Chapter 23: University Alumni

After posting photos of the ancient city walls, the timeless charm of Baoen Chan Temple, and the history of Shouxian Confucian Temple to his Moments, Qin Yun strolled leisurely through the city.

Everywhere he looked were shops selling “Da Jiu Jia”; freshly fried “Da Jiu Jia” was golden and crisp, sweet but not cloying, with a faint fragrance of osmanthus. He ate a few, enjoyed the flavor, then set out to find his task target.

To complete the check-in task, he first needed to find a workshop willing to let him experience traditional tofu-making. Although some roadside tofu workshops displayed signs offering experiential visits, Qin Yun wandered around and found none met his standards.

The system's check-in task required him to go through the entire traditional process and personally make intangible cultural heritage tofu; he couldn't just pick any random place—what if, after all his effort, the system deemed it unqualified? That would be a waste of time.

So the best target was a workshop that had inherited the intangible cultural heritage traditional method.

As he walked, his phone suddenly rang.

Qin Yun glanced at the caller ID, blinked in surprise, then realized who it was.

Qin Yun answered the call; a soft, delicate voice came from the other end: “Senior, are you in Shouxian now?”

“How do you know?” Qin Yun lowered his umbrella slightly and noticed the rain had stopped.

There was a pause on the line, then the voice replied: “I just saw your Moments post—the background was clearly Shouxian.”

This made Qin Yun feel foolish—he’d posted it himself and still asked how they knew.

“Alright, you’re not trying to say you’re from Shouxian, are you?”

Another pause, then a slightly delighted voice: “Mm-hmm. Senior, are you still in the old city? Want to come find me?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in Daquan Village, but our family runs a tofu workshop in the old city—you can wait for me there.”

“Tofu workshop?” Qin Yun paused, then laughed. “Hu Bingbing, are you the inheritor of our intangible cultural heritage traditional tofu method?”

“Senior, how did you know?”

“...”

Moments later, Qin Yun was still walking toward the Hu Family’s Intangible Cultural Heritage Traditional Tofu Workshop when an electric scooter pulled up beside him.

“Senior, hop on!”

Qin Yun turned and saw a burly man with a fierce face riding a pink electric scooter, speaking in a voice unmistakably high-pitched and feminine, staring at him in delight.

He sighed: “Hu Bingbing, I didn’t turn around and thought a beautiful girl was calling me—turn around and I want to cry.”

Hu Bingbing laughed: “Senior always teases me about my voice—if anyone else did, I’d punch them into next week.”

Qin Yun shook his head and sat behind him. As the scooter struggled forward, he asked curiously: “Didn’t you join Huawei?”

“No one else in the family would inherit the intangible cultural heritage, so after thinking it over, I figured Huawei was too exhausting, and I wanted a different life—I came back.”

“Alright, you really are laid-back.”

Hu Bingbing was a junior two years below him at North China University of Science and Technology—built like a brute, yet spoke in a soft, almost feminine voice. He had no idea this kid was from Shouxian or that his family was the intangible cultural heritage inheritor.

So what a coincidence—he needed a workshop where he could fully experience traditional tofu-making, and here it was.

At other workshops, he might miss steps and couldn’t be sure—but with Hu Bingbing, he felt confident. After all, back in college, he’d helped this kid out, and over time they’d become good friends.

Soon, the scooter turned into the depths of the old city, stopping before a workshop unmistakably ancient: polished stone pavement gleamed, and a faded wooden sign above the door read: Hu Family Intangible Cultural Heritage Traditional Tofu.

They stepped through the gate into a courtyard filled with bamboo trays and several stone mills. Sitting under the eaves on a reclining chair was an elderly woman, roughly sixty.

“That’s my grandmother. She’s always here at the shop—I usually come in the morning and leave in the afternoon.”

After introducing him, Hu Bingbing called out: “Grandma.”

The old woman opened her eyes, murmured an acknowledgment, then turned to look at Qin Yun.

Hu Bingbing said: “Grandma, this is my senior from university—he was always kind to me. He’s visiting Shouxian, so I invited him over.”

Qin Yun politely greeted: “Hello, Grandma.”

“Good, good, young man, you’re quite distinguished,” the old woman smiled warmly, wrinkles deepening as she rose from her chair. “Come inside, I’ll get you something to drink.”

“Thank you, Grandma.”

Qin Yun nodded and walked in.

Beside him, Hu Bingbing added: “The back courtyard is our shop—we sell the tofu made here.”

Qin Yun surveyed the Hu Family Intangible Cultural Heritage Traditional Tofu Workshop. The front courtyard wasn’t even the production area—so between front, middle, and back courtyards, the place was quite large.

They sat inside. Hu Bingbing asked curiously: “Senior, did you take leave? Where’s your wife?”

Qin Yun thought: Looks like I’ll have plenty to explain later.

“I quit my job and got divorced. So I’m traveling alone, and eventually I plan to head back to Zhejiang.”

“Ah!”

Hu Bingbing’s face showed shock—he’d always thought Qin Yun was an outstanding person. How could he, in just a few years, lose his job and get divorced?

“What’s that look for?” Qin Yun said dryly. “Can’t I be unemployed and divorced?”

“No, no!” Hu Bingbing waved his hands. “I just didn’t expect you to take it so well.”

“...”

“Senior, I remember Sister Su Huan is in Hangzhou, right? She could refer you—Alibaba’s benefits are still great, definitely better than Beijing.”

“I’m not planning to work again,” Qin Yun shook his head. For the first time, he voiced his true thoughts. “I’m going to drive around the world and turn it into my self-media career.”

Hu Bingbing immediately looked impressed: “Senior, you’ve got real guts.”

Qin Yun nodded, unconcerned: “I was worried it’d be complicated, but you just happen to be the intangible cultural heritage inheritor of Shouxian’s traditional tofu—perfect.”

“Oh? What do you plan to do?”

“I want to personally experience your family’s complete traditional tofu-making process—I want to participate in every single step. Is that okay?”

Hu Bingbing thought it was something serious, but when he realized it was this, he laughed: “Of course! We’ve got four or five apprentices learning here already. Intangible cultural heritage needs more people to carry it forward—your willingness to learn is wonderful.”

“I also want to record the entire process.”

“No problem.”

Qin Yun clapped his hands: “Perfect! Tell me the full process first.”

Just then, Hu Bingbing’s grandmother brought two glasses of orange juice: “Young people all like drinks—this is all we have. Don’t be rude.”

“Grandma, you’re too kind.”

Qin Yun took a sip. Before he could speak, the grandmother added: “Young man, I heard you want to learn our traditional tofu-making process?”

“Yes, Grandma. I want to experience it fully.”

“Hehe, good, good. It’s rare for young people to come voluntarily—this is a good thing.” She glanced at Hu Bingbing. “If it weren’t for Bingbing’s grandfather passing away, he’d never have come back to inherit.”

Hu Bingbing scratched his head, said nothing.

The grandmother continued: “Our Shouxian traditional tofu is different from others. First, select soybeans—use our local small yellow soybeans: round, thin-skinned, rich in pulp. When selecting, the color must be even.”

“After selecting, soak the beans in room-temperature well water—never hot water. Soak until they swell, then split a bean: if there’s no hard core inside, it’s done. This takes over six hours. When a fine white foam floats on the surface, it’s nearly ready. But soaking time depends on conditions—no fixed rule.”

“Then comes grinding the paste—the timing and amount of water added is critical—it determines whether the soy milk meets standards. You can’t just dump water in. The boiling process is the same—it tests your control of heat. One moment’s distraction, and the whole pot is ruined.”

“When the soy milk warms up, forms fine bubbles, and boils vigorously, you must use ‘dian lu zhi shui’ to instantly calm the boil—this step is unique to our Shouxian tradition.”

Qin Yun looked puzzled—he clearly didn’t understand what “dian lu zhi shui” meant.

Hu Bingbing added: “It’s when you turn off the heat, then scoop a ladle of cold water and pour it into the pot.”

Hu Bingbing’s grandmother nodded: “Exactly. When the temperature is just right for coagulating, you use gypsum water to coagulate it. This gypsum water is made from powdered gypsum from Baggong Mountain in Shouxian, dissolved in warm water—it’s the soul of our Shouxian traditional tofu.”

“The coagulation must be slow and even—pour while stirring. When fine tofu curds appear in the milk, stop. Then...”

As the grandmother spoke, Qin Yun gained a preliminary understanding of the entire traditional tofu-making process.

Every step seemed simple, but he knew it wouldn’t be easy.

Finally, the grandmother said: “Young man, if you want to learn the full process, better go to our home—this old city workshop is just for tourists.”

“Thank you, Grandma.”

Then Hu Bingbing showed Qin Yun around the workshop.

“Senior, come eat dinner at my place—we’re in Daquan Village, not far. You can stay overnight too; our house is big.”

Qin Yun thought for a moment, then nodded: “Then I’ll trouble you.”

Hu Bingbing beamed: “Trouble? I’m just glad to help you, Senior.”

Qin Yun didn’t linger long in the old city. After making plans with Hu Bingbing, he left and stopped to buy a small gift for his visit. After all, arriving empty-handed was rude—he understood etiquette.

Back at the hotel, Qin Yun finally checked Su Huan’s message.

He immediately rejected her proposal without hesitation. Although having a collaborative editor seemed appealing, profit-sharing was unclear, and mutual trust didn't meet his standards.

He’d rather pay for services—less hassle.

Besides, for his self-media videos, editing wasn’t that complex—he didn’t need fancy techniques, just enough to convey what he wanted.

Su Huan saw Qin Yun’s rejection on WeChat and wasn’t surprised at all.

After four years as classmates, she knew him well.

Fang Nan, upon hearing the result, felt disappointed. But since the initiative lay with the other party, there was nothing he could do.

“Just quote the price for video editing—you don’t have to worry.”

Fang Nan thought for a moment and decided to add some flair to the video—make sure the difference between rough cut and fine cut was stark, so the viewer could clearly see how much difference a good editor made.