Following the Formula

“Do you have a problem, Chengmei?” Jin Guangyao asked.

Xue Yang slammed down his stirring rod—a gritty substance sprayed across the bench. “Yes, I have a problem!” he snapped. “There’s no fucking point following the formula if the ingredients aren’t pure enough. What the hell’s this cinnabar cut with? Your father’s dead, no one’s checking your account book anymore!”

Jin Guangyao only smiled faintly, leaning back on the bier that held Xiao Xingchen’s body. “True, my father is dead,” he said. “That means I don’t have to support your work here; it’s a personal favour. Think on that, perhaps.”