What kind of person was Zhang Zhixu?

Others said he was born into a grand and illustrious family, inheriting from birth the wealth and glory accumulated over hundreds of years — living in the finest manor, attended with the most meticulous care; so particular that he would not eat meat unless it was freshly slaughtered, would not wear anything but snow-brocade, would not set foot on anything but white jade stone.

And yet he also bore the hopes and crushing responsibilities of everyone in the Zhang Family.

Mornings: poetry, the classics, rites, the Book of Changes, the Spring and Autumn Annals. Midday: the classics examinations, law, mathematics. Afternoons: the calendar, medicinal texts, the art of appreciation, the craft of engineering, the craft of object-making. Evenings: the guqin, chess, fine-brush painting — and even the art of gambling.

Of twelve two-hour periods in a day, ten of them he spent on all of these.

Zhang Zhixu excelled at every one of them — the kind of excellence that left even his tutors with nothing left to teach him.

And yet he still found everything dull. The same lessons day after day were dull. The servants with their faces full of smiles were dull. The noble dignitaries putting on their airs were dull. Even this very life of his — truly dull to the extreme.

The decision to perish together with Cheng Huaili had been the freest, most joyful moment of his life.

And yet now, opening his eyes, he had not died.

Not only had he not died — he had taken up residence inside a woman’s body, and was listening to her let out a wide-eyed “Wow!” of wonder at the twelve-story Zhaixing Tower before them.

“Great Immortal!” She called to him. “Have you ever seen a building this tall?”

Zhang Zhixu felt his entire being instantly submerged by a peculiar surge of emotion — like having swallowed Sichuan pepper, a numbing, tingling warmth spreading through him; his fingertips grew hot and swollen, and in his mind a burst of fireworks exploded, with countless sparkling trails blazing vivid and brash across his pitch-black awareness.

The sensation was so utterly foreign that he stood in a daze for a long while before he realized — it was Chen Baoxiang’s happiness.

She could actually be this happy?

He raised his eyes in bafflement, thinking the Zhaixing Tower must have something new to offer — only to see the same garish seven-colored lanterns, the billowing gauze curtains, and the same clumsy, oversized wooden peacock carvings.

“These things,” he frowned. “You like them?”

“Of course!” Chen Baoxiang said cheerfully. “I’ve always wanted to come here, but it’s too expensive — any single dish inside costs one tael of silver.”

One tael of silver in copper coins was no more than two thousand four hundred coins.

Zhang Zhixu had never given silver any thought, but hearing Chen Baoxiang’s exaggerated tone, an image inexplicably surfaced in his mind — twenty-four ordinary sharpened daggers, eight rounds of dagger dance performances, or four slop buckets.

Wait, slop buckets?

He wrinkled his nose with distaste and said: “You still haven’t bathed and changed your clothes.”

Chen Baoxiang looked down at herself — her skirt hem was filthy, and there was a certain smell about her.

“But,” she said, “it’s winter.”

“So what about winter — do bathing tubs hibernate?”

“That’s not it.” Chen Baoxiang was both amused and exasperated. “I can tell at a glance that you, Great Immortal, have never lived a hard life. In the cold of winter, heating the water wastes firewood, and washing in the cold is freezing — what if you catch a chill and lose your little life?”

Losing one’s life from bathing? Zhang Zhixu laughed in irritation: “By your logic, the poor have to go the entire winter without washing?”

“That’s right.” She nodded earnestly. “And in worse cases, it’s not just winter — for poorer families, going a few years without washing is common enough.”

Zhang Zhixu: “……”

Chen Baoxiang sensed his shock and couldn’t help but sigh to herself — so it was true that immortals really didn’t know the hardships of the mortal world.

From the steps above, several noblewomen watched as Chen Baoxiang swung wildly between being intensely animated and muttering to herself under her breath.

They exchanged a glance, and the suspicions in their hearts surfaced again: “Baoxiang, have you never been to Zhaixing Tower before?”

“I have.” Chen Baoxiang lifted her skirt and hurried to catch up with them, laughing. “I come here often.”

These words, paired with her clearly wide-eyed, never-been-anywhere expression, carried absolutely no credibility whatsoever.

With thinly veiled smiles, the noblewomen led her up to the sixth floor, ordered a full table of food and drink — the more expensive the better.

Chen Baoxiang kept a composed face on the outside, but inside she was spinning in circles with joy —

Great Immortal, look — every single one of these is a dish I’ve never had before!

Zhang Zhixu looked it over, filled with disdain —

Ordinary ingredients, ordinary preparation — what’s so remarkable.

Chen Baoxiang was not nearly as particular as he was. She heard the host urge everyone to begin eating and could not wait — she reached across and lifted a large piece of fish from the center cut.

Two stifled laughs suddenly sounded beside her. She looked over in puzzlement and saw the noblewomen wearing oddly suppressed expressions, exchanging loaded glances.

“Oh my, why haven’t the dishes we ordered arrived yet? I’ll go downstairs and check.” Someone seized the opportunity to stand up.

“Baoxiang, please go ahead and eat — the bill is already settled. I’ll go check with them too.” The hostess Lin Guilan also followed suit.

In an instant the group became very busy — one had this to do, another had that to do — and in the blink of an eye, only Chen Baoxiang was left alone in the private room.

Chen Baoxiang was thoroughly confused. She raised her chopsticks and asked the Great Immortal: “They were stuck in that prison cell for so long — aren’t they hungry?”

Zhang Zhixu rubbed his temples: “You’ve given yourself away.”

“Given what away?”

“Only those from poor families who rarely eat fish will go straight for the cuts that look like they have the most meat — but actually have the most bones,” he said, helplessly. “In proper noble households, they only eat that small piece of tender flesh hidden below the fish cheek.”

Chen Baoxiang stared in disbelief: “Then what do they do with the rest of the fish?”

“Give it to the servants, or throw it away.”

Isn’t that wasteful.

She slammed the table in outrage: “How awful!”

Saying this, she pulled the whole fish toward herself and began eating furiously from the belly onward, reducing it to a clean skeleton in no time.

Zhang Zhixu was forced to taste an entire fish’s worth of flavors.

At first he was deeply resistant, but the moment the fish flesh entered his mouth, it was a tenderness and juiciness unlike anything he had known — clusters of fish meat sliding apart on the tongue, the clean fragrance of soy sauce slowly saturating his lips and teeth, the savory richness lingering and echoing on and on.

He stared in shock at the empty plate.

Chen Baoxiang was already reaching for a plate of braised pork knuckle.

“Pork is a base food — I don’t like it. Don’t —” He tried to stop her.

But in the very next instant, the tender meat slid into his mouth — rich but not greasy, melting at the touch; abundant broth enveloped the meat and filled his palate, and a sudden deep sense of satisfaction welled up from within.

Zhang Zhixu was completely stunned.

Since childhood he had always disdained pleasures of the palate — he could work up no interest in any delicacy, however rare, and every summer, because he refused to eat, the entire household would be thrown into a panic to bring in renowned physicians to regulate his appetite.

And yet now — how was it like this? An ordinary dish enters his mouth and he finds it supremely delicious, even feeling a lingering reluctance to stop?

After eating through over a dozen plates — eating until his stomach was distended and yet still he felt no satiation — Zhang Zhixu finally, belatedly, realized: this might be Chen Baoxiang’s sense of taste.

When she ate, the fish was neither fishy nor foul, the pork was fragrant with fat, the shrimp was the finest of seafood, the mushrooms were the pinnacle of mountain delicacies. Even the meat paste set out to accompany rice — it, too, was incomparably savory and lingering on the lips and teeth.

She paid no heed to dining etiquette, nor did she need to worry about whether the food might be poisoned. Once she had eaten her fill, her mood was good — she patted her stomach and leaned back against the chair, humming a little tune.

Not a trace of refinement — but she was so perfectly at ease.

Zhang Zhixu was a little dazed.

“Guest, have you finished eating?” A server bent in a bow and came forward with a bill tray, smiling. “Here is the account — please look it over.”

Chen Baoxiang looked back: “Didn’t Guilan say she was settling the bill?”

The server looked her up and down and quietly pursed his lips: “First time here, I take it? Our establishment always settles after the meal. The others have already left — naturally the bill is yours to pay.”

Ah?

Chen Baoxiang took the bill and looked — and her vision immediately went black.