After Tieniu left, Tang Xianling still had work to do. He made twenty jin of pork floss, packed it into jars, and before bed, started the dough for the pastries and soaked the red beans.

“Wu-ger, it’s getting late. Have you finished your tasks?”

“Done, done. Everything’s ready,” Tang Xianling replied.

After two days of rest, an afternoon bath had truly refreshed him. Tang Xianling inspected the stove room, satisfied that all preparations were complete. Only then did he wash his hands, wipe his face, brush his teeth, splash water on his face, and return to bed.

Jiang Yun watched her Wu-ger blow out the candle before feeling at ease. Old Tang lay in bed, utterly still and silent—unlike before, when even his sleep carried heavy breathing. Since that night of fever, he’d recovered, but now slept so deeply he resembled a corpse—

Her heart skipped a beat. Daring not to dwell on it, she reached out and gently touched Lao Tang.

Thank goodness, thank goodness. He was still alive.

Jiang Yun forced herself not to think about it further and quickly fell asleep, knowing she had to rise early the next day.

Tang Xianling lay spread-eagled on the bed, refreshed and clean. Before drifting off, he thought of Tieniu. How expensive it was to stay at the inn! It would be better to rent him a courtyard, or perhaps he could sleep in front of his shop—though tidying up during business hours would be troublesome.

Besides, the Tang family’s courtyard was too small now to let the mule roam freely and rest.

He’d just have to wait a little longer.

Tang Xianling mused further: even if they were getting married, it would likely take some time, right? Weddings in ancient times were such a hassle, with endless drawn-out steps…

Little did he know that his neighbors in Baxing District were so “enthusiastic,” with several households scheming to help him tie the knot sooner.

Third Alley, Cui Family.

Cui Dabao ate little at dusk, soon declaring, “No more! No more! Saving room for tomorrow.”

“Breakfast tomorrow is still hours away. Starving yourself all night will only make you sick. Eat something,” his father urged, worried for his son.

Out of respect for his father, Cui Dabao took half a steamed bun, nibbling slowly and deliberately. “I wonder what Mr. Tang puts in his breakfast,” he mused. “It’s been two whole days now, and I still crave it.”

Not a hint of wanting to stop.

Before, when Cui Dabao ate something he liked, he’d have it for three days straight. Not that he’d get sick of it or not want it, but by the fourth day, he’d feel a bit bored and crave something different. But Master Tang’s breakfast was truly different. This was the first time he’d ever encountered something he never got tired of eating.

Strange.

“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Father Cui. “Old Tang is too honest for that. Wu-ger doesn’t seem the type to lace food.”

Cui Dabao rolled his eyes. “Oh, Father! I was just praising Mr. Tang’s skill! As for lacing it… some kind of sleeping potion or mind-altering drug? Never heard of it, but the medicine would cost more than the pancakes themselves!”

Father Cui chuckled. “You’ve got a point.”

Medicinal herbs were precious these days. Adding ‘craving potions’ to breakfast? Impossible.

Cui Dabao’s words were meant as an exaggerated compliment to Mr. Tang’s cooking.

“Dabao, go buy breakfast tomorrow. I’ve washed and dried both of Mr. Tang’s pots. Bring them along—don’t forget,” Sun Douzi reminded him, thinking that if he placed both pots in the food basket tomorrow, Dabao wouldn’t forget.

Cui Dabao nodded and added, “I should also ask where Mr. Tang gets his milk delivered. Maybe he could sell us some, too. It’s good for you—it won’t upset your stomach.”

Truthfully, he also wanted to buy more pork floss, but he couldn’t just blurt it out. He’d have to ask when no one was around—what if others tried to snatch it up too?

Father Cui wholeheartedly approved of Dabao buying milk for Douzi. When it came to nourishing food that could strengthen Douzi’s body, Father Cui was always happy to support it.

At night before bed, Cui Dabao kept raving about pork floss bread. Sun Douzi listened and grew hungry too. At dusk, Dabao hadn’t finished his half-bun—he’d only taken a few bites because his dad kept talking about it. Douzi ate the rest. He was clearly full, yet somehow his mouth watered and he felt hungry again.

The next day dawned still dark.

Huangfu Tieniu arrived at the Tang residence. Hearing Tieniu’s voice, Tang Xianling silently set down his carrying pole and responded. He then picked up two water buckets and opened the door for Tieniu. The two worked in perfect harmony—though they’d only met a few times—one taking the buckets while the other swung open the gate. Leading the mule, they exchanged smiles and called out a cheerful “Good morning!”

Tang Xianling led the mule into the courtyard.

The mule was tall and sturdy, yet gentle in temperament.

With Tieniu fetching water, Tang Xianling felt noticeably lighter. He began boiling beans. Jiang Yun also rose, tidied herself up, and got to work.

Today’s offerings were still pork floss bread and red bean pot cakes.

The cast-iron pan Tang Xianling had ordered should arrive this afternoon. Perfect timing—he could use today’s money to pay the final installment, allowing him to sell more tomorrow. He mentally planned to steam the pickled mustard greens twice this afternoon and prepare the first batch of serrated greens.

“Mother, I’m heading out front. The door can stay ajar—it’s fine.”

Tang Xianling began preparing the bread at the counter in front of the shop. Last night’s dough had risen perfectly. He took it all out, kneaded it, then skillfully divided it into portions. Each round ball was adorable. He let the portions rest for over ten minutes while he made the egg yolk sauce.

Eggs, sugar, soybean oil, and a dash of vinegar.

He beat the eggs and sugar first, whipping vigorously while monitoring the consistency and adding soybean oil. Huangfu Tieniu ran back and forth twice to refill the water jug. Now he saw Tang Xianling with his sleeves rolled up, half his forearm exposed, straining with effort.

“Is this how you make butter?” Huangfu Tieniu asked.

Tang Xianling startled, glancing up to meet Tieniu’s eager gaze. Stunned into silence, he finally chuckled. “You really want to churn butter?”

Before Tieniu could reply, Tang Xianling said, “This isn’t butter—it’s salad dressing. You take over.” He handed the whisk and bowl to his classmate.

Huangfu Tieniu took them. He wasn’t particularly fond of churning butter, but Tang Xianling had mentioned how exhausting it was, saying it could break your arms. Now that he had them, he mimicked Tang Xianling’s earlier posture and asked, “Is this okay?”

“Perfect, you go ahead. I’ll just watch from the side,” Tang Xianling said with a smile.

With Tieniu here this morning, there was truly no rush. Even now, Old Man Cui hadn’t arrived yet, proving they’d stocked up early this morning.

Speak of the devil.

Cui Dabao hurried to Tang’s shop, basket in hand, having worked through the night. From afar, he saw that the shop door seemed open, faint light spilling out.

Open! It’s open! Cui Dabao’s face lit up, and he quickened his pace.

“Mr. Tang, Mr. Tang! Are you open for business today? I’ve been thinking about it for two days!”

Tang Xianling: …

Hilarious.

Tang Xianling added the last batch of soybean oil to the salad dressing bowl and told Tieniu, “Just a little more mixing, and it’ll be ready.” Only then did he respond to Old Man Cui. By this time, Cui Dabao had already run to the shop entrance. “Yes, open for business today.”

“Mr. Tang didn’t bring water? Or did I come too late?” Cui Dabao peered inside the shop and spotted a tall, imposing man.

Tang Xianling: “Tieniu handled it. With his help, today’s prep went fast.”

“So it wasn’t me arriving late after all. I knew it!” Cui Dabao beamed with satisfaction. How could he possibly be late!

Tang Xianling began kneading dough for the pork floss bread. After shaping them, they needed to rest before going into the oven. While the dough rested, he stoked the charcoal fire to preheat the oven—daily routines honed over days of business to maximize efficiency.

Jiang Yun brought out the ground red beans. In a moment, Wu-ger would mix the filling and add sugar.

“Good morning, Old Man Cui,” Jiang Yun greeted him, inviting Cui Dabao to sit.

Cui Dabao didn’t sit. He remembered something. “I’m returning your jar. I also wanted to ask Mr. Tang about the milk formula. My husband can drink that.”

“I order from the Hu merchant in the East Market. Since it’s not too hot yet, they deliver half a barrel to my shop at the beginning of the Xu hour…” Tang Xianling explained while kneading dough, glancing at the salad dressing Tieniu was making. “That’s enough.”

Huangfu Tieniu paused, handing the bowl to Tang Xianling.

“Doesn’t your hand hurt?” Tang Xianling asked.

Huangfu Tieniu replied, “It’s fine.”

He noticed Tang Xianling’s nose wrinkle slightly—a cute gesture, like a mountain kitten. His voice softened, tinged with amusement as he said, “Churning butter is far more tiring than this. I churned half the night before—my arms nearly fell off!”

Huangfu Tieniu sensed Tang Xianling’s concern for him.

His heart swelled with joy, and all traces of fatigue vanished.

Cui Dabao, listening nearby, thought: Just as he suspected! Master Tang finds churning butter too laborious, but he adores it. Meat floss bread without butter is delicious enough to linger in his memory, but those with butter? They haunt his dreams.

He couldn’t help glancing at the big guy named Tieniu. Those arms—you could see the sinewy muscles straining beneath his clothes. Cui Dabao grinned and offered a suggestion: “Since this young brother says he’s not tired, I reckon we could whip up some butter too.”

Tang Xianling: …

Old Man Cui, don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking.

Your face practically screams, ‘make the butter version!’

“Honestly, besides being tiring, the heat makes it hard to whip. If I make enough money to get a hand-crank egg beater, I might consider adding it in winter,” Tang Xianling admitted frankly.

Butter works best when chilled—easier to whip, better fat separation, and simpler cleanup.

“With your thriving business, Mr. Tang, you’ll surely afford that hand-crank mixer!” Cui Dabao flattered him. His butter version of bread would be winter-ready! Not bad, not bad—still hopeful.

As they chatted, Cui Dabao ordered milk for his husband. Tang Xianling’s family ordered a lot, but Jiang Yun actually didn’t like milk. Drinking it made her stomach rumble constantly—not causing diarrhea, just persistent gurgling, which Jiang Yun found embarrassing.

Jiang Yun was the type who wished she could be invisible in public, and even at home, she felt embarrassed by her stomach’s noises. After drinking milk for a couple of days, she barely left the house.

Therefore, besides making bread, the half-barrel of milk ordered by the Tang family left quite a surplus.

Tang Xianling could drink it himself, but constantly giving it away wasn’t feasible—his family wasn’t a milk delivery service. So when he heard Cui Dabao wanted milk for his husband, Tang Xianling readily agreed to sell it to him.

Three wen per can—he saved on delivery fees.

Cui Dabao: “Isn’t that cheap?”

“I need the milk myself and don’t rely on selling it for income. Since you’re picking it up, consider the three wen as your daily delivery fee,” Tang Xianling replied cheerfully.

Cui Dabao promptly agreed to the deal.

Despite his young age, Boss Tang conducted business with generosity and openness, never being petty.

He was idle at home—fetching milk was no trouble at all.

Both parties were satisfied.

As they spoke, more people arrived outside. Someone called out, “I knew it! It must be Old Man Cui, arriving so early!”

“You’re not late either,” Cui Dabao replied.

Several customers gathered to chat idly.

“These past few days, I’ve woken up feeling like something’s missing. Then it hit me—it’s the breakfast from Mr. Tang’s place.”

“Same here. If breakfast’s not right, the whole day feels off.”

A new customer arrived—the one who’d done his homework. He was the guy who’d bought the red bean pot cake on the last day and was blown away. This wasn’t just “passable”—he had to taste the pork floss bread that always sold out. He asked about it, and a regular customer nearby, who hadn’t left yet, quickly chimed in: “If you want the pork floss bread, you absolutely must come early.”

“How early?” The new customer wondered, thinking it couldn’t be much earlier than dawn.

Regular: “No, no, no. You have to come before dark.”

New Customer: “?? That sounds ridiculous. Are you guys just hyping up this Mr. Tang too much?”

He was skeptical, but after finishing his red bean pot sticker, he still craved more. He kept thinking about those customers raving about the heavenly pork floss bread, especially since Mr. Tang was closed for two days—he’d been craving those red bean pot stickers for two whole days. So, before dawn that day, he actually dragged himself out of bed, half-asleep, to check it out.

But when he reached the main street, holy moly—several people were already waiting in front of Mr. Tang’s shop.

Hearing is believing, seeing is believing. The new customer briefly recounted his journey: “…Now I truly believe it.”

“The bread isn’t even out yet. It’s too early to say that. What if you don’t like it? Don’t make us look like we’re just shills,” an old customer teased with a smile.

Though spoken lightly, the tone carried confidence in Mr. Tang’s bread.

It won’t be bad.

Another customer chimed in: “This pork floss bread… honestly, I wasn’t used to it at first. It almost made me gag. But I thought, ‘I can’t waste seven wen on this,’ so I forced myself to eat it. I kept eating all the way home, and before I knew it, it was gone. The flavor lingered on my palate—the more I ate, the more I craved it.”

“Exactly, exactly! Same here.”

Cui Dabao: “Seven wen for a butter bun and you still don’t appreciate it? At least you finally tasted the fragrance in the end, you kid.”

Not bad, not bad. He could eat out of the same pot as these guys.

As the diners chatted, more people trickled in, including Zhou Xiangping. Among this group of men, Zhou Xiangping was the only woman. After finishing her tasks, Jiang Yun went to chat with Zhou Xiangping, who seemed more at ease. Jiang Yun was projecting her own feelings onto others.

“Sister-in-law, who is that young man?”

“Oh, he’s a distant relative helping out Wu-ger,” Jiang Yun said, much less nervous this time. “His name is Tieniu.”

Zhou Xiangping observed the young man busily assisting Wu-ger, working with remarkable efficiency. “That’s right,” she remarked. “Your shop’s business is booming. Hiring an extra hand is a smart move—it’ll lighten the load.”

Worried her excuse sounded flimsy, Jiang Yun added, “We’ll also serve pickled mustard greens with pot stickers soon. Plus, Wu-ger ordered a cast-iron skillet to try out some new dishes.”

Other diners perked up their ears.

“Sis, what new dish?”

Some asked Jiang Yun, others addressed Tang Xianling directly. When they first sold pot cakes, Tang had teased about a pork floss bread—back then, everyone had scoffed. Naturally, Cui Dabao was the most “cunning”; he’d feigned indifference, yet the next day, he was the first in line.

This time, with Boss Tang bringing out a new product, everyone was much more convinced.

Tang Xianling: “I was thinking of starting with some egg-stuffed pancakes. Later, I can stretch things out and add some jianbing guozi.”

“They’re all pancakes?”

“Pancakes are great—Mr. Tang’s pancakes are legendary.”

Tang Xianling: …It’s just that kneading dough comes naturally to me. 

He didn’t explain further, deciding to address it later. Right now, he really couldn’t add any more.

Dawn broke, and the shop was already filled with the aroma of bread.

Mr. Tang checked the color, brushed on egg wash, and after a short while, “Perfect!”

Huangfu Tieniu carefully lifted the bread-holding wire rack with a cloth pad and placed it on the cutting board. Jiang Yun began collecting payments and packing bread. While the first batch baked, Tang Xianling prepared the second batch, now just waiting to go into the oven.

He planned that once the griddle returned, he’d prepare the dough early. Jiang Yun would just need to pop it in to bake, freeing him to make egg-stuffed pancakes alongside.

Or perhaps stagger the shifts: first batch baking early morning, second batch making pot stickers and egg-stuffed pancakes. They could even swap the order depending on which sells better.

After all, bread takes longer to bake.

Cui Dabao had already taken the bread and started walking back, unaware that Ding Quan—one of the loafers he’d met at the tavern in the West Market—had arrived just as the third batch of bread was baking.

It was just past the hour of the Snake, around nine in the morning.

For ordinary folk these days, nine wasn’t considered early, as they rose and retired early. Villagers outside Fengyuan City often got up before dawn to tend their fields. But these hangers-on, who served and entertained their young masters, spent their nights gambling in the eastern and western markets, drinking with courtesans, soaking in bathhouses, or listening to opera—all sorts of revelry that could last until daybreak.

Thus, Ding Quan considered the fourth hour quite early.

Upon reaching the main street of the Baxing District, the entire thoroughfare bustled with activity. Vendors hawked their wares from stalls lining the road, their cries offering everything imaginable. Yet the breakfast shop mentioned by Old Man Cui, Tang Wu-ger’s, was surprisingly inconspicuous. With crowds gathered before every shopfront, it was impossible to discern that a long queue had formed outside Tang Wu-ger’s—it simply wasn’t noticeable.

After asking passersby for directions and finally locating the spot, Ding Quan saw only seven people waiting at the door. Not many, he thought. Could Old Man Cui have tricked him? He shook his head. No, no—Old Man Cui wouldn’t lie about food.

Ding Quan stood nearby for a moment, hesitating to approach. Just then, several more people approached the shop, and a voice from inside called out, “No more lines!”

The seven customers at the door murmured, “The bread’s gone,” “Lucky we made it in with the last batch,” “Not too late today.”

Hearing this, the passersby looked disappointed. Some still asked, “What else is there?”

“Only red bean pot cakes.”

“Then I’ll wait for the pot cakes.”

In the blink of an eye, the original seven had swelled to over ten people. Ding Quan saw it and realized that Old Man Cui hadn’t exaggerated—the bread was already sold out? He hurried forward and said, “I’ll take pot cakes too.”

The others fell silent.

Ding Quan waited a short while. The aroma from Brother Tang’s shop grew increasingly rich. He glanced at the nearby customers craning their necks to peer at the two large baking ovens.

“It’s ready.”

The young man called out—likely Brother Tang himself. Beside him, a tall young master opened the oven, carefully removing the iron mesh tray with a cloth pad and setting it on the cutting board—

Though Ding Quan was just a commoner who followed Young Master Wei around, his eyes weren’t those of an ordinary peasant. He could tell the bread looked beautifully crafted, but that alone wasn’t impressive—

“So fragrant!” 

“Master Tang’s bread is truly exceptional. My young master has been craving it for two days.”

Jiang Yun finished packing it.

Ding Quan observed the line of customers waiting to buy bread. Each patron could only purchase three loaves. Then he recalled what Old Man Cui had mentioned earlier: Master Tang limited each customer to three loaves.

“Excuse me, sir,” Ding Quan cheerfully stopped a customer holding bread, “I’ll pay ten wen. Could you spare me one loaf?”

Customer: !

After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded. “Alright.”

Ding Quan promptly paid, not yet eating, and asked, “Has his shop always been this busy?”

“Mr. Tang’s father fell ill—been sick for over half a year. The shop was gathering dust until recently, when Mr. Tang took over and started making breakfast. It turned around in just a few days.”

“Mr. Tang’s skills speak for themselves.”

“I’m back, I’m back. I’ve been craving this for two days.”

After the customer left, Ding Quan took a bite of his bread. The first taste was of fragrant scallions, followed by a uniquely crumbly texture. The flavor grew richer with each chew. The bread resembled a puffed steamed bun, carrying a hint of milkiness, yet blended perfectly. The sauce mixed within added a special touch.

Before he knew it, the bread was gone. Ding Quan looked up to see a crowd gathering again in front of the shop.

“Owner, I’ll take two red bean pot cakes.”

“Mr. Tang, when will the preserved vegetable and pork pot stickers be ready?”

Tang Xianling replied, “If the weather stays clear and things go smoothly, they should be ready in about three days.”

“That’s great news. I’ll keep that in mind. After trying everything, I still prefer the preserved vegetable and pork pot stickers. When they’re ready, boss, don’t limit us to three as you do with the pork floss bread.”

Tang Xianling immediately laughed. “Buying too much might make you tired of it later. It’s good to switch things up.” He added, “Since you’re here, I won’t limit the pickled mustard greens and pork buns.”

This familiar customer asked daily: When will the pickled mustard greens and pork buns be ready?

“Great!” the customer agreed readily.

Business was booming at the shop, and both customers and the owner were in cheerful spirits. Curious about the pickled vegetable pot cakes, Ding Quan impulsively ordered a red bean pot cake first—just in case they sold out later.

He planned to buy all these treats for Young Master Wei to sample once he finished eating, arriving early three days later.

Meanwhile.

Early this morning, just as dawn broke, Yuan Heqing hired a carriage to Xu Village. He intended to inquire about Huangfu Tieniu’s character, confirming whether he had ever been married, if he harbored any vices like gambling or womanizing, and whether he suffered from any hidden ailments.

All these matters needed a thorough investigation.

Naturally, Tang Xianling’s background also needed scrutiny. However, since Tang Xianling resided in Fengyuan City, closer at hand, Huangfu Tieniu’s investigation would be completed first before turning to Tang.

Compared to Master Yuan’s efficiency, the old woman at Zhao’s Sweet Oil Pancake Shop was painfully slow. Though eager to learn Tang Wu-ger’s money-making skills—she longed for such talents to be Zhao’s—she was stingy and reluctant to part with her money.

Her nephew Zhao’s mentally disabled son still lived outside the city, quite a distance away. The old lady couldn’t manage the walk herself, so she decided to bite the bullet: No pain, no gain.

She ended up renting a carriage, haggling over the price for quite some time. By the time they finally boarded, it was nearly noon. As stingy as the old lady was, Uncle Zhao was no different. At first, he was quite pleased when his sister-in-law suggested arranging a match for his younger son.

His simpleton son was knelt twenty—could they really find him a wife?

“Not to speak ill, but I’ve seen the ger. He’s from the main street. His father fell ill, leaving just her and her mother. The Wu-ger is the same age as your young master…”

Uncle Zhao frowned and interrupted at one point: “So he’s a widow who lost his husband?”

The old lady paused, looking utterly incredulous. His own son was a simpleton—when she’d entered, he’d been picking his nose and stuffing it into his mouth. And now he was complaining that Wu-ger was a widower?

But the old lady had her own calculations. She bit back the urge to call this younger brother an idiot. If he weren’t foolish, why would the ancestors have sent his branch to farm the land instead of keeping the shop in town?

So the old lady patiently unraveled her argument, repeating over and over how capable and talented Wu-ger was. When their son married him, wouldn’t the Tang family shop’s business then belong to Uncle Zhao’s family?

“I have fertile fields here,” Uncle Zhao grumbled. “I can’t even manage them all myself. Why would I go into town to become a merchant?”

A merchant’s status was undesirable. The Zhao family kept a small shop in a tiny courtyard—how could it compare to the open, comfortable village? Besides, everything in the city required money. Not going? Not good.

Old Lady: !

She leaned back, nearly fainting from anger.

That day, the old lady talked with Uncle Zhao for ages, delaying until nightfall. They had to stay overnight at his place. By the time darkness fell, her lips parched from all the talking, Uncle Zhao finally reluctantly agreed to consider the match.

The old lady gulped down a bowl of cold water, thinking: At last it’s settled. All that exhausting running around wasn’t for nothing.

The next day, the old lady beamed and said, “We agreed yesterday, Uncle Zhao. When can we hire a matchmaker to go to the city and speak with Wu-ger’s mother? Let’s settle this early so the children can have a good life.”

“What?! Sister-in-law, you want me to spend money on a matchmaker?” Uncle Zhao balked, backtracking on his agreement.

Why should he spend money?

The old lady froze upon hearing this.

She’d never encountered such shamelessness before.