Ming Mao, master of the Jolly Fatty Inn, was seated outside his domain. His feet were up, his pipe was lit, and he was running his fingers through Magistrate Fluffy’s fur. The ancient tom was dozing and purring in a regal manner; his grey fur poofy, but starting to thin. He was too old to catch mice these days, but his long life of service granted him certain privileges, and his children and grandchildren did his duty for him. So the good Magistrate could focus on more important things—like warming people’s legs. The lunch rush was over, his boy could take on any stragglers, and it was indeed a fine day. He was taking a well-deserved break, in his opinion. Ever since the cultivators started staying at the Dueling Peaks, for some still as yet unknown reason, his inn had been seeing quite a bit more custom of the immortal persuasion. It had started before winter; when a regal and noble-looking young lady had come in with an entire troop of cultivators, declaring that she had “been here before” and that his family’s roast duck was amazing. Ming Mao had never seen the woman before, but Lady Yin was clearly familiar with his place and his legendary roast duck. But she had been surprised at his duck fat fried potatoes. Which didn’t make sense. Ming Mao had a good mind for his customers’ names and faces, it was a requirement in this line of work. And the only being with silver hair and the name Yin that he remembered had been a rabbit. For an animal to be a stunningly beautiful lady (...)