Thirty Minutes Later...
Han Yu had tears streaming down his face.
"These aren't tears," he whispered to himself, blindly chopping. "This is… nasal-based spiritual enlightenment."
At least his sinuses that had been clogged due to the mold infested room were clear now.
The head chef waddled over, squinted at the pile of onion mush, and gave a snort.
"Perfect," he said. "We're making soup."
Things were looking up—until Zhen Shi returned.
"Oh no, Han Yu. You're not done yet. The rice steamer is acting up. Go fix it." The man said in a misfortune laden voice.
"…I'm a servant. Not a blacksmith."
Zhen Shi pointed dramatically. "Figure it out. Or I tell the chef you used the soul pepper powder instead of salt."
Han Yu froze. "You wouldn't."
"I would," Zhen Shi replied, then whispered, "I already did. Everyone already knows about your fancy of peppers from the assessment."
"Fuck..." Han Yu cursed.
Ten Minutes Later
