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Di Feisheng and Fang Duobing are, as usual, waiting for Li Lianhua to cook them lunch. He’s kicked them and their helpful suggestions out of the kitchen, leaving them to sit outside and glare daggers at each other over the table. Fang Duobing unloads a few village purchases — roast duck, pickled vegetables, plenty of small side dishes to complement whatever strange creation awaits them as the main course. Di Feisheng mysteriously produces a large bowl of white rice and puts it on the table. Their eyes meet in mutual challenge. Wealthy as they are, something keeps bringing them back to Lotus Tower for meals, to eat food guaranteed to give them a stomachache, and to bicker with each other for hours.
That “something” steps out of the Lotus Tower carrying a heavy dish of stew. Li Lianhua staggers slightly under its weight, and the clay pot tilts precariously. Fang Duobing leaps to his feet, scrambling to help him. Whether or not the food deserves to reach the table intact, he will not let Li Lianhua drop it, for fear that he will scald himself and whine incessantly about it for days.
“Careful — careful!” Li Lianhua admonishes as Fang Duobing reaches for the handles of the pot. “It’s hot. Don’t grip it directly. Use this towel.” He pries his fingers up, gingerly transferring the pot, along with a silvery grey rag to block the heat, to Fang Duobing’s hold. Fang Duobing takes it quickly and bustles back to the table, glaring defensively in anticipation as he approaches Di Feisheng. He stops in front of his mealtime rival, spins the rag with a flourish, and spreads it on the table — then he sets the pot on top with a thud, splashing stew over the sides. Luckily, the rag keeps it from staining the table.
“Di Mengzhu. As our honorable and esteemed guest, I must invite you to help yourself.” And saying so he lifts the lid from the stew, so that its mildly offensive odor drifts directly into Di Feisheng’s face. Fang Duobing waits, bristling.
But for once, Di Feisheng does not rise to the bait. He seems transfixed by the stew, staring at the clay pot with something like nostalgia.
A long moment passes. Li Lianhua reaches the table and sits down sedately. Fang Duobing huffs.
“Li Lianhua. Did you cook Lao Di a childhood specialty? Why does he have that look on his face?”
Li Lianhua quirks his eyebrows, looking at Di Feisheng. He leans forward slightly, taking a spoon and a bowl and dishing out a portion of the stew, and saying casually, “Ah, Lao Di. Don’t mind the brat. He has no appreciation for good cooking, unlike you and I.”
Fang Duobing opens his mouth to loudly protest this ghastly lie, but before he can, Di Feisheng speaks. His voice is soft, almost sentimental, in a way Fang Duobing assumed he was entirely incapable of.
“You kept it, all these years?” He’s still gazing at the soup, eyes gleaming suspiciously.
Li Lianhua gives a stilted chuckle in response. “Ah, Di Feisheng. Of course I kept it. It’s very useful for carrying pots.” He laughs again with forced levity, fooling no one.
Di Feisheng leans forward, fingers brushing the rag. Unexpectedly he breaks into a smile.
“So, Xiangyi. Once I was your greatest martial competitor, and now you use my armor as a kitchen towel. It seems you consider yourself the victor in our match, after all.”
Fang Duobing’s jaw drops. Li Lianhua! He used the fragment of Di Feisheng’s silk armor to serve lunch — and Fang Duobing splashed stew all over it — they are both going to die. Di Feisheng is going to pulverize them. He desperately thinks up an interjection that will save them from a serious beating.
But before he can say anything, Li Lianhua responds, also smiling.
“And yet today you sit at my table while I serve you. So who can say who the victor is?”
“Perhaps the victor is friendship,” says Di Feisheng, and they proceed to grin nostalgically at each other, looking less like the greatest martial artists of their generation and (in Fang Duobing’s opinion) more like total idiots.
Li Lianhua slides the first serving of stew to Di Feisheng, who takes a sip without even breaking his smile (though it possibly tightens into a grimace. Possibly).
Seriously, what is wrong with these two? Fang Duobing shrugs to himself and sits down, making sure to grab the non-Lianhua specialties first, before Di Feisheng can take them all. He makes sure to dish plenty of roast duck and vegetables into Li Lianhua’s bowl too. Just because the man is a culinary disaster doesn’t mean he should have to suffer his own cooking.