The sightseeing bus wobbled along for nearly two hours before finally pulling into the lush green mountain forests.
“Attention, travelers—we will soon be arriving at Mount Qingcheng station. Please check your belongings and prepare to disembark…”
A voice drifted into Xia Yiyang’s dream, pulling him from his sleep.
Blearily, he opened his eyes—and was met with a rugged face just inches away! Wait—had he really been leaning against his boss’s shoulder this whole time? And what was this blanket on him? How come he had no memory of it at all?
The man he’d been leaning on was also dozing off. Even asleep, Sheng Lin sat upright, arms crossed over his chest, head lowered in rest. His soft, even breaths brushed against Xia Yiyang’s ear, making it tingle—but he dared not move a muscle.
Just then, the passenger in front of them stood up to retrieve luggage from the overhead rack, making enough noise to disturb Sheng Lin’s light sleep. The man frowned uncomfortably, looking like he was about to wake up.
Xia Yiyang’s heart leaped. He shot away from Sheng Lin’s shoulder, pressing himself as flat as possible against the window behind him.
When Sheng Lin opened his eyes, all he saw was a giant panda “enjoying” the view outside… For a second, he thought he was still dreaming. It took a moment to realize that wasn’t a panda—it was Xia Yiyang wrapped in the panda blanket.
“…Are we there?” His voice was low and husky from just waking up.
“Boss, you’re awake?” Xia Yiyang turned his head with a perfectly composed expression. “You were sleeping so soundly, I didn’t want to wake you.”
Sheng Lin: “When did you wake up?”
“I’ve been up for a while,” Xia Yiyang replied without flinching. “I’ve been enjoying the view.”
In truth, he’d only woken up about a minute ago.
He had no idea that there was still a red mark on his cheek from pressing against Sheng Lin’s shoulder. Sheng Lin wasn’t blind—he saw it clearly. But he knew how much the young master valued his dignity, so he didn’t expose this harmless little lie.
Once the bus stopped, passengers filed out one by one. They were the last ones off. The tour guide stood at the door, smiling warmly as she bid farewell to each traveler.
When it was their turn, she beamed at Xia Yiyang, draped in his panda blanket, and said: “Little brother, that blanket your gentleman picked out really suits you!”
“Thank you.” Xia Yiyang felt a bit embarrassed—this guide was way too enthusiastic.
The drop-off point wasn’t far from Mount Qingcheng’s main gate. The mountain was vast, divided into front and rear sections.
The front mountain had well-developed commercial facilities—milk tea shops when you were thirsty, grilled sausages when you were hungry, cultural creative stalls for shopping, and cable cars if you got too tired to walk. It was lively and bustling. The rear mountain, on the other hand, was quiet and natural. Everyone carried a hiking stick, scrambled up using all fours, and worked up a good sweat, but the scenery was uniquely wild and rewarding.
The homestay Sheng Lin had booked was at the rear mountain entrance. Their plan was to climb the rear mountain that day, rest at the homestay after sunset, and visit the front mountain the next day.
After hearing the plan, Xia Yiyang couldn’t wait to ask: “So when are we going crayfish fishing?”
So that’s what he’d been fixated on all along.
Holding back a laugh, Sheng Lin said: “Don’t worry—I’ve scheduled it in. We’ll definitely get to eat some before heading back tomorrow.”
The young master was finally reassured.
They dropped off their luggage at the homestay first.
The place was far nicer than Xia Yiyang had expected. The courtyard was built along the mountainside, with each room connected by covered walkways. A babbling stream flowed outside the corridor, where bamboo low tables and seating were set up for tea-drinking with a view. The rooms were clean and tidy, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a vast bamboo forest—each window framed a different scene, offering excellent privacy. A gentle breeze rustled the bamboo leaves, and the stream gurgled ceaselessly.
But there was one small issue…
Sheng Lin: “I remember booking a twin room—why is it a king bed?”
The staff quickly explained: “It is a twin room! We just need to separate the bed in the middle into two.”
Two staff members came in and split the bed apart, leaving a narrow gap just wide enough for one person to squeeze through sideways.
To put it bluntly—if the person on the left bed rolled over, they’d land right on the right bed!
Sheng Lin let the young master choose first. Xia Yiyang naturally picked the bed by the window. Sheng Lin set his backpack down on the other bed, and just like that, they’d divided the beds.
But honestly, the two beds were so close together, there was barely any difference.
Xia Yiyang stared at the two beds pressed nearly together, feeling a little strange.
Ah, whatever—he’d shared a hostel room with seven strangers before. What was so different about sharing a room with his boss tonight? They’d been living under the same roof for a while anyway.
Once they’d settled in, it was lunchtime. To make sure he had the energy for an afternoon hike, Xia Yiyang rubbed his hands together, determined to eat his fill.
And what to eat?
Why, the taro chicken Sheng Lin had promised, of course!
Taro chicken is a famous Sichuan dish. Every restaurant has its own unique base recipe—first, stir-fry doubanjiang (broad bean paste) with Sichuan peppercorns, chili peppers, garlic cloves, and ginger slices to build the aromatic foundation, then add broth and simmer. The chicken is fresh young rooster, chopped into large chunks. Extra ingredients can be added during braising—Sheng Lin ordered half a catty of pork intestines. As for the base vegetables, large chunks of taro and bamboo shoots were a must. It was the rainy season, so fresh bamboo shoots were abundant—peeling back layer after layer revealed incredibly tender flesh, simmered in the spicy broth to absorb all the rich flavors.
This pot of taro chicken—the chicken was fall-off-the-bone tender, the pork intestines springy and chewy, the taro soft and velvety, the bamboo shoots spicy and flavorful—was served with great fanfare. It was the ultimate “rice-sweeper” dish.
Alongside the taro chicken came a stainless steel basin piled high with steaming rice. The auntie who served it was warm and generous: “Kids, eat up! When your bowl’s empty, just holler for more!
Sheng Lin got up to prepare dipping sauces for both of them—chopped scallions and cilantro, drizzled with a little sesame oil—making sure to remember that the young master’s portion should not include fish mint (Houttuynia cordata).
When he returned to the table, Xia Yiyang was staring at the pot with eager eyes, his stomach growling like thunder.
“Why didn’t you start without me?” Sheng Lin asked.
Xia Yiyang wiped the corner of his mouth: “You hadn’t come back yet—I couldn’t just start eating. That would be rude.”
Sheng Lin thought to himself—other young masters from well-off families were self-centered, but his young master was thoughtful, well-behaved, and considerate of others—clearly raised with excellent manners.
“Go ahead,” Sheng Lin said, picking up a chicken wing for him. “Next time, don’t wait for me. Eat whenever you want.”
Xia Yiyang returned the favor by giving him a drumstick: “No way. We’re out here traveling together—how could I let you always accommodate me? You let me pick the bed first, you let me eat first—you have to give me a chance to show my appreciation too.”
“Alright.” Sheng Lin agreed readily. “Then you can pay for this meal.”
The young master: “…”
He gritted his teeth: “Fine.”
At the thought that he was treating this meal, Xia Yiyang ate with a vengeance—sucking every last bit of flavor from the chicken bones and even cleaning out all the side ingredients at the bottom of the pot.
“Oh, what’s this?” He fished out a piece of side dish and examined it curiously.
It was a highly elastic rectangular block, somewhere between deep purple and grayish-brown. When he held it with his chopsticks and shook it side to side, it wobbled along with the movement. Despite boiling in the pot for so long, it hadn’t fallen apart; instead, it had become even more resilient, thoroughly saturated with the spicy broth.
Was it wide rice noodles? No. Dried tofu? Didn’t seem like it either.
Sheng Lin: “That’s konjac. You’ve never had it before?”
“Konjac…?” Xia Yiyang thought the name sounded vaguely familiar. After racking his brain for a while, he finally remembered: “My cousin bought a whole case of konjac noodles when she was on a diet—supposedly zero calories and zero fat. But she broke down after three days, said they tasted like eating plastic, and gave the whole case to me. I cooked one pack and found it was worse than eating plastic!”
But looking at the long, rectangular pieces in the pot, he couldn’t see any resemblance to those “plastic noodles.”
“Konjac is a specialty ingredient from the Sichuan-Chongqing region—you northerners probably aren’t familiar with it,” Sheng Lin explained briefly. “It looks a bit like taro and is actually toxic in its raw form. But once it’s ground into powder, processed, and cooked, the toxicity is removed. It’s perfect for simmering in spicy hotpots like this, or stir-frying with chili peppers.”
With a skeptical attitude, Xia Yiyang took a cautious bite—and was instantly won over. This wasn’t plastic at all! It was a bouncy, chewy, spicy jelly! The konjac had fully absorbed the broth, and the spiciness hit him hard, making him cough uncontrollably, unable to straighten up for a while.
Seeing this, Sheng Lin quickly waved down a server for a bottle of soy milk. With a deft flick of his chopsticks, he pried the cap off the glass bottle, inserted a straw, and placed it in front of Xia Yiyang.
The boy took a big gulp and finally quelled the burning in his throat.
Spicy as it was, the konjac was undeniably delicious.
Sipping his soy milk while eating taro chicken, going back and forth between the two, his eyes curved into little crescent moons. He’d been in Sichuan for a while now and realized just how different the food culture was from Beijing—many ingredients were available here but not back home, and vice versa.
“Back where I’m from, frozen tofu is a must-have for hotpot,” Xia Yiyang said. “It’s like the northern counterpart to konjac—also used to soak up broth.”
“Frozen tofu—just freezing regular tofu? Won’t it crumble apart?” Sheng Lin had indeed never heard of it.
“You can’t freeze silken tofu—it’s too watery. You have to use firm tofu and put it straight in the freezer. Once frozen, it becomes rock-hard and develops big air holes, almost like a sponge. Before eating, you let it thaw slightly, cut it into chunks, and toss it into the hotpot. Unlike regular tofu, it doesn’t fall apart the longer it cooks—it only absorbs more flavor. Every air hole fills with broth, and the juices burst out with every bite—I’ve burned my tongue on it plenty of times.” The boy’s voice was full of nostalgia. “If this taro chicken had frozen tofu in it, it would be even better.”
The speaker didn’t think much of it, but the listener took note.
Sheng Lin thought: He had a soy milk maker in his shop—next time, he could try making firm tofu and freeze a block to test it out. That way, the young master could taste a bit of home from a thousand miles away.
Before meeting Xia Yiyang, Sheng Lin hadn’t particularly enjoyed cooking or trying new restaurants. But then he’d met Xia Yiyang.
He’d never met such a pure-hearted boy. Though he came from a well-off background, his happiness was simple: traveling made him happy, seeing pandas made him happy, eating food he loved made him even happier.
Whenever happiness arrived, Xia Yiyang’s eyes curved into that beautiful arc—a genuine, heartfelt smile. And it made whoever saw that smile feel happy too.
Watching him, Sheng Lin suddenly had a thought—how wonderful it would be if he could keep that smile forever.
…
The entire pot of taro chicken was cleaned out, bowl and all.
The young master was so stuffed he could barely move, feeling like he’d turned into konjac himself—every inch of him reeking of taro chicken.
Well-fed and energized, when better to tackle the mountain than now?
Xia Yiyang gripped his bamboo hiking stick, gave it a dramatic twirl, and pointed it at the peak: “I’m brimming with power right now! Little Mount Qingcheng—consider yourself easily conquered!”
Sheng Lin suddenly spoke up: “Fifteen kilometers.”
Xia Yiyang didn’t catch it. He turned around: “What did you say?”
“I said, a full loop around the rear mountain is fifteen kilometers—and that doesn’t include the vertical elevation gain.” Sheng Lin said. “If we head in now, it’ll take about six or seven hours. We’ll make it back to the homestay just around sunset.”
“…Is there a cable car?”
“No.”
“…Are there roadside stalls selling grilled sausages and popsicles?”
“No.”
“…Are there convenient stairways?”
“No.”
“…So what is there?”
Sheng Lin thought for a moment: “There are wild monkeys that leap out at any time to snatch hiking sticks from tourists and pick fights with them.”
“Wait,” the young master gasped in shock. “The university semester hasn’t even started yet—why is military training happening now?!”
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