[You have entered Hidden Scenario Triggered: "The Cooking Incident."]
Main Objective: Defend the honor of immortal cook.Hidden Objective: Avoid cooking if possible
Reward: Mystery Ingredient Crate (Rare Tier)Failure Condition: Bad Taste.Penalty: -3,000 HP (Bleeding Status: Moderate–Severe for 3 days)Current Threat Level: Mild (Escalating Rapidly)Current Probability of Success:11%
—This was supposed to be a stealth mission.
Chunhe slipped behind the hay bales. Crouched under a drying rack of aprons. Crawled behind a snoring ox, the smell of cud stinging his nostrils. All in vain.
[Your Companion 'Hong Xian' has triggered the flag: "Rat in the Wine House."]
"THERE! BEHIND THE GOAT!"
Brat.Old Zhang's roar cut across the yard like a cleaver through tofu.
Chunhe didn't move. He was sweating.
He watched as the weathered mouth of Old Zhang leveled at him like the executioner's axe.
And then Old Zhang began shouting.
"This brat thinks he can cook?"
"Oh, I heard hong. Said your fish is better than my daughter's pork ribs!"
"You think your stinky-ass fish—barely salted, mind you—is worth more than Lanyan's triple-oil duck?"
"Hah! Your so-called 'signature dish' must have smelled like it was cooked in a gutter."
"Now that I think about it... if your food's that bad, I can't imagine what kind of gutter-woman raised you."
"What? Can't handle a little truth, brat?"
"If you can't even cook for yourself, don't go crying just 'cause I called your mama a shit-tier stew wench."
Something inside Chunhe snapped.
The moment hung still.
The world fell into silence as if holding its breath.
His heartbeat thundered once—Then twice.
That's when Chunhe turned.
Face blank.
Eyes shadowed beneath his brow.
Voice razor-thin.
"I was minding my own business."
"I didn't say a word about your daughter's cooking."
"I didn't even want to be here."
One step closer.
The Hong Xian stepped back.
"But you insulted my mother."
His voice was low. but fierce.
"How dare you."
Then he moved.
Each step sent tremors through the courtyard as he tied his outer robe with a sharp tug.
He didn't walk—he marched.
He looked like a demon summoned by wrath itself, sleeves flaring like battle standards.
Chunhe appeared in the makeshift arena—A wide circle of compacted earth, rough wooden planks marking its edge,ringed by townsfolk who smelled drama from a mile away.
Festival banners flapped in the wind—torn, mismatched, repurposed.
Plain-robed villagers. Bright-sleeved merchants. Gossiping aunties. Wine-sipping monks. Wide-eyed kids. Street urchins. Everyone was here.
To the side, Hong Xian crouched with a group of locals. Their bowls were ready. Chopsticks clutched. Drool imminent.
Vendors, monks, aunties, snot-nosed kids, and silk-robed gourmets huddled together like gamblers around a blood sport.
On one side—Lanyan Ai.The Golden Wok Saintess. Old Zhang's daughter. The supposed prodigy of the pan.
Her knives sang like wind through bamboo as she cooked.
Red Braised Duck in Osmanthus Wine.Double-Cooked Pork with Fermented Chili Bean Sauce.Fragrant Five-Spice Beef Rolls.Glazed Fish Belly over Rice.
Each dish shone like a painting, steam rising like divine aura.
"She's a genius!""That's the famous triple-oil layering!""She controls the fire like a Stove Dragon!"
Even Fat Uncle Wei nodded solemnly, bamboo pipe clenched between teeth.
"9.7 out of 10. That duck glaze alone…"
Then, there was Chunhe.
No fanfare. No elegance.
"Bring me a pot," a big pot he said.
A cauldron appeared—massive and iron. Fit for feeding an army.
He didn't look at Ai's plated masterpieces. Not once.
He gathered his tools: cleavers, wooden ladles, a chopping board.
Hong Xian ran up proudly with a basket of vegetables.
"Use mine! Carrots—sun-fed—"
Thud. Chunhe tossed the basket aside.
"If she's not using it, I'm not using it."
He selected ingredients like a beggar not using high ingredients.
Dried chilies.Black vinegar.Aged soy.Star anise.Duck fat.One piece of ginseng.A tied sack of broken chicken parts: necks, feet, bones, scraps...etc,.
He crushed bone with terrifying brutality.Salted and wine-washed like a ritual.
The crowd recoiled.
He did not peel garlic. Did not mince ginger.He slammed and threw.
Whole onions. Whole bulbs. Crushed black beans. Rivers of vinegar.
The crowd howled.
"He's just tossing things in!""That's not cooking! That's throwing random stuff!""Even a dog would spit it out!"
Ai smirked, plating another jeweled platter.
But Chunhe remained silent.
He stacked the firewood. Lit the flames.Fed it again. And again.
Until the fire roared.
Until the cauldron hissed like an angry snake.
He slammed the lid on top. Steam blasted from the seams.
He crossed his arms. Closed his eyes.
Did nothing.
Estimated Cooking Time:Unknown.
System Evaluation:0%.Gourmand Interest Level:Laughable.Public Opinion:Hostile.Personal Satisfaction:Pending.
But behind the flames, behind the rising smoke and sneers...
A group of cloaked figures stood in the shadows.
Eyes locked on Chunhe.
They didn't laugh.
They didn't sneer.
They watched.
Silently.
Like they'd seen this scene before—A thousand times, in a thousand places.
As if they knew…
The moment that lid came off, the world would change.
"Oi! What the hell's that stench?""Oh... it's him again."
Old Zhang spat into the dirt.
He stood by the fire pit, arms crossed.
Chunhe was just squatting there. Stirring a pot of broth.Minding his own damn business.
The laughter came, easy and cruel.
"Tch. And your technique—look at that wrist! Sloppy. Probably learned it from one of those back-alley food stalls in the capital. You know—fake soy sauce, dead oil, moldy rice."
Chunhe's hand stilled on the spoon. His gaze stayed on the broth.
He took a slow sip from the ladle. Blew gently. Tasted.Stirred again.
Then—
Clink.
The ladle dropped into the pot.
Chunhe straightened slowly. The steam kissed his cheek as he turned.
His face held no emotion.
Just... emptiness.
The courtyard buzzed with noise. Chickens clucked, wine sloshed, someone dropped a bowl in the distance.
And yet—Chunhe remained still.
The air began to change.
It started with a scent of ginger through the smoke.
Then the rich depth of aged duck fat, melting, fusing with charred bones and vinegar, filling the courtyard.
It wasn't elegant.It wasn't plated in gold leaf.
Steam hissed out with force from a small hole in the lid.The smell punched through the nose, down the spine, and curled somewhere in the stomach with a hook.
Even Fat Uncle Wei stood.
Mouth open.
"...That broth."
"That's not beginner's cooking."
The broth had changed.
Thick. Gelatin-rich.Bones softened to the point of collapse.The fat emulsified like velvet.
A ladle dipped in.
Out came golden broth—so clear it reflected the sky, so dense it left streaks of oil across the iron rim, shimmering like lacquer.
Chunhe said nothing.
He ladled a bowl.
A boy with fire in his blood and a pot full of soup.
Old Zhang took a step back.
Chunhe just turned.
And walked away with a bowl of soup in his hand.