Chapter 7 The Audit and the Ancestral Broth

If there is a circle of hell specifically designed for people who enjoy afternoon naps, it is undoubtedly furnished with fluorescent lights, uncomfortable plastic chairs, and a man named Auditor Wu.

Lin Feng led the way through the winding alleys of Chengdu’s Jinjiang District. He walked with the heavy, deliberate pace of a man heading toward a scheduled execution, while Auditor Wu followed behind with a clipboard clutched to his chest like a holy shield. Wu didn’t walk; he marched in a way that suggested he was mentally calculating the depreciation value of every cobblestone he stepped on.

“You know, Mr. Wu,” Lin Feng said, his voice echoing off the damp brick walls. “In Chengdu, we have a saying: ‘If the tea is hot and the Mahjong is fair, the taxes can wait until the morning air.'”

“That isn’t a saying, Mr. Lin,” Wu replied, his voice as dry as a desert-aged spreadsheet. “That is an admission of fiscal negligence. My department has been tracking your digital footprint. You’ve been receiving significant ‘consultation fees’ via WeChat Pay from a diverse range of high-net-worth individuals. Yet, your registered business is listed as a ‘Linen and Napkin Consultancy.’ I’ve seen your office. You don’t even own a napkin.”

“I consult on the concept of napkins,” Lin Feng countered, dodging a delivery scooter with the practiced ease of a matador. “The way a man dabs the corner of his mouth after a bowl of spicy tripe can determine the fate of a ten-million-yuan merger. It’s a niche market. Very high-level stuff.”

“I’m sure it is. Now, about this hotpot location you’ve chosen for our ‘audit’…”

“Ah, the Red Dragon,” Lin Feng said, stopping in front of a building that looked like it was undergoing a spiritual and architectural crisis. “This isn’t just a restaurant, Mr. Wu. This is the epicenter of the ‘Heritage Tech’ merger. It is the perfect place to demonstrate the… social utility of my services. If I don’t exist, this city loses its flavor. And a city without flavor is just a collection of taxable units. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you?”

Auditor Wu adjusted his glasses. “My conscience is indexed to the municipal revenue code. Let’s go inside.”

The Red Dragon Flagship store was a chaotic symphony of construction and culinary tradition. On one side, elderly waiters in traditional red silk vests were expertly slicing frozen beef into translucent ribbons. On the other side, a group of engineers in “Spicy Lotus” jumpsuits were installing automated conveyor belts and what looked like a high-powered laser system for “Precision Vegetable Slicing.”

Hanging over the entrance was a massive tarp. Underneath it, a flickering neon light revealed parts of the new logo: the “Abstract Dragon-Gavel.” It looked like a dragon had tried to swallow a judge’s hammer and was currently regretting its life choices.

“Lin Ge! You made it!”

Wang “Little” Bao practically skidded across the freshly polished floor. He was wearing a hard hat, a silk apron, and a headset. He looked like a man who had been told to “act professional” and had over-interpreted the request to a dangerous degree.

“Bao,” Lin Feng said, gesturing to the auditor. “This is Mr. Wu. He’s from the… Bureau of Social Harmony. He’s here to observe the cultural impact of our merger.”

“Oh! A government official!” Bao’s eyes went wide. He immediately bowed so low his hard hat fell off and rolled toward Wu’s feet. “Welcome! Welcome! Are you here for the tripe? Or the automated broth-stability demonstration?”

Wu picked up the hard hat and handed it back with an expression of profound suspicion. “I am here to audit Mr. Lin’s business practices.”

“Practices? Lin Ge is a saint!” Bao cried, ignoring Lin Feng’s warning glare. “Yesterday, he saved my relationship with a PowerPoint presentation and a rabbit head! He’s the reason the Red Dragon didn’t turn into a soulless corporate cafeteria! He’s the bridge between the ancestors and the algorithms!”

Auditor Wu’s pen scribbled furiously across the clipboard. ‘Bridge between ancestors and algorithms… possible illegal metaphysical consulting?’

“Ignore him,” Lin Feng whispered, steering Wu toward a private booth in the back. “He’s high on spicy steam.”

Just as they sat down, the air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Su Meili entered. She was wearing a suit that was so sharp it could probably cut through the “Spicy Lotus” automated conveyor belts. Behind her, two assistants carried tablets and a stack of legal documents that looked thick enough to stop a bullet.

She stopped at their table, her eyes darting between Lin Feng and the auditor.

“Lin Feng. Why is there a man with a government-issue clipboard sitting in my VIP booth? The merger signing ceremony is in twenty minutes. If this is another one of your ‘Face’ distractions, I will personally file a motion to have your agency declared a public nuisance.”

“Meili, meet Auditor Wu,” Lin Feng said, leaning back and signaling a waiter for the ‘Signature Ancestral Broth.’ “Mr. Wu believes that my agency is a ‘for-profit’ enterprise. I’ve brought him here to show him that I am, in fact, a community mediator who works for the ‘Face’ of the city.”

“He’s a tax evader,” Wu clarified.

Meili paused, her legal instincts warring with her irritation. She looked at Lin Feng, then at the frantic Wang Bao, and then at the looming threat of a government audit. If Lin Feng went down, the delicate balance of the “Heritage Tech” merger—a deal built entirely on his nonsensical social logic—might collapse.

“Tax evader is a very strong term,” Meili said, sitting down and taking the menu. “In the legal world, we prefer the term ‘Regulatory Minimalist.’ And as counsel for the Red Dragon-Spicy Lotus merger, I can testify that Mr. Lin’s contributions are currently classified as ‘Essential Cultural Intangibles.’ They are, by definition, non-taxable assets.”

Auditor Wu didn’t look impressed. “Non-taxable assets don’t pay for five Lamborghinis for a ‘librarian’ in the middle of a business district.”

Lin Feng winced. “That was a car-pooling initiative. Very eco-friendly.”

The hotpot arrived. It was a massive, divided copper pot. On one side, the “Ancestral Broth”—a dark, bubbling sea of beef tallow, star anise, cinnamon, and a terrifying amount of dried Sichuan peppers. On the other side, the “Lotus Efficiency Base”—a clear, pale soup with perfectly sliced mushrooms and goji berries, looking like it had been designed by a dietitian who hated joy.

“Eat, Mr. Wu,” Lin Feng said, dipping a piece of raw tripe into the boiling red oil. “You can’t audit a man on an empty stomach. It’s against the spirit of Chengdu.”

For the next thirty minutes, the table was a battlefield of bureaucracy and beef. Wu tried to ask about Lin Feng’s 2023 income, but he was interrupted by Wang Bao bringing over samples of “Hand-Pulled Tech Noodles” that were being stretched by a robotic arm. Wu tried to inquire about the “Face-Saving” fee for the high school reunion, but Su Meili countered with a three-minute lecture on the legal precedent for “Consultation through Narrative Construction.”

“It’s very simple, Wu,” Lin Feng said, his face glowing from the heat of the pot. “You think I’m selling a service. I’m not. I’m selling stability. When Xiao Zhang looks like a CEO, he works harder. When the Librarian looks like a philosopher, he spends more on books. When these two—” he gestured to the bickering Bao and Meili “—stop suing each other and start merging, the city’s GDP goes up. I am the invisible hand that keeps the spicy oil from splattering on the white shirt of society.”

Wu stopped eating. He looked at the red oil on his own shirt. He looked at the chaos of the restaurant—the tradition and the technology clashing and somehow, miraculously, working.

“And your fee?” Wu asked.

“My fee is a ‘Social Equilibrium Levy,'” Lin Feng said. “It’s voluntary. Mostly.”

“It’s 50,000 yuan per session,” Wang Bao piped up from the next table. “Plus tea!”

Lin Feng closed his eyes. “Thank you, Bao. Your contribution to my downfall has been noted.”

Wu tapped his pen against the clipboard. “Mr. Lin, here is the situation. Your ‘Social Equilibrium’ is fascinating. But the Bureau of Unregulated Services doesn’t like ‘invisible hands.’ They like receipts. However… I can see that your removal from the equation would cause a ‘significant disruption’ to a major municipal merger.”

Lin Feng opened one eye. “Go on.”

“I am going to reclassify your agency,” Wu said, beginning to pack his things. “You are no longer a ‘Linen Consultant.’ You are now the ‘Chengdu Cultural Liaison for Propriety and Etiquette.’ It’s a sub-department of the Tourism Bureau. You will pay a flat-rate ‘Innovation Tax,’ and in exchange, you will provide the Bureau with three ‘Face-Saving’ operations per year for visiting dignitaries.”

Lin Feng’s jaw dropped. “You want me to work for the government? That sounds like… effort. Actual effort.”

“It’s that, or a five-year audit of your WeChat history,” Wu said, standing up. “I’ll send the paperwork to your ‘office’—which I assume is whichever tea house has the best jasmine today.”

As Wu walked out, leaving his unfinished tripe behind, Lin Feng felt a cold shiver that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. He had saved his own “Face,” but at the cost of his freedom. He was now, officially, a “Liaison.”

“Congratulations, Lin Feng,” Su Meili said, a smirk playing on her lips as she adjusted her red blazer. “You’ve been conscripted. I’ll make sure to mention your new title in the merger press release. It adds ‘Governmental Face’ to the brand.”

“I’m going to be sick,” Lin Feng groaned, leaning his head on the table.

“Don’t be sick yet!” Wang Bao shouted, grabbing a pair of giant scissors. “It’s noon! It’s time for the unveiling! Lin Ge, Meili, come on!”

They walked to the front of the restaurant. A crowd had gathered—reporters, food bloggers, and the “Billionaire Librarian” Liu Dashan, who was currently leaning against his black Lamborghini and reading a brochure on tax-free investments.

Wang Bao and Su Meili stood on either side of the giant tarp.

“To the future of Chengdu!” Bao cried.

“To efficiency and heritage!” Meili added.

They pulled the cord. The tarp fell away, revealing the “Abstract Dragon-Gavel” in all its neon glory. The dragon breathed a puff of actual steam (provided by a hidden “Spicy Lotus” humidifier), and the gavel pulsed with a rhythmic golden light.

The crowd erupted in applause. Cameras flashed. Liu Dashan nodded with “The Burden of the Goose” melancholy.

Lin Feng stood at the back, his hands in his pockets. He watched the “Chaos Couple” shake hands—a gesture that lingered just a second too long to be purely professional. He saw the pride in the old waiters’ eyes and the excitement of the young engineers.

His phone buzzed. It was a notification from the government app.

“Welcome, Cultural Liaison Lin Feng. Your first assignment: A delegation from Switzerland is arriving on Tuesday. They are obsessed with ‘Authentic Sichuan Minimalism.’ One of them believes he is a master of the face-changing opera. You are to ensure he doesn’t embarrass himself or the province. Budget: Zero. Face Value: Infinite.”

Lin Feng looked at the message. He looked at the spicy, bubbling chaos of the Red Dragon. And he sighed.

Phase 1: The Freelance Fiasco was over.

Phase 2: The Hotpot Wars had officially begun.

“Chapter 7,” Lin Feng whispered to the neon dragon. “And I’ve already been sold out by a hotpot heir and audited by a man who eats tripe with a pen. If this is ‘Social Equilibrium,’ I’d like to speak to the manager of the universe.”

But as the smell of chili oil filled the air and Su Meili caught his eye with a rare, genuine smile of triumph, Lin Feng realized something terrifying.

He wasn’t just the buffer anymore. He was part of the script. And in Chengdu, once the game of Mahjong starts, you don’t get to leave until the last tile is played.

The “Hotpot Wars” were going to be a long, spicy, and very, very taxable ride.