Chapter Thirty-Eight: Shadows of the Night

What is known as "kuai" is, in fact, sashimi—raw fish slices!

Don’t mistake sashimi as a specialty unique to the Japanese; it was the ancient Chinese who enjoyed it first. In ancient China, eating raw fish was already popular, especially south of the Yangtze River, where nearly every aquatic delicacy known to later generations featured on their tables.

In the northern region of Youzhou, seafood was less common, but in ancient times, aquatic resources were abundant, and raw fish slices were an everyday delight. Especially in this era, waterways remained pristine and unpolluted, with fish healthy, plump, and their flesh fresh yet never greasy.

Even Pei Min, who in his later life wasn’t particularly fond of raw fish, had a special affection for sashimi of this age.

It’s widely known that the thinner and more delicate the sashimi, the better; slicing it well is a true test of knife skills. The sashimi presented by the old steward was of moderate size—neither exceptional nor flawed, nothing to criticize, yet nothing to praise.

Yan Gaoqing picked up a slice with his chopsticks, examined it, and said, “Old Yuan, your other skills are commendable, but this slicing is quite ordinary. Old Yuan, bring the knife over. Today, I’ll show Brother Pei and Brother Yuan my knife work.”

Customs of this era were often paradoxical: society looked down on actors and musicians, yet took pride in musical knowledge; nobles kept their distance from the kitchen and sometimes disdained culinary arts, yet delighted in demonstrating their skill in slicing sashimi before an audience. In Chang’an, this custom was particularly fashionable—without a good knife hand, one might hesitate to even eat sashimi.

Yan Gaoqing, raised in Chang’an since childhood, was eager to show off his knife skills.

Taking the short knife from the steward, Yan Gaoqing gave it a few flourishes, then picked up a piece of sashimi already cut and, with two swift strokes, divided it into three even finer slices, each delicate and almost translucent.

Yuan Lüqian raised his thumb in admiration. “Brother Xin, your knife work is truly impressive.”

Pei Min also praised him heartily. Yan Gaoqing’s slicing was deft and practiced—remarkable for a scholar. Yet, in Pei Min’s “professional” eyes, there was still room for refinement.

The three of them ate sashimi while waiting for donkey meat in the pot and beef roasting over the fire, drinking beneath the moon and discussing the present and the past.

In this, Pei Min excelled. With memories of two lifetimes and an open-minded modern perspective, his knowledge far surpassed that of Yan Gaoqing and Yuan Lüqian. Whatever historical figure was mentioned, Pei Min could speak knowledgeably, and he would occasionally share lively anecdotes to lighten the atmosphere, earning the others’ admiration.

Knowing Yan Gaoqing’s particular interest in governance and people’s livelihood, Pei Min discussed these topics with him. Yan Gaoqing’s historical achievements were real and unembellished. Even though he had not yet entered government service, his understanding was already profound. He said, “To govern well, one must adapt to local conditions, not blindly follow others. The ancients spoke of southern oranges and northern trifoliate oranges—custom and climate differ everywhere. Only by developing local specialties can a region fully realize its strengths. For this, I most admire Chancellor Zhuge of Shu Han. In his time, Shu was poor and isolated, but he promoted Shu brocade, making it a pillar of their economy. By trading brocade for grain and horses, Shu sustained its people and army. That single specialty drove much of Shu’s prosperity.”

Pei Min wholeheartedly agreed. This principle was as true in ancient times as it is today: whether in a big city or a small county, distinctive resources, if developed well, can have a ripple effect.

Yan Gaoqing spoke at length, and Pei Min listened carefully, storing away knowledge that might one day prove useful—one can never have too much learning.

Yuan Lüqian excelled most in calligraphy. His clerical script was robust, archaic, and broad, its depth far exceeding that of Yan Gaoqing or Pei Min.

Each of the three had their strengths, and their lively conversation stretched from dusk until the next dawn, with appetites for both food and discussion unsated.

Pei Min’s relationship with the other two deepened rapidly, no longer merely a gentleman’s acquaintance but with the warmth of true kindred spirits.

After drinking heavily, Pei Min’s bladder was uncomfortably full. He excused himself to Yan Gaoqing and Yuan Lüqian, grabbed a lantern, and wandered off to the latrine, muttering as he went, “This wine goes down like juice, but it’s got quite a kick!”

Relieved, he patted his stomach and was about to return to the rear courtyard when he faintly heard a door close somewhere nearby.

The Yuan residence was large, with both front and rear courtyards, and more than ten chambers—studies, guest rooms, and master rooms—but only Yuan Lüqian and the old steward actually lived there, and with himself and Yan Gaoqing, there were just four people in total.

Yan Gaoqing and Yuan Lüqian were in the back courtyard talking; the old steward had long since gone to bed, his quarters in the servants’ rooms up front. The guest rooms in the rear should have been empty—so why did he hear a door close?

Pei Min, a bit drunk and slow to react, paused uncertainly and patted his waist—his Autumn Water Sword had been left in the courtyard. Spotting that the lantern’s wooden handle was sturdy enough, he gripped it and cautiously approached the source of the sound.

When he was about five steps from the guest room, a shadow darted from within—a figure clad in black, with only his eyes visible. In the dim light, Pei Min could just make out the outline of the intruder, who didn’t even glance his way but sped off in the other direction.

“Where do you think you’re going!”

Pei Min tried to give chase but found his legs too unsteady, unable to keep up. In frustration, he hurled the lantern after the fleeing figure.

With a metallic clang, the figure didn’t even turn his head. A flash of cold light, and the lantern—handle and all—was sliced cleanly in two.

Pei Min hiccupped, slapped his face to sober up, and gave up the pursuit.

Hearing the commotion, Yan Gaoqing and Yuan Lüqian hurried over. Yuan Lüqian, ever meticulous, brought along Pei Min’s Autumn Water Sword. Yan Gaoqing, arriving first, asked, “What happened? Is there a thief?”

Pei Min took his sword from Yuan Lüqian and shook his head. “A dark figure rushed out from the room and ran that way.”

“That’s nothing!” Yuan Lüqian laughed breezily. “That thief must have poor taste—there’s nothing valuable left in my house. If he wants to come and go, let him. Let’s get back to our wine and not let some petty prowler spoil our mood.”

Pei Min’s tone darkened. “It’s not that simple.” He stepped forward and, by the light of Yan Gaoqing’s lantern, retrieved the pieces of the one he’d thrown. The lantern had been sliced perfectly in two. Picking up the halves, he said, “Look at this—these are knife marks. On a night this dark, for someone to cut so cleanly, that’s no ordinary thief. His skill is formidable. With that kind of martial talent, he wouldn’t bother with petty theft; his purpose must be much more sinister. We can’t afford to be careless.”