Or. Oooor.

He could perform the perfect, one-shot, face-returning, honor-restoring apology under the auspices of an official duel where he was legally insured against death.

Because this duel was stakes-only. It said so right there in the challenge text.

Duel Type:
Stakes Only. Lethal Force and Deadly Intent Precluded By Law.

The answer had been staring him in the face all along. He just hadn’t recognized it for what it was.

This duel was the perfect apology—that he was guaranteed to survive!

This stakes-only duel would give Chang a controlled, ritualized environment to vent all his anger. He could unleash every pent-up, petty grievance he’d collected against Ming Shi, demonstrate his superior cultivation, reclaim his dignity, and still—crucially—not be allowed to murder him. There’d be an officiating warden; it said so the challenge text:

Adjudication:
Standard, At Officiating Warden’s Discretion

This would be therapeutic culinary combat counseling with law-enforcing supervision!

Cook things, don’t die! Cook things, don’t die! Ming Shi’s mental landscape had transformed into a whole stadium of Ming Shis, all chanting in triumphant unison as he did a victory lap with a Cook Things Don’t Die flag draped over his shoulders.

“This is it!” he said to the Portrait of an Angry Chang. “This is it! Cook things, don’t die!”

He could not have planned a better apology. They would cook it all out, chef to chef. Chang would recover his pride, his reputation, and reinforce his place in the market hierarchy. Ming Shi would lose with grace and elegance, showcasing excellent humility. He would accept his defeat, kowtow to Chang, and pay his respects with heartfelt sincerity. Heaven would be moved. Chang would be moved. He would forgive him.

And then …  we can bond over congee?

Yes! How many legendary brotherhoods had begun with a duel? He could picture it, years from now, looking back at how it all started. Chang would still call him Mortal Cook but with affection. Ming Shi would call him Senior Brother Chang and order congee like a normal person.

This was wonderful. This was better than anything he could have planned. This was the safest, most effective, most reasonable, most unfatal way to clear the air with Chang.

And not die. Very important. Extremely important.

Cook things, don’t die.

A’Nuan poked him with her ginseng root. She waved her sage at the ACCEPT.

“You’re right,” Ming Shi grinned at A’Nuan. “Let’s accept. Nothing like a delicious duel to clear your plates and start fresh. A delicious, stakes-only, non-lethal duel. Cook things, don’t die—check and check again. What more could I ask for? A Nascent Soul? Ha! We’d better lock this in before something goes wrong! Ha! Ha!”

Smiling, Ming Shi stretched out a finger toward the ACCEPT character. He pushed his spiritual energy into it expecting some kind of confirmation.

Nothing happened.

Eh?

He furrowed his brow and tried again, channeling more qi. The character shuddered but remained inert.

“Hm.” Ming Shi poked it physically this time. Still nothing. “Maybe it needs something special?”

In the Upper District, accepting a duel challenge was just as much of a production as issuing one. There was even a formula for how many return percussionists were required. The Lower District was simpler, but judging from Chang’s impressive pose there was obviously still some ceremony expected.

“Oh ho!” Ming Shi snapped his fingers. “An acceptance poem! That’s the simplest part of Upper District duel protocol. That must be it!”

He cleared his throat, straightened his robes, and faced the Portrait of an Angry Chang with utmost solemnity. A’Nuan floated to attention beside him.

“Elder Brother Chang,” he began, one hand over his heart, the other extended toward the projection. “Your challenge has been received like the very mandate of Heaven! I, this Ming Shi, do formally respond!”

He took a deep breath and launched into his poem:

“Your congee hand was mighty,
Your fury pure and true,
My provocations shameful,
I admit what I did do!

Three days of public trolling,
And your benefits I stole,
But now I see Mount Tai,
So let’s mend this broken bowl!”

A’Nuan covered her approximate-ear-area with her sage and ginseng.

Ming Shi, oblivious to his poem’s quality, continued with growing fervor:

“Now here I stand accepting
Your challenge just and fair,
Though you’re Peak Qi Condensation,
I, this Junior, must still dare

To take responsibility
And fight you fair and square.
Wait, I think I already
Used the word fair up there.

Yeah, yeah. Uh-huh.
Ad lib. Here we go!”

At some point, Ming Shi had begun to rap. It was ten times worse than his straight poetry. Still, he remained oblivious. In fact, he got even more into it.

“The sound of one hand clapping
Is a slap, yeah, you’ve shown it!
But one chopstick knocking?
That’s the sound of future friendship!

Paradox? Impossible?
Insane and without reason?
No! This is the Dao!
Lose yourself and you find wisdom!

Yeah, I got ninety-nine problems
But a duel ain’t one!
Although my palms are sweaty,
Mom’s spaghetti, let’s have fun!

And so, with earnest joy,
This duel I’ll not refuse,
For though it might seem scary,
It’s actually—”

Outside, distant but undeniable, a bellow: “GOOD NEWS!”

Ming Shi’s voice died in his throat.

No.

No, he must have imagined it. Right?

The shout came again, a different voice, still more excited: “GOOD NEWS! FOR YOU! MING SHI!”

No, no, no.

When was good news ever good? Never!

He opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come out.

Another shout, hysterical with glee: “GOOD NEWS! MING SHI! YOU’RE WELCOME!”

I don’t want it! I don’t want your good news!

He was choking now.

Footsteps, multiple sets, running. Getting louder. The building’s heavy front door slammed open two floors below.

“GOOD NEWS!” Three voices, accompanied by the thunder of feet on stairs.

Ming Shi lunged at the ACCEPT character, slapping it with both hands. “Accept! ACCEPT! I accept the duel! The cook things, don’t die, stakes-only, non-lethal duel!!! Activate, damn you! ACCEPT!!!”

He knew. He knew in his very bones that he was about to be screwed. He was about to be screwed out of his Cook Things, Don’t Die Duel.

Karma. It was karma. As you troll, so shall you be trolled.

No. No. No.

“ACCEPT!” screamed Ming Shi. “Confirm! Ratify! J’ACCEPTE IN ALL LANGUAGES!”

The frozen Chang stared at him with unchanging fury. The text remained inert.

The footsteps reached his floor. He could hear panting, excited whispers, and the bumps and stumbles of people trying to fit through the narrow hallway simultaneously.

“Please,” Ming Shi seized the chopstick with both hands, shaking it hysterically. “Please just let me cook things, don’t die! I—I can do a better poem! Listen!”

“Roses are red,
Congee is white.
I accept this duel.
Please work, all right?!”

Ming Shi fell to his knees before Angry Chang, hands clasped around the chopstick like it was prayer incense. “I’m trying to do the right thing! Please!”

His door slid open with such a smack–swipe–slam that the entire wooden screen rattled.

Three figures tumbled through in a heap of triumph and glee. Ping Guoshen somersaulted over Old Man Zhen while Xiaoye maintained her dignity by turning a stumble into a twirl. All three were grinning with unhinged ecstasy.

“GOOD NEWS!” they roared in unison, loud enough to vibrate the frozen projection.

Ming Shi turned his head.

A single tear rolled down his cheek.

He wished he could unsee the cursed thing in Ping Guoshen’s hand.

But he couldn’t. It was there. It was real.

It had arrived.

A’Nuan took one look at it and POFFed away.

“GOOD NEWS, BROTHER!” yelled Ping Guoshen, holding the cursed thing aloft. “WE’VE SAVED YOUR LIFE! YOU’RE WELCOME!”