Chapter 16 The Mechanical Ancestor

If 6:00 AM was a war crime, 5:30 AM was the heat death of the universe occurring in a single, unwashed studio apartment. Lin Feng stood outside the original Red Dragon shop in the Ancestral Alley, leaning against a lamp post with the structural integrity of a wet noodle. He was clutching a paper bag of youtiao—deep-fried dough sticks—and a cup of soy milk that was currently the only thing keeping his heart beating at a medically recognizable rate.

His “Liaison” badge was pinned to his trench coat upside down. He didn’t care. At this hour, gravity was merely a suggestion, and orientation was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

“They’re here,” Auditor Wu whispered, his voice sounding entirely too crisp for a man standing in a damp alleyway before the first bus had even started its route.

Lin Feng opened one eye. At the end of the alley, a phalanx of elderly men and women was approaching. They weren’t moving fast, but they had the inexorable momentum of a glacier made of star anise and stubbornness. These were the Traditional Hotpot Elders, the self-appointed guardians of Chengdu’s bubbling heritage. They were led by Master Chen, a man who reportedly hadn’t changed his soup base recipe since the Great Leap Forward and whose eyebrows were long enough to be classified as dangerous weapons.

They weren’t carrying pitchforks. They were carrying vintage copper pots and ladles.

“Blasphemy!” Master Chen roared, his voice echoing off the brick walls. “You bring a machine into the Ancestral Alley? You let a cold, soulless box of gears touch the sacred tripe? This is the death of the Sichuan soul! This is ‘Face’ suicide!”

Wang “Little” Bao was standing in front of the Red Dragon’s door, looking like he wanted to hide inside one of his own industrial-sized chili vats. He was wearing his “Mechanical Heritage” jumpsuit, which featured the “Abstract Dragon-Gavel” logo in a reflective silver that was blinding in the early morning light.

“Master Chen, please!” Bao squeaked. “It’s not just a machine! It’s ‘Heritage Tech’! It slices the tripe with 0.01-millimeter precision! It has a laser!”

“A laser?” one of the elderly women shrieked, waving a wooden spoon. “Does a laser know the history of the pepper? Does a gear understand the sorrow of the cow? This is corporate poison! Spicy Lotus is eating our memories!”

Su Meili stepped forward, her red blazer cutting through the morning mist like a legal warning. “Technically, the machine is a proprietary asset of the merger. Protesting its installation is a violation of the municipal ‘Innovation Corridor’ bylaws. I have the injunctions ready for signature if any of you step over that line.”

The Elders didn’t flinch. In Chengdu, an injunction is just a piece of paper you use to wrap your leftover street food.

“Meili, stop,” Lin Feng rasped, stepping forward. He took a long, slow sip of his soy milk, his deadpan voice sounding like a ghost trying to file a tax return. “You’re using ‘Type A’ logic on ‘Type S’ history. You can’t sue a grandmother for loving her soup. It’s a ‘Social Equilibrium’ disaster.”

Lin Feng walked toward Master Chen, his beige trench coat fluttering in the breeze. He didn’t look like a government Liaison; he looked like a man who had just returned from a very disappointing trip to the afterlife.

“Master Chen,” Lin Feng began, nodding with profound, weary respect. “You think this machine is an enemy. You think it is a ‘soulless gear.’ But that is because you are looking at it with the eyes of a modern man. You have forgotten the ‘Aesthetic of the Mechanical Ancestor.'”

Master Chen paused, his eyebrows twitching. “The what?”

“In the ancient days,” Lin Feng lied smoothly, leaning against a crate of fermented beans, “the Great Hotpot Masters dreamed of a hand that never tired. They dreamed of a blade that could respect the tripe as perfectly at midnight as it did at noon. This machine… it isn’t an invention of Spicy Lotus. It is a Spiritual Vessel.”

“A vessel? It’s a box of wires!”

“It’s a box of devotion,” Lin Feng corrected, closing his eyes. “We didn’t just program it with algorithms. We ‘onboarded’ the wrist-movements of a thousand grandfathers. Every time the laser pulses, it is reciting a silent prayer for the consistency of the broth. It is a ‘Mechanical Ancestor’ that exists so that you don’t have to suffer the ‘Burden of the Blade’ anymore.”

He signaled to Wang Bao. “Bao, activate the ‘Ancestral Resonance’ mode.”

Bao frantically hit a button on his tablet. The automated tripe-slicer behind the glass window didn’t just start whirring. Thanks to a 2:00 AM modification Lin Feng had ordered, it began to emit a low-frequency, rhythmic thud-thud-thud that sounded exactly like a grandmother chopping vegetables on a wooden block.

“Listen,” Lin Feng whispered. “That isn’t a motor. That’s the heartbeat of the alley. It’s the ‘Face’ of tradition, but with ‘Heritage Tech’ stability.”

The Elders fell silent. They listened to the rhythmic, mechanical chopping. It was hypnotic. It was familiar. It was, as Lin Feng intended, complete nonsense, but it provided the exact amount of “Face” required for them to stop feeling like they were being replaced.

“It… it does sound a bit like my old Master’s rhythm,” Master Chen admitted, his grip on his ladle loosening.

“Because it is the rhythm,” Lin Feng said, opening one eye. “Now, why don’t we go inside? The ‘Mechanical Ancestor’ has prepared a special batch of tripe for the guardians of the city. It’s been sliced with ‘Type S’ melancholy.”

By 7:00 AM, the protest had turned into a tasting session. The Elders were currently debating whether the machine’s “wrist action” was superior to a human’s, while Wang Bao provided them with free bowls of iced jasmine tea.

Su Meili walked up to Lin Feng, her sharp eyes softened by the morning light. She handed him a fresh container of yogurt.

“The ‘Mechanical Ancestor’?” she whispered. “That was the most blatant piece of cultural gaslighting I’ve ever witnessed. You turned a tripe-slicer into a religious relic.”

“I didn’t gaslight them, Meili. I gave them a narrative they could live with,” Lin Feng said, opening the yogurt. “Besides, I’ve already billed the Tourism Bureau for a ‘Heritage Reconciliation’ fee. Triple rate for the 5:30 AM start.”

Meili shook her head, a small, genuine smirk tugging at her mouth as she adjusted his badge. “You’re a menace to the Bureau, Liaison. But you’re a hero to the tripe.”

“I just want a nap,” Lin Feng mumbled, heading toward the car as the first rays of the sun hit the alleyway.

Auditor Wu checked the final box on his clipboard. “Face Value increase: 14%. GDF at record levels. Good work, Lin. I’m moving your 5:30 AM start tomorrow to 4:45 AM. We have a ‘Social Media Crisis’ at the Panda Sanctuary involving a ‘Billionaire Librarian’ and a very confused red panda.”

Lin Feng didn’t even thud his head this time. He simply kept walking, his soul currently 100% soy milk and 0% will to live.

The “Hotpot Wars” had moved to the panda sanctuary. Phase 2 was no longer just about food; it was about the survival of the city’s sanity. And Lin Feng was the only man standing between a red panda and an international PR disaster.