As occasional food reviewer for a Hong Kong newspaper, I had accepted Chef Chen’s challenge to find better noodles than hers “in the world”. She’d displayed a new arrogance since receiving one Michelin star, which she believed showed the meanness of my mere four-star review.

“In fact,” she said, “I’ll accompany, to witness your failure.”

In Taipei, we booked rooms at the Hotel R--, whose head chef created noodles thin enough to defy gravity, invisible when cooked, rumoured panacea for bodily and mental weaknesses, hypnotically spiralled into bowls.

“Almost, but not quite as good as mine,” conceded Chef Chen.

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Next afternoon, we lapped Yongkang Park, testing its famous noodles. On principle, I loved them all and, equally, Chef Chen found ubiquitous fault: too doughy, dry, wrongly uneven. She sounded like tourists we heard arguing with a Stinky Tofu vendor, “How old’s this? The grey bits look mouldy.”

(Reply: unprintable, go away.)

She approved of just one stall, made a brief connection with the stallholder, and took a turn noodle-making: shaking, folding, shaking, doubling, while vendor and customers applauded.

We ate till we couldn’t, and took a break.

Across town, the National Palace Museum’s Terracotta Warriors exhibition had finished, replaced by videos showing hyperrealistic clay warriors living Qin dynasty lives in terracotta houses, courting and raising families, eating terracotta noodles from earthenware bowls.

In front of the “food and diet” video, I noticed she still had a dusting of flour on the back of her hand.

“Excuse me, Chef,” I said. “What do you estimate the diameter of those noodles to be?”

“Ha ha,” she laughed. “Strange, talkative man. They are not so fine as mine.”

We married on our return.

Story Two

In the narrow, bustling alleys of a Taiwanese night market, Mei stumbled upon a mouldy, old bookshop tucked away behind the lively food stalls. Drawn to its charm, she stepped inside, her eyes scanning the dusty shelves.

“Excuse me,” a gentle voice broke her reverie. Startled, Mei turned to see a young man with warm, dark eyes. “I noticed you admiring that book. It’s one of my favourites.”

“Really? I’ve never heard of this author before,” Mei replied, holding up the worn-out novel.

A connection sparked as the young man, introduced as Han, and Mei spent hours conversing about their favourite stories and authors. They parted ways with a promise to meet again at the bookshop.

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Over the following weeks, their connection deepened as they exchanged laughter, thoughts, and dreams. One day, as they left the bookshop hand in hand, Han led Mei to a secluded park with a breathtaking view of Taipei 101.

“Mei, I’ve never met anyone who understands me the way you do,” Han said, his voice filled with emotion.

“Neither have I,” Mei whispered, her heart pounding in her chest.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the city, Han took a deep breath. “Mei, I’ve fallen in love with you.”

A wave of joy washed over Mei as she looked into Han’s eyes. “I love you too, Han.”

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With the cityscape as their witness, they shared a tender, heartfelt kiss. Bound by the magical threads of fate, their love blossomed, rooted in their shared passion for the stories that connected them in the mouldy bookshop.

Years later, Mei and Han stood in their very own bookshop, the walls lined with stories they had discovered together. Hand in hand, they welcomed each new customer, sharing their love for literature and the tale of the connection that had brought them together in the enchanting streets of Taiwan.

Write a story of up to 200 words, incorporating elements of wuxia, set in England, and using the words “energy” and “complex”.

Story Three

In a remote corner of the English countryside, nestled between the rolling hills and dense forests, stood an ancient complex. Hidden from the prying eyes of the world, it was the last bastion of a forgotten martial arts lineage.

A young woman named Elara had embarked upon a journey to seek the wisdom of the reclusive Master Tao. Following months of tireless searching, she finally arrived at the complex’s entrance, her heart pounding with anticipation.

“You have travelled far, Elara,” Master Tao greeted her, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. “What do you seek?”

“I desire the knowledge to control my inner energy,” she replied, determined. “I wish to restore balance to this world.”

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Master Tao contemplated her words before agreeing to teach her the ancient ways. Under his guidance, Elara honed her skills, unlocking the secrets of her latent energy.

Years passed until whispers of a dark power threatening the land reached the complex. With Master Tao’s blessing, Elara set forth to confront the evil, her spirit burning with righteous fury.

Clad in a flowing silk robe, Elara’s energy surged through her like a raging torrent. She moved with the speed and grace of a swallow, her blade flashing like a silver comet in the twilight. The wind howled as she soared through the English skies, a guardian of justice, prepared to vanquish the darkness and restore order in the land of her ancestors.

Story Four

On a full moon night, a woman in white entered Westminster Abbey. She passed through Gothic arches and grand tombs before reaching an underground forest. Tiptoeing past tombstones of nobles, she leapt over a granite slab, unmarked by names or dates.

Chanting an incantation, she stirred an invisible energy, awakening spirits, who attacked her. She dodged King Henry III’s sceptre and repelled Browning’s sonnet sound waves.

“By the force of gravity, who dares intrude the complex of death?” scolded Newton.

“Sir, I am looking for my great-grandfather, a Chinese man,” the girl replied.

“Their cultivation of rice and poultry has been strong evidence of natural selection,” Darwin offered. “However, I am unaware of any Chinese spirits here.”

“He was a Miao pastor who made sacrifices for his faith. Our people are not safe.” The girl, cornered by the ghosts, had nowhere to retreat.

“Faith is like a black hole, shattering everything, even light. Perhaps you should look by the west gate, where 10 martyrs were enshrined,” Hawking smiled.

Grateful, the girl soared into the air. As she ascended, a familiar figure appeared in the centre of the moon – her great-grandfather, Wang Zhiming, who had died half a century ago.

Stories One and Four were authored by Bernard Cohen and Stanley Chen Qiufan, respectively.