Enough of the loud-mouthed junior disciples, enough of the constant sword-dueling over borrowed tea, and certainly enough of the sect’s newest trend: interpretive cultivation dance.
So, with a sigh that had once cracked a cliffside, he took his wine gourd and walked alone into the mountains in search of silence.
Instead, he found a cave.
It yawned open between two crooked pines like a forgotten mouth, moss-laced and cold, humming faintly with dormant qi. Its entrance was oddly shaped—like a screaming chicken, Yanwun thought with interest.
That was often a sign of destiny.
Within the cave, on a raised stone dais, sat a single object.
A black cube.
Its surface shimmered with angular patterns unlike any he had seen in the scrolls of the Twelve Kingdoms.
No golden dragon motifs, no phoenix crests—just jagged, labyrinthine engravings that seemed far older.
Hun-like, perhaps.
He ran his fingers along the etchings, puzzled.
It looked ancient.
Ancient and utterly out of place.
On one side, in bold blocky lettering that glowed faintly, was an inscription.
He leaned closer.
“PRESS FOR GULYáS.”
Yanwun raised a brow. A summoning formation, perhaps? A lost technique?
He pressed.
Reality collapsed like overcooked tofu.
***
When he awoke, he was face-down on cold tiles, surrounded by shelves stacked with instant noodles and suspiciously many types of paprika.
A melodic chime played overhead:
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He staggered upright, robe flapping.
A nearby teenager in a puffer jacket stared at him, mouth slightly open.
- Whoa. Are you... like, filming something?
Yanwun blinked.
- Where am I? What sect rules this realm?
The boy tilted his head.
- This is... Budapest.
He switched languages with ease: Hungary. It’s 2025. Also, nice cosplay!
- Cosplay?
That was a new sect, surely.
Over the next few hours, Yanwun learned three things:
- He was in a land called Magyarország,
- His robes attracted quite a bit of attention, and
- At least half the local population could speak Mandarin—and did so with cheerful fluency.
A kind young woman named Lili offered him tea and took him to a small dumpling shop run by a Zhejiang-born grandmother who wanted to give him a job immediately after he recited a poem about tofu.
- I knew you were a good omen - she said.
You look like someone who brings interesting customers!
He nodded solemnly.
- I bring many things. Chaos is one.
Thus began his time in Hungary.
Over the following days, Yanwun learned the rules of this new realm.
He discovered with great delight that Budapest in 2025 had an entire Chinatown, and most of the younger generation spoke Mandarin thanks to heritage or school.
He was mistaken for an eccentric uncle, a visiting scholar, and once even a c-drama actor.
People gave him free tea just for being poetic.
He stayed in a quiet guesthouse run by a pair of elderly twin sisters who loved watching Chinese period dramas.
He was offered a job at a language institute to read poetry aloud and wave his sleeves dramatically.
He took it.
He found spiritual resonance in paprika.
He taught tai chi in the park.
He befriended an old poet who believed he was a reincarnated Daoist immortal.
The name Yanwun mester began to appear in blog posts and local news stories.
People left fruits for him.
A retired violinist insisted he was a long-lost Tang dynasty poet sent back to bring wisdom to the present.
All the while, he searched for the cube.
It was gone from the cave.
Gone from the supermarket.
He scoured temples, bathhouses, second-hand shops.
Nothing.
Months passed. He grew fond of Túró Rudi and plum pálinka.
He took a liking to Hungarian soap operas, watching them with an intensity usually reserved for sect rivalries.
Life became... nice.
But one rainy Thursday, he wandered into the local museum.
It was mostly old bricks and wine jugs. But then—on the second floor, behind a glass case—he saw it.
THE CUBE!!!
Labelled in two languages:
“Unidentified Object – recovered from a local cave in 2024.
Possibly Hunnic origin.
Please do not touch.”
Yanwun laughed aloud.
The security guard was asleep.
He stepped forward.
The glass shimmered like mist.
With reverence, he pressed the glowing side.
The cube pulsed.
And the world folded once more.
***
Back in his mountain cave, Master Yanwun emerged, blinking at the familiar mist and pine-scented wind.
The cube rested quietly in his palm now, its glow gone, its secrets spent.
He slipped it into his sleeve.
It was time to return to his disciples—
and teach them the true art of appreciating paprika…