Chapter Twenty: The Steamer

Lu Chenyuan descended from the upper floor; the hall remained lively and boisterous. Yet in his eyes, the entire scene seemed shrouded in an invisible veil of blood. As he gazed at faces—some bold, others cunning—he felt as if every man carried a hidden knife behind his back.

Suddenly, something caught his attention, sending a chill through his heart. In the corner, a table stood empty. The four rough fellows who had been drinking there with Master Zhang the day before had vanished without a trace.

Thoughts churned within him: “Those four carried the stench of foul currents, concealed but not beyond my notice. They are certainly not good men. Could the missing guests be their doing? Perhaps Master Qian is truly nothing more than a merchant kept in the dark?”

This realization eased his suspicion towards Qian Dahai, if only slightly. Still, the Tidewatch Inn was a place steeped in intrigue; until the truth was uncovered, his heart would find no rest.

He dismissed further speculation and silently moved through the hall, heading straight for the kitchen in the rear courtyard.

Inside, oil smoke mingled with steam; seven or eight stoves lined up in a row, the clang of spatulas and ladles creating an endless din. Several workers bustled about, sweat pouring down their faces.

Having worked here for over ten days, Lu Chenyuan was familiar with every corner. He found an excuse, saying he would chop some fresh firewood in the back, and no one paid him further heed.

He skirted the mountain of vegetable baskets, his gaze slowly sweeping the kitchen.

Suddenly, he stopped short, his eyes fixed on the corner.

There, an old camphorwood steamer exuded a strange, indescribable aura.

The other steamers in the kitchen were either billowing with steam as they cooked fluffy buns, or had their lids off, cooling after the fire had died. Only this one released no clouds of steam—just a faint, intermittent wisp of vapor drifting from the lid, as if something inside was being gently warmed over a low flame.

His heart skipped a beat.

In all his days helping here, he had never seen anything cooked in that steamer.

What was stranger, he recalled, was that after the innkeeper had chased away the little beggar girl a few days ago, he had specifically warned them: the contents of this steamer were precious, not to be touched by anyone.

At the time, he thought it was for some delicacy reserved for an honored guest and gave it no further thought.

But now, in light of the recent disappearances, a cold shiver crept up his spine, rising from the base of his skull to the crown of his head.

A dreadful suspicion seized him, recalling tales of those infamous inns in storybooks—where travelers were drugged, butchered, and turned into meat buns...

“Could it be that the missing guests, and even that pale, starving beggar girl, have ended up in this steamer?”

The thought made his stomach churn violently, almost forcing him to vomit then and there.

He looked again at the drifting vapor—it seemed now a lingering resentment, and the aroma of meat in the kitchen carried a sinister, unspeakable taint.

Steeling himself, Lu Chenyuan forced down his terror and nausea.

This matter was grave. Only by seeing with his own eyes could he be certain.

He carefully surveyed his surroundings; the workers were carrying a tub of kitchen scraps to the courtyard, leaving the kitchen empty.

The moment was ripe.

Lu Chenyuan sprang forward, ignoring the residual warmth at the steamer’s edge, and placed both hands firmly on the lid.

It felt heavy, heavier than any ordinary steamer.

Drawing a deep breath, he summoned his strength, ready to unveil whatever secret lay beneath.

He opened the lid, and what he saw left him stunned.

On the cloth lining inside, there lay only two solitary buns.

They were cold and hard, likely steamed repeatedly until their skin had yellowed, dry and unappetizing—like two inconspicuous stones by the roadside.

His mind buzzed blank, all his fear, suspicion, and grief dissolving into a bewildered, almost laughable confusion.

At that moment, a hand fell suddenly and without warning upon his shoulder.

Lu Chenyuan froze, feeling as if his blood had turned to ice.

His attention had been so absorbed by the steamer that he hadn’t noticed anyone approach from behind.

This person walked without a sound.

He slowly turned his head.

Behind him stood a plump face, eyes narrowed, mouth caught in a half-smile—it was none other than Qian Dahai.

Lu Chenyuan’s heart plunged to the depths.

But Qian Dahai did not grow angry. He glanced at the two buns, looked at Lu Chenyuan’s bloodless face, and chuckled:

“Boy, the kitchen’s work doesn’t include sneaking bites. What’s this? Are my fried dough sticks too scant for your teeth, so you set your sights on these cold buns?”

His words were spoken in a casual tone, yet to Lu Chenyuan they sounded like a death sentence.

His throat tightened; he opened his mouth, but no words came.

Seeing his expression, Qian Dahai’s smile faded, replaced by a long sigh.

He reached out with his greasy, thick hands, carefully took the two buns from the steamer, wrapped them in a clean cloth, and tucked them into his chest.

“You, boy, are more thoughtful than most.”

With hands behind his back, he turned to face the small courtyard outside, his voice tinged with a strange desolation.

As he turned, Lu Chenyuan’s gaze inadvertently swept over the back of Qian Dahai’s neck.

On a patch of skin near the grimy collar, a faint, lotus-leaf-shaped mark appeared, radiating a wild, foul aura.

It flashed and vanished—so quickly, it could have been an illusion.

Still, Lu Chenyuan’s heart leapt.

The mark resembled the entwined lotus pattern he had seen on Qian’s prized celadon vase.

As Lu Chenyuan’s thoughts spun, Qian Dahai’s reflective voice sounded beside him:

“You must be wondering whether I keep something unspeakable in that steamer, eh?”

He paused, gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “Can’t blame you. In these times, people’s hearts are worse than ghosts. It’s no harm to be cautious.”

After a moment’s silence, Qian Dahai continued quietly:

“A few days back, that little girl who stole the buns—do you remember her? The way she looked, those eyes, she was the spitting image of my granddaughter when she was a child.”

“Ah, my granddaughter—she was frail from birth, suffered much, never grew into such lively form.”

His voice choked slightly; he cleared his throat and went on:

“I felt guilty for chasing her away.”

“I thought, hungry as she was, she’d return. Meat buns spoil quickly, but regular buns can keep for days.”

“So I kept these two buns warm here every day, hoping she’d come back for a hot meal.”

“But… sigh, I waited all these days and never saw her again.”

He turned, his small eyes reddened by smoke.

“As for why I forbade you all from touching that steamer—do you know why?”

Lu Chenyuan, silent till now, stirred and softly said, “Could it be…”

Qian Dahai snorted, sighed. “It’s nothing more than you young fellows being careless. I feared, not knowing, you’d see two cold buns and toss them out as scraps. That girl… she’d lose even that small hope.”

Lu Chenyuan fell silent at his words. Where the little beggar girl had gone, what fate she met, he could not say—only that a sense of guilt welled up inside him.

Could it be he had truly misjudged the innkeeper?

Was he, in fact, just a good man, and had Lu Chenyuan wronged him by measuring him with a petty heart?