Chunhe simply walked away, a bowl of soup in hand, his steps calm and unhurried, like drifting clouds after a summer storm.
The Hong Xian Group stormed forward with a bucket, shamelessly scooped out half the cauldron, and fled like bandits in broad daylight, laughter trailing behind them.
Just behind them, two hooded figures emerged from the shadows.
Silent. gaze.
They exchanged no words — only glances.
Then, in unison, they stepped forward, scooped a small portion, took a single sip, and paused mid-breath.
No words or movements.
Then they quietly turned and began to follow Chunhe, keeping a respectful distance, as if drawn by an invisible thread.
The Gourmet turned toward the banquet.
He first sampled the AI-crafted dishes — his face lit with professional admiration.
"Exquisite technique. Precision. Balance," he murmured.
Old Zhang stood tall, pride swelling in his chest. This was his finest work — a lifetime's refinement boiled into perfection.
He was ready to ascend.
He could almost feel the heavens opening.
Then, the Gourmet turned…
He walked silently toward Chunhe's simmering pot — still warm, still steaming.
He picked up a ladle, dipped it, and took a tiny sip of Chunhe's chicken soup.
He froze.
His expression… unreadable.
Then, without a word, he filled a full bowl… and gulped it down.
Then another.
And another.
He didn't stop.
Crowds gathered.
Something was happening.
People were drawn to the pot — pulled by an invisible thread, as though the soup itself whispered their names.
They fought for bowls. Elbows clashed. Ladles flew. Chaos.
AI stepped forward, calm amidst the storm.
She dipped a ladle, brought it to her lips, and sipped.
Her face trembled — just slightly. A flicker of disappointment, as though some small truth had unraveled.
Old Zhang stepped up next.
He tasted it.
His knees buckled.
And then… collapsed into a chair.
His hands trembled. His eyes lost focus.
"I… I've lost."
The Gourmet finally spoke.
His voice trembled.
"AI food is flawless. It is perfection in structure and Taste.
But this… this…**"
He looked at Chunhe's soup with reverence.
"This is not cooking.
This is life itself."
He clutched his chest.
"This broth… breathes.
I did not taste flavor.
I tasted… emotion.
Rage — the searing sting of heat.
Sorrow — the bitterness that lingers.
Joy — sweet and fleeting.
Fear — subtle, hidden.
Anticipation, disgust, surprise — they all live in it.**
I can feel every heartbeat… every memory…**"
"I can feel it."
And in the distance, Chunhe kept walking, never once turning back, the steam rising from his bowl like a spirit ascending.
drinking on the way. and throwed the cup once it was empty.
And now, The Gourmet was desperate to recover the spotlight.
"Where are they?" he demanded. His assistants scattered like startled pigeons, searching for the Hong Xian Group.
A scout returned, pale and breathless.
"Sir… they're in the alley. But… you should see it."
Old Zhang stormed out with Ai and several chefs in tow.
And what they saw was… chaos in silence.
The Hong Xian Group, usually sharp-tongued, was… respectful
They were sitting on overturned crates and stones, licking the inside of the bucket, scraping it clean with fingers, chopsticks, and even spoons pulled from their sleeves.
Not even a bone remained.
One of them had his entire head in the bucket, slurping the last invisible trace.
"Oi!" Old Zhang barked. "Have you no shame?"
The head Hong Xian looked up, face soaked, eyes glistening like a man who had just found salvation.
He wiped his mouth.
Tossed the empty bowl aside.
And grinned.
The Gourmet, who had arrived silently, answered with reverence.
"Not a ordinary chef. Not merely."
He looked down at his own trembling hand.
"A Immortal Chef."
The alley fell into silence.
Chunhe walked slowly, the last rays of dusk painting a soft gold on the rim of his robes. Behind him, the two hooded figures.
The sky dimmed to a cool violet, and Chunhe's quiet steps echoed through the crooked alley.
Behind him, the crowd was still murmuring in awe — bowls licked clean, stomachs warmed, minds unsettled.
But two figures, who had stood still through all the chaos, now stepped forward.
They were hooded, clad in plain travel robes, but something about them commanded respect — like statues carved from old royal stone. Their hoods lowered.
The first was a woman in her early thirties — sharp, dignified, with eyes like autumn rivers, hiding sorrow behind pride. Her hair, tied back with a jade pin, swayed slightly as she bowed lightly. Her long violet hair, tied back in a single flowing ribbon, shimmered faintly under the moonlight. She had almond-shaped eyes, steady and composed, and a face carved with dignity — the kind that didn't need titles.
Beside her stood a young man, no older than his mid-twenties. his features sharp and refined. He shared the same violet hue of hair, short and tousled, with a quiet fire behind his eyes. His back was straight, his every movement precise — not from pride, but from discipline. His face bore the marks of fatigue and long struggle, but his stance was upright, and his gaze was firm.
The woman stepped forward.
"Young master… Chunhe, is it?"
Chunhe paused.
They stepped in front of Chunhe and bowed respectfully.
"Young master," the woman spoke, voice calm but resolve, "we are of the House of Bai."
Chunhe remained still.
— descendants of General Bai Longxian, once a cornerstone of the Empire. We were banished in a wave of betrayal and conspiracy. The court stripped our name, burned our estates, and hunted our kin as taritors."
We lost everything
She continued, "Once, we held status beside the throne. Our ancestor, General Bai Longxian, built his legacy on blood, honor, and Sacrifice. But ambition is a cruel thing. Through conspiracy, betrayal, and shifting power… we were cast out."
The woman's voice didn't waver, though her hands clenched slightly.
"We've nothing left to offer but sincerity… and a place where you might stand at the center of change."
She took a deep breath. "We run a small establishment. Failing. casted out
"Please, Young master. Become our head cook.
Let your flame guide our future."
Chunhe remained still.
his eyes were calm.
He looked between them.
They glanced at each other.
They both dropped to their knees, The woman raised her head, ready to strike the ground with a full kowtow. but just before their heads touched the ground—
Chunhe lowered himself.
With one hand, he gently raised the woman's hand mid-air, preventing the kowtow.
"There's no need for this,
The woman swallowed her pride.
"We are the last remaining branch of the Bai family.
"We opened a small restaurant in the old district. Barely anyone visits. We work hard — harder than we ever have. But every coin we make disappears."
"Someone's always returning home wounded, sick, or missing," she said softly. "All of it goes to medicine. Food and guards? Only if there's any left. The rest of the family… they just endure."
The young man clenched his fists.
"No one will sell to us anymore. Not even vegetables. They're too scared of the retaliation. The Qin family holds the markets. And we are—"
"Cornered," she said bitterly. "Like animals. No place to turn."
Then she looked up at Chunhe — eyes glassy but resolute.
"You… you're the only one who stood apart. You have quality. Skill. And no ties to anyone here."
She lowered her head once more.
"We ask… if you would consider selling vegetables to us. Even if just that."
Chunhe's gaze sharpened.
"And what if he retaliates against me?" he asked.
The woman met his eyes.
"You're an outsider. A merchant. Not part of the feuds. As long as you don't break any law, you're protected. Even the Qin can't touch you openly."
She hesitated, then continued, voice softer.
"But… if you became the chef of our restaurant… we'd give anything. Anything we have left. You're our last hope. We'll pay four times the price. We just… can't let this family die like this."
The silence that followed was heavy.
They were like people walking on cracked ice, every step risking collapse. Their pride frayed thin, their hope nearly gone.
Chunhe looked at them.
Then, slowly, he shook his head.
"I cannot become your chef," he said gently.
Their faces tightened — not in anger, but heartbreak. The woman lowered her gaze. The young man's shoulders fell.
"But," Chunhe added, "I will sell you vegetables. Good ones. And I can give you a few recipes. If that helps… it is all I can offer."
They looked up in stunned silence.
He stood up and offered a hand to help them rise.
"I don't need promises or vows," Chunhe said. "Just don't waste what I give you."
Their eyes were trembling, but they nodded.
"We won't," the woman whispered.
He turned to leave.
And if your house still holds its name with honor, we can trade. But know this — I choose the price. I choose the terms."
The two lifted their heads. Their expressions bore no disappointment — only quiet respect.
"We accept," the young man said. "With no complaints."
"Then show me your house," Chunhe replied. "If I'm to trust you, I'll need to see the roots."
They led him through winding alleys, old bridges with broken railings, and stone streets forgotten by the city.
At the edge of the old district stood a faded estate — large, regal, but left to time. Vines crept along the outer wall. The gates still bore cracked engravings of tigers and plum blossoms.
It was the Bai ancestral home.
Inside the courtyard, a few elderly men swept fallen leaves. Small children chased each other barefoot, their laughter thin. Young women, dressed modestly, sat beneath an overgrown tree embroidering cloth — their eyes were curious and quiet.
The men of the family were mostly gone — either caught in war, or lost chasing hope. What remained was a family patched together like a shattered vase, barely holding on.
Chunhe walked past them all, silent.
He stopped at a corner of the courtyard where a few vegetable sprouts grew from cracked stone. His eyes lingered there.
"You still have roots," he said.
The woman beside him exhaled, voice almost trembling.
"We just don't know how to water them."
Chunhe's gaze never left the soil.
"You will," he said. "Start by preparing a clean pot. I'll return in five minutes. Bring no questions. Only intent."
They bowed once more.
And for the first time in years, within the crumbling halls of the Bai house… the wind did not carry silence.
It carried possibility.