Chapter 42: Red Bean Buns
“Wait,” Zhang Wei stared blankly at Director Hao. “We have life insurance?”
His tone was utterly deadpan. “Sir, with all due respect, double of zero is still zero. Our job descriptions literally include ‘probable death by spiritual disintegration’ and ‘high risk of spontaneous soul combustion.’ No insurer on Earth would touch that policy. The actuarial tables would just be a single page that says ABSOLUTELY NOT.”
Director Hao had the decency to look slightly ashamed. “It’s more of a symbolic gesture. A line item in the budget to make the accountants feel better about our operational overhead.”
Su Yao let out a sound that was half-groan, half-snarl. “You're worried about accountants? While we're potentially facing down the Japanese Merlin who thinks we're all collectible action figures?”
She ran a hand through her hair. Her foxfire sparked at her fingertips. “Forget the insurance. If we die, we'll be too dead to spend the money. And if we live, I'm billing the celestial bureaucracy for hazard pay.”
“An entirely reasonable demand,” Mizukume agreed. Her terror was momentarily sidelined by the appeal of financial chaos. “I shall assist in drafting the invoice. The line items for ‘existential dread’ and ‘prolonged exposure to bureaucratic incompetence’ should be particularly lucrative.”
“Can we focus?” Kitty snapped. Her tail was lashing. “The point is, we are all, as you mortals say, ‘up the creek without a paddle.’ Whether this Abe is a legendary exorcist or a guy with a 3D printer and a bad attitude, he’s several steps ahead of us. We need a plan that doesn't involve waiting for a form to be processed or for a billionaire to reply to a DM.”
“Fine,” Su Yao said. She forced her own rising panic and fury back down into a cold, hard knot in her stomach. “New plan. We use the one advantage we have that he might not have fully accounted for.”
“And what’s that?” Zhang Wei asked.
“Me,” Su Yao said. Her eyes glowed with ancient, bloody-minded light. “I'm a wrecking ball. If Abe no Seimei has built a beautiful, complex maze, then I will refuse to solve it.” She smiled, a terrifying sight. “I'm going to blow a hole straight through the goddamn wall.”
The brutal simplicity of Su Yao’s declaration hung in the air for a moment, a promise of pure, unadulterated chaos.
Then, Mizukume shattered it.
“That plan has a flaw,” she stated. Her voice regained its flat monotone, though the undercurrent of fear remained. “The original Tamamo-no-Mae, of which I am but a shadow, was by all accounts more powerful than you are now. Seimei still defeated her.
“He bound her, studied her, and ultimately orchestrated her execution. A wrecking ball is useless if the architect has already calculated its trajectory and built a trap specifically for it.”
Su Yao’s foxfire flickered. “Then what do you suggest? Surrender?”
“I suggest we use different kind of weapon.” Mizukume’s hollow eyes fixed on Su Yao. “There is a precedent. Seimei’s mother, Kuzunoha, was a celestial fox, a tenko, like you. It was from her he inherited his power. He loved his mother deeply. It’s the one well-documented softness in his otherwise impenetrable character.”
Su Yao stared. Disgust and understanding warred within her. “You want me to, what? Pretend to be his long-lost aunt?”
“Act like Kuzunoha,” Mizukume clarified. “By all accounts, she lived as a normal woman, pretending to be a devoted wife and mother. She was gentle and kind.”
She gestured to Su Yao’s modern vessel. “You already inhabit the form of a mortal girl. The foundation is there. You would simply need to suppress your nature.”
Mizukume’s suggestion was so offensive that Su Yao was rendered speechless. The idea of playing the gentle, doting housefox to manipulate her enemy was a deeper violation than any physical battle.
“Let me get this straight,” Zhang Wei interjected, breaking the tense silence. “Your grand strategy to defeat the ultimate systematizing sorcerer is for the Nine-Tailed Heavenly Fox to act normal? To be nice?”
“Precisely,” Mizukume said. “It is the one move he could not possibly anticipate. Your greatest weapon against him is your potential to be the one thing his cold, ordered world lacks: a mother’s unconditional and entirely fabricated love.”
Su Yao finally found her voice, a low, dangerous growl. “I would rather he dissect me.”
“Then he will,” Mizukume replied simply. “The choice is yours. You either die as a defiant wrecking ball, or survive as a convincing actress. But if you choose the latter,” she added, a ghost of her old malice returning, “you will need to learn to bake. I understand Kuzunoha was renowned for her red bean buns.”
The suggestion was abhorrent and degrading. It was an insult to her very essence. But the cold and logical part of Su Yao’s mind that was fused with Xiao Ling’s survival instincts recognized the brutal pragmatism of it.
With a sigh that seemed to deflate her centuries of accumulated pride, Su Yao closed her eyes. She stopped holding the memories and mannerisms of Xiao Ling at bay like a foreign film she had watched. She let them rise to the surface.
Her posture, usually a ramrod-straight line of ancient authority, softened as her shoulders rounded just a fraction. The blazing, predatory focus in her eyes dimmed, replaced by a simpler, more open curiosity. When she spoke, her voice lost its layered, echoing edge and settled into a lighter, more hesitant register.
“It’s not as hard as I thought,” Su Yao murmured, looking at her hands as if seeing them for the first time. She looked at Director Hao. “Did the infrastructure damage report get filed? I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”
The change was so subtle yet so significant that everyone in the room froze. Zhang Wei stared, his mouth slightly agape. Director Hao slowly lowered his tablet. His professional composure was broken by sheer bewilderment.
It was Mizukume who broke the silence. Her analysis was clinical. “Fascinating. The shift is a reversion. You are accessing a state of being that is already integral to your current existence. The vessel is influencing the tenant.”
Su Yao ignored her. Her attention was on a junior agent who was nervously holding a stack of papers. “You look tired. Maybe you should take a break. The world isn’t going to end in the next fifteen minutes.” She even managed a small, reassuring smile.
It was effortless. This was how she had walked the world for seventeen years as Xiao Ling. Her human self was a polite and considerate person, worrying about homework and whether her aunt was overworking herself. The muscle memory for it was still there, buried under millennia of divine arrogance and betrayal.
“This is the most terrifying thing I have ever seen,” Zhang Wei whispered to Director Hao.
“The wrecking ball has been replaced by a concerned citizen,” Director Hao agreed. His voice was hushed.
Su Yao turned back to Mizukume. The ‘nice’ expression was still on her face, but her eyes now held a glint of ancient, grim understanding. “It’s easier because it’s not a lie. A part of me is this, normal.”
The word was distasteful, but true. “So, if we find Seimei, I can be this. I can be Xiao Ling. But,” she added, the foxfire in her veins giving the pleasant smile a dangerous edge, “the moment he lets his guard down, I’m shoving that red bean bun so far down his throat he’ll taste sweetness in his next five reincarnations.”
Mizukume gave a slow, approving nod. “The perfect blend of deception and conviction. You are accessing the harmless part of yourself as a strategic asset. I revise my assessment. This plan has a non-zero chance of success.”
“Great,” Su Yao said. Her voice was sweet as poison. “Now, someone get me a recipe for red bean buns. We have a sorcerer to mother.”
The scene in the government headquarters’ makeshift kitchen was one of utter surrealism. Yumi, the Gumiho known for liver-eating and chaotic violence, stood beside Su Yao. Her expression was serene. The vicious wound on her throat was now a faint silver scar.
“The secret,” Yumi said. Her voice was a gentle, melodic hum. “Is in the kneading. You must pour your affection into the dough.” She demonstrated. Her movements were fluid and graceful as she folded the red bean paste into the soft, pliant dough.
Su Yao, her own features softened into the pleasant mask of ‘Xiao Ling,’ watched and mimicked the motions. Her hands, which had once channeled enough foxfire to scorch mountains, now carefully pinched the edges of a bun shut.
“Like this?” Su Yao asked. Her voice was light and earnest.
“Perfect,” Yumi beamed. A genuinely sweet smile that was more terrifying than any of her previous grins. “You are a natural.”
They looked like a picture from a culinary magazine where two stunningly beautiful women, one a Korean fox spirit and one a Chinese heavenly fox, was harmoniously baking together in a high-tech government facility.
Mizukume observed from the doorway. “The cognitive dissonance is sublime,” she murmured. “A Gumiho, a species defined by predatory hunger, demonstrating domestic tranquility. It’s a logical paradox made flesh. If Seimei witnesses this, it may cause a critical error in his processing. This defies definition.”
Zhang Wei and Director Hao watched from a safe distance, too bewildered to speak.
“He will attempt to classify her,” Mizukume continued, gesturing to Yumi. “Is she a ‘Wolf’? A ‘Tiger’? But she is baking. The system has no category for this. And you,” she looked at Su Yao, “a Heavenly Fox, the apex of vulpine divinity, acting the part of a mortal daughter. He will be forced to reconcile the image with the memory of his mother. The conflict may create an opening.”
Su Yao placed a perfectly formed bun onto the steaming tray. “So our plan is to give a legendary sorcerer a spiritual aneurysm with baked goods.”
“Essentially, yes,” Mizukume confirmed.
Yumi patted Su Yao’s hand gently. “Remember, the filling must be sweet. It should remind him of childhood. Of safety.”
For a fleeting second, the ancient, furious Su Yao surfaced behind Xiao Ling’s eyes. “I’d rather remind him of the time I shoved a moon pillar through a pretentious dragon’s backside.”
Yumi’s smile remained. “Channel that feeling into the kneading, dear. It adds a robust texture.”
As the first batch of buns began to steam, filling the room with a warm, sweet aroma, the team stood in silence. They were now preparing for a battle of perception. Their weapons were now red bean buns, a gentle demeanor, and the hope that a genius who had cataloged all of creation would be utterly undone by the sight of two legendary fox spirits acting like well-adjusted housewives.
It was, Su Yao had to admit, the most insane plan she had ever been a part of. Given her life, that was saying something.
The tray of perfect, steaming red bean buns sat on the counter, a tangible monument to Su Yao’s supreme, soul-crushing effort. She stared at them. Her hands were dusted with flour. The ghost of Xiao Ling’s gentle patience still clung to her like a cheap perfume.
A single, searing thought burned in her mind, cutting through the faux-domestic tranquility. I am going to be so unbelievably pissed if this ‘Abe’ isn’t Abe no Seimei.
The sheer, monumental insult of it all. To degrade herself like this, to play the part of a sweet, baking mortal, to channel the spirit of a kind-hearted mother, to suppress every instinct that screamed for glorious, fiery destruction, only to find out their enemy was some random upstart salaryman named Abe Tanaka who had just gotten really good at 3D printing and dark web SEO?
It would be the greatest letdown of her multiple lifetimes. Worse than the betrayal and the bad movie adaptation.
She looked at her flour-dusted fingers with disgust. “The enemy had better be Abe no Seimei,” she muttered. Her voice was low enough that only Mizukume, standing nearby, could hear.
The ‘Xiao Ling’ cadence was gone, replaced by her own ancient, gravelly tone. “If I have to go through with this performance for some two-bit cult leader who just liked the name, I will not be responsible for my actions. I will erase him so thoroughly that not even the void will remember his name.”
Mizukume nodded, a gesture of deep, somber understanding. “The investment of dignity must see a proportional return. To use a celestial-class deception on a minor-league threat would be an unforgivable waste of artistic resources. It would be like using a divine artifact to hammer a nail.”
“Exactly,” Su Yao hissed. “All this baking,” she gestured violently at the buns, “It deserves a legendary audience. A foe worthy of the insult.”
Zhang Wei, overhearing, ventured cautiously, “But, isn't the plan still good even if it’s not him? Acting normal to lower someone’s guard?”
“The point is the scale of the payoff. I am attempting to psychologically destabilize a figure who shaped the spiritual history of an entire nation by pretending to be his mommy.”
Su Yao turned a glare on him that could flash-freeze lava. “If the guy on the other side of the door is just ‘Steve from Accounting who dabbled in the dark arts,’ I will be forced to incinerate this entire building out of pure, principled spite.”
The room fell silent, save for the gentle, mocking puff of steam from the red bean buns.
She gave one, last, long look at the buns. They were a weapon she would only deign to use on a legend.
“Find him,” she ordered Director Hao. Her voice dropped back into that deadly calm. “And he better be worth the recipe.”
It seemed the final straw was simple, mundane forgetfulness.
Su Yao, her nerves already frayed from a day of existential dread, bureaucratic hell, and intensive bun-baking, turned to Yumi. “Your screaming wine,” she said. The words were laden with the last dregs of her hope. “The one with the tiger blood and the, screaming. Is it ready?”
Yumi, who was now peacefully wiping down the kitchen counter, looked up. Her expression was blank for a moment. Then, a look of gentle recognition dawned. “Oh! That. The special vintage.”
She waved a dismissive hand, a gesture that was somehow more infuriating than any threat. “I forgot. It seemed like so much trouble. The kitchen here is so clean now. It would be a shame to make a mess.”
Su Yao stared. She could feel something inside her give way.
“Right,” she said. Her voice was utterly devoid of emotion. “Of course you forgot.” She looked around the headquarters, at the newly painted walls, the humming servers, the team of people who were either terrified, incompetent, or baking. “I'm going home.”
She turned and began walking towards the exit.
“Landlord,” Mizukume’s voice stopped her. “Given the current, uncertainties, would you object if I remained here? Li Xiu’s assessment was statistically sound. This is the safest place in the city. I have no desire to be elsewhere until we can conclusively prove that Seimei is not, in fact, the architect of our predicament.”
“Fine, stay here. Bake, file forms, or nuke Texas. I don't care.” Su Yao was too tired to fight and drained to even be properly angry. The clone was probably right. Right now, she just wanted to be somewhere free of the smell of red bean paste.
As the reinforced door hissed shut behind her, leaving Mizukume in the ‘safest place in the city’ and Yumi to her cleaning, Su Yao stepped out into the night. Her quest for god-level alcohol was a bust. The factory was stuck in paperwork purgatory. It seemed the fate of the world rested on a tray of buns and the off-chance they were facing a specific legendary nutcase.
For now, all she wanted was her own bed and the blissful, non-screaming silence of her apartment. The apocalypse, she decided, could wait until morning.
Her walk home was supposed to be a quiet, mind-numbing reprieve. A few blocks of blessed nothingness.
It lasted approximately three minutes.
A figure dropped from the rooftop of a nearby building, landing in the middle of the sidewalk with a ground-shaking thud. He was a hulking brute with crimson skin, wild, unkempt black hair, and a single, massive horn curving from his forehead. His grin was a jagged thing, filled with too many sharp teeth.
“Well, well, well,” he rumbled. His voice was like grinding stones. “What do we have here? A little morsel wandering all alone? You look tasty.”
Su Yao sidestepped him as if he were a misplaced trash can and continued walking. The oni’s grin faltered. He blinked, then spun around, stomping after her. “Hey! Did you not hear me? I said you look tasty! Do you know who I am?”
She let out a weary sigh without even granting him a glance. “Don't know, don't care.”
This seemed to genuinely offend him. He puffed out his chest, falling into step beside her. His presence was looming and sulfurous. “I am Ibaraki Dōji! The great oni of Mount Ōe! I led a thousand demons in a raid on the capital! I fought the hero Watanabe no Tsuna and lived to tell the tale! I tore the arm from the guardian of Rashōmon Gate! My name strikes fear into the hearts of—”
“Uh-huh,” Su Yao interrupted. Her tone was flat as she checked a text message from Mei asking if she wanted leftover pizza. “Sounds very impressive.”
Ibaraki sputtered. His crimson skin darkened with frustration. “Impressive?! It was legendary! I am a scourge upon the land! A calamity in flesh! I have feasted on the livers of a hundred warriors and drunk rivers of sake from their skulls!”
“Good for you,” Su Yao said, stopping at a crosswalk and pressing the ‘walk’ button. She finally turned her head. Her eyes were dull with exhaustion. “Look, it’s been a really long day. I've dealt with bureaucratic hell, I've baked, I've contemplated the existential horror of my own identity, and my potential god-level alcohol got canceled.
“I don't have the energy for a legendary recruitment pitch right now. Unless you're here to deliver that screaming wine Yumi forgot to make, please go be a scourge somewhere else.”
Ibaraki Dōji, the great oni who had terrorized Heian-kyō, stood speechless on the modern sidewalk. His epic resume was completely invalidated by a teenager’s level of burnout.