Darkness smothered Lin Tian like a wet shroud.
Steel flashed above him, bright as lightning in a storm, each blade a streak of death cutting through drifting smoke. Poison qi rolled in choking waves, heavy as pitch, thick enough to blot out lantern light. Somewhere distant, the clash of metal and the screams of dying men echoed through corridors. But here, in this ring of shadows, time shrank to the space between heartbeats.
A boot slammed into his ribs, driving the air from his lungs. His cleaver skittered across tiles slick with blood. Fingers like iron shackles seized his hair, yanking his head back, exposing his throat to the winking silver of a dagger descending for his windpipe.
Lin Tian's vision blurred. His ears roared with the pounding of his pulse. But beneath the chaos, the world slowed.
He smelled it—a sharp tang of burnt ginger. Oil burning at too high a flame. The scent cut through the stench of blood and poison, grounding him, focusing him. Instinct honed over countless years in kitchens screamed:
Now.
He slammed his forehead into the assassin's nose. Cartilage shattered beneath the blow, blood spraying warm across Lin Tian's cheek. The man shrieked and staggered back, clutching his ruined face.
Lin Tian rolled, grabbed the dagger from the man's slack grip, and buried it under the ribs of another black-robed figure lunging at him. Warm viscera spilled over his hands as he ripped the blade free. A second man seized him from behind, arms locking around his chest, crushing the air from his lungs.
Lin Tian twisted violently, elbow smashing into the attacker's solar plexus. The man gagged, grip loosening just enough for Lin Tian to jerk free. He pivoted, driving the stolen dagger into the side of the man's neck. A hot jet of arterial blood sprayed in a crimson arc.
The dead weight slumped forward. Lin Tian shoved the body aside, chest heaving, poison still gnawing through his veins like icy worms.
Blades flashed from every angle. Lin Tian parried the first strike, then the second, but the third slipped past his guard, biting into the flesh of his left forearm. White-hot pain lanced up his arm. Blood streamed from the gash, dripping to the floor in rhythmic splashes.
He kicked the attacker's knee sideways. The bone snapped with a sickening crunch, the man howling as he toppled. Lin Tian seized the man's falling body, hurled him into two others charging forward, and staggered back, gasping.
Around him, the kitchen had become a slaughterhouse. The floor was a mosaic of shattered pottery, scattered herbs, and blood-soaked tiles. Smoke hung heavy overhead, lit intermittently by surges of spirit flames as fires leapt along wooden beams.
A black-robed woman sprang toward him, brandishing twin daggers. Lin Tian raised his injured arm to block. She slashed across his forearm, leaving ribbons of skin curling away from muscle. He hissed in pain, but before she could pull back, he slammed his head into her chin. Her teeth snapped shut on her tongue, blood bubbling from her lips.
Lin Tian drove the stolen dagger upward, punching through her sternum. She let out a wet gasp and collapsed, lifeless.
He staggered, barely upright. His vision narrowed to a tunnel of shadows and flickering flame. He couldn't breathe without tasting copper. Couldn't move without fire crackling through torn muscles.
And still they kept coming.
Three more assassins lunged as one, blades glinting. Lin Tian dropped low, kicked the nearest in the shin, and came up swinging. His blade caught the man across the throat, spraying crimson in a steaming arc.
But another attacker slammed a fist into his gut. Lin Tian felt his ribs crack. White agony exploded in his skull. He dropped to one knee, gasping, the cleaver nearly slipping from his blood-slick fingers.
"Kill him," a voice growled. "Cut his tendons. Leave him alive to suffer."
Another blade rose.
Lin Tian's eyes flicked left. A shattered jar of crimson powder lay spilled across the floor—ground spirit pepper. Beside it, oil shimmered like liquid gold in a widening pool.
Lin Tian lunged sideways, scooping up a double handful of spirit pepper powder. As the blade came down, he hurled the powder into the assassin's eyes.
A shriek tore the air. The man staggered back, clawing at his face as smoke curled from burning eyeballs.
Lin Tian swept a leg around, tripping another attacker. He snatched a burning wok from a toppled stove and smashed it into the downed man's skull, the iron ringing like a temple bell.
Pain knifed through Lin Tian's chest. His breath came in wet gasps. He pressed a hand to his side and felt hot blood leaking through his robes.
Another assassin lunged at him. Lin Tian hurled the red-hot wok into the man's face. The smell of searing flesh filled the kitchen as the assassin fell away, screaming.
For a heartbeat, silence fell over the battlefield. Even the flames seemed to pause, flickering low, as both sides stared at the lone chef, swaying in a pool of blood, face pale as paper.
Lin Tian sucked in a ragged breath. His voice rasped like broken glass.
"Is that all the Black Iron Sect has?"
A tremor rippled through the remaining assassins.
But behind them, a new figure stepped forward—a man taller than any Lin Tian had yet faced, robed in black shot through with veins of pulsing red. His face was bone-pale, lips blue, eyes glowing a baleful crimson. He carried no visible weapons, yet poison qi radiated from him so fiercely that flames bent away, shuddering.
He regarded Lin Tian with a thin, humorless smile. His voice was soft as silk.
"You're persistent, chef. But all mortals break. Even those who try to season fate itself."
The tall man glided forward, each step silent as drifting ash. As he advanced, the lingering poison fog seemed to recoil from him, swirling aside in coiling wisps. His eyes glowed brighter, casting twin spears of crimson light onto the blood-slick tiles.
Lin Tian lifted his chin, defiance burning in his gaze despite the tremor in his limbs. His cleaver felt impossibly heavy, blood dripping steadily from its blade. His vision blurred around the edges. His breathing was ragged, wheezing through cracked ribs.
Yet he refused to lower his weapon.
The man tilted his head slightly. "You cling to a knife and scraps of steel. Do you truly believe you can sever the tides of fate?"
Lin Tian's voice was hoarse but firm. "I'm not here to sever fate. I'm here to forge it."
The man's lips curved faintly. "Forge? Or simply cook it to your taste?"
He stepped closer. The air around him darkened, a black haze rising like steam off his robes. The surviving assassins fell back, giving him space, eyes lowered in silent reverence-or-fear.
"You've slaughtered my subordinates," the man continued softly. "You've turned poisons into remedies. You've polluted the natural order with your broth and spices. You believe food can save lives. But tell me, chef—"
He leaned forward, voice dropping to a rasp.
"—Can your recipes save you from death itself?"
He vanished in a blur.
Lin Tian barely raised his cleaver in time. A hand slammed into his chest, driving him backward so hard his spine struck the edge of a stone counter. Pain exploded in his ribs, nearly blacking out his vision. He gasped, tasting blood.
The man reappeared inches away, palm open. Black tendrils of qi spiraled from his fingers like living things, snaking toward Lin Tian's throat. Lin Tian slashed his cleaver upward. Sparks burst as it collided with an invisible barrier of poison qi.
The man flicked two fingers. Lin Tian felt a sharp sting on his cheek, and suddenly, blood was streaming down his face. The cut was so precise he hadn't felt it until the warmth touched his skin.
Lin Tian sucked a breath through his teeth, chest heaving.
The man's crimson eyes glimmered. "Your skin is soft. Your blood smells of spices. You're still only mortal flesh."
He lunged again. His hand struck Lin Tian's cleaver so hard that Lin Tian felt the metal bend beneath his grip. The blade vibrated, humming with residual force. The tall man spun around him, faster than Lin Tian could track, and drove a palm into his lower back.
Lin Tian pitched forward, knees buckling. His vision went white from the pain. He caught himself on a table, dragging in shuddering breaths. His cleaver slipped from his grip, clanging to the floor.
The man's voice murmured in his ear. "Let go of your blade. Let go of your fire. Embrace the silence."
Lin Tian's gaze dropped to the floor, past shards of porcelain and pools of oil. He could see his reflection in the spilled broth—a pale face streaked with blood, eyes burning even in exhaustion.
His thoughts churned. He remembered the roar of stoves, the steam of boiling soup, the knife flashing over onions in a rhythmic dance. He thought of flavors layered with precision, each spice a note in a hidden song.
He thought of his fallen sect. Of his master's dying words:
"Your knife is not merely steel. It will. When you wield it… let your will be sharper than any edge."
Lin Tian's hand twitched toward the cleaver.
The man's foot slammed onto the back of his knee, driving him to the floor. His skull cracked against the tile. Pain exploded behind his eyes.
The man leaned over him. "You fight so fiercely… for what? You're not a cultivator. You're a cook."
Lin Tian coughed blood onto the assassin's robes. His lips twisted into a grim smile. "I'm both."
He lunged, grabbing the assassin's wrist with one hand, and with the other, snatched a broken chopstick from the floor and jammed it into the man's side. The assassin hissed in shock, recoiling. Lin Tian rolled sideways, scooping up his cleaver once more.
He rose, swaying, eyes glinting.
The man's face was contorted, blood oozing around the embedded chopstick. But he merely smiled, crimson eyes blazing. "You think that can stop me?"
Lin Tian didn't answer. He lunged forward, swinging his cleaver in a wide arc. The man met it bare-handed, black qi solidifying around his forearm like obsidian armor. Cleaver struck poison qi, shrieking sparks into the smoke.
The assassin slammed his elbow into Lin Tian's sternum, driving him back. Lin Tian stumbled over a fallen corpse, tripped, and crashed into a rack of spice jars. Glass shattered around him in a rain of glittering shards.
He forced himself upright, cuts lining his arms and chest, crimson droplets spattering the tiles.
The tall man stalked closer, voice low. "This is your end."
He raised his palm, gathering black qi until it formed a spear of pure darkness. The air twisted around it. Tiles cracked beneath the pressure.
Lin Tian's eyes widened. He knew instinctively—if that strike landed, there would be no getting up.
Then he smelled it—a faint scent of star anise and aged vinegar. Even over the smoke and blood, the fragrance cut through.
An idea struck him like lightning.
As the assassin lunged, Lin Tian kicked the shattered spice rack toward him. Bottles burst open underfoot, releasing clouds of fine powders—star anise, crushed pepper, spirit salt. The man's eyes widened in surprise as the spices filled the air.
Lin Tian grabbed a bottle of aged vinegar, ripped the stopper out with his teeth, and hurled it into the assassin's face.
A geyser of sharp, acidic mist exploded between them. The assassin howled as the vinegar splashed into his eyes, sizzling as it mixed with his poison qi. Steam billowed up in rolling clouds.
Lin Tian roared, seizing the moment. He drove his cleaver straight into the man's abdomen. Steel met flesh and resistance. He pushed harder until he felt his ribs crack under the force.
The assassin let out a strangled gasp, blood frothing at his lips. But his hands still came up, fingers curled like talons, poison qi swirling madly around them.
Lin Tian grunted, twisting the blade, burying it deeper.
The man's scream tore through the kitchen like a hurricane wind.
Lin Tian felt his arms shaking as he pressed the cleaver deeper into the assassin's gut. Black blood poured over his hands, slick and strangely cold, like spilled ink. The tall man shuddered, his poison qi crackling wildly in spurts of dark lightning that left the tiles beneath his feet sizzling.
But he did not fall.
Instead, the man seized Lin Tian's wrist, fingers digging into tendon and bone with impossible force. Lin Tian bit back a cry, feeling his knuckles crack under the grip. A spasm of agony shot up his forearm, but he held fast, refusing to release the cleaver.
"You… dare…" the assassin rasped. His crimson eyes flared like twin coals, blood leaking from his mouth as he spoke. "You think vinegar and spices… can kill the dark path?"
Lin Tian's answer was a guttural snarl as he drove his knee into the man's chest. The impact forced a gasp from the assassin's lungs, but still he clung to Lin Tian's arm, teeth bared in a rictus grin.
"Poison… always finds its mark," the assassin hissed.
He surged forward, black qi gathering in his free hand, fingers aimed for Lin Tian's throat.
Lin Tian twisted violently, tearing his arm free even as the assassin's claw raked his shoulder, slicing open flesh to the bone. Blood gushed down his chest, soaking the ragged remains of his chef's robe.
He staggered back, vision flickering, chest heaving with raw, shallow breaths. The pain was blinding, but adrenaline kept him upright.
The assassin tried to pursue—but slipped on the slick of spilled vinegar and spices, his footing sliding sideways. Lin Tian seized the moment, pivoting low. He swept his cleaver across the man's shins. The blade cut deep, severing muscle and tendon. A scream erupted from the assassin as he collapsed onto one knee, blood pouring from twin gashes.
Lin Tian rose over him, eyes blazing.
"I'm not just a cook," he growled. "I'm the knife that cuts away rot."
With one final roar, Lin Tian brought the cleaver crashing down, burying the blade in the assassin's clavicle. Bone cracked. Black blood sprayed up in a gruesome arc, splattering the rafters above.
The man stiffened, eyes bulging. Poison qi flickered wildly around him like dying embers. His lips moved in a silent curse, but no sound emerged.
Lin Tian twisted the cleaver sideways. The assassin slumped forward, finally still.
For several seconds, Lin Tian stood frozen, cleaver still embedded in flesh, chest heaving like a bellows. His arms felt as heavy as iron ingots. His vision blurred, swimming with red. He tore the blade free with a wet squelch, staggering backward.
Silence settled over the kitchen. Smoke wafted gently in swirling ribbons. The walls seemed to sway as Lin Tian struggled to keep his balance.
All around him, black-robed corpses lay strewn like discarded dolls. Pools of blood glistened under shifting light. Half-burned beams creaked overhead, showering embers onto the gore-streaked floor. The mingled smells of vinegar, spices, and coppery blood created a miasma so thick it made his stomach churn.
From deeper in the hallway, voices rose—shouts of Ironbone disciples rallying, weapons clanging as they clashed with lingering attackers. Somewhere, Bai Yue screamed Lin Tian's name.
Lin Tian blinked sweat and blood from his eyes. His cleaver wavered in his grip as he turned toward the corridor.
But a sudden, searing pain tore through his chest. He gasped, clutching at his ribs, feeling poison burn through his veins like liquid fire. His knees buckled. The cleaver slipped from his grasp, clanging against the tile.
He fell hard, cheek smashing into the floor. The tiles were cold and slick with blood.
Above him, the ceiling blurred and spun. Distant shapes loomed in the smoke. His ears roared with the thundering pulse of his heartbeat.
A wave of darkness pressed in, threatening to swallow him whole.
He fought to keep his eyes open. He forced breath into his lungs, one ragged gasp at a time.
He couldn't let it end here. Not in this kitchen. Not like this.
He tried to rise. His arms quivered under his weight. Pain clawed at his ribs. Blood trickled from his mouth. But he set his jaw, teeth stained red.
A pair of feet appeared beside him, shuffling hurriedly over shattered tiles. Lin Tian felt someone gripping his arms, trying to lift him.
"Senior Lin!" Bai Yue's voice trembled, high and thin. "Please… please get up…!"
Lin Tian blinked, struggling to focus. Bai Yue's young face hovered above him, streaked with grime and tears, hair matted with blood.
Bai Yue tried to haul him upright, but Lin Tian was too heavy. The younger man slipped, landing in a pool of crimson broth. He scrabbled forward again, sobbing.
"Senior Lin, you can't die! You… you promised me… you'd teach me how to make spirit dumplings…!"
Lin Tian managed a ragged grin, though pain lanced through him at the movement. "Bai Yue… go. Get help. Protect the… kitchens."
"I'm not leaving you!" Bai Yue shrieked.
A tremor shook the ground. The walls groaned as burning beams buckled overhead. Tiles cracked under Lin Tian's palms as he tried to push himself up. His arms trembled violently. His vision shrank to a pinhole of flickering lantern light.
Bai Yue clutched his arm, sobbing. "You can't die! If you die… who's going to finish the dishes?!"
Lin Tian wanted to laugh, but the sound caught in his throat, turning into a bloody cough. "There'll… always be another… chef…"
Bai Yue sobbed louder. "I don't want another chef! I want you!"
Another tremor rocked the floor. Flaming debris crashed down, sending splinters skittering across the tiles. Lin Tian felt hot oil splatter against his cheek. The smell of burning wood grew stronger.
Somewhere deeper in the sect, a bell tolled—a hollow, desperate clang.
Lin Tian forced his eyes open. Forced himself to focus on Bai Yue's terrified face.
"Listen," he rasped. "If I fall… take my recipes. Hide them. Wait for the right time. Then… feed the world."
Bai Yue's tears dripped onto Lin Tian's bloodstained robes. "I won't let you fall…"
Lin Tian tried to speak again, but another bolt of pain stabbed through his chest. The words dissolved into a groan as darkness rose, swallowing the edges of his vision.
Through the swirling blackness, he thought he heard footsteps approaching. Heavy. Purposeful. Echoing across the blood-slick tiles.
And a low voice spoke, calm and cold as winter rain:
"Lin Tian… I thought you'd last longer."
........
The voice drifted closer through the haze of drifting smoke. Lin Tian forced his eyes open, blinking past streaks of blood and sweat. His body screamed with every breath. His limbs felt like they were carved from stone.
Through the blurred whirl of flames and shadows, a man emerged—a figure taller than even the last assassin, wrapped in robes of dark indigo embroidered with twisting serpents in silver thread. His hair was pure white, flowing loose around his shoulders. His eyes were black pools, so dark they seemed to drink in the surrounding lantern glow.
He walked without hurry, as though he strolled through a garden rather than a battlefield littered with corpses and blood. His hands were clasped behind his back, the sleeves of his robes drifting like pale smoke.
Bai Yue froze at the sight of him, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Demon Elder… Yu Mo…"
Lin Tian felt the name strike him like a knife in the gut. Yu Mo. A name whispered in terror throughout the sects of the province. A poison master, elder of the Black Iron Sect. Known for drowning entire villages in poison mists. A man whose cultivation had twisted him so deeply that his blood was rumored to flow black as ink.
Yu Mo's gaze slid over the devastation. His eyes lingered on the corpses sprawled like butchered livestock. Then he looked at Lin Tian.
"So much trouble," he murmured. His voice was gentle, almost fatherly. "All for a cook."
Lin Tian spat blood, glaring up at him. "Come closer… and say that again."
Yu Mo smiled faintly. "I intend to."
He stepped over a severed arm, robes trailing through a slick of spilled broth. His presence was suffocating—a quiet, absolute darkness pressing down like the weight of an ocean. The air seemed to thin around him, leaving Lin Tian gasping for breath.
Bai Yue tried to place himself between Yu Mo and Lin Tian, arms spread protectively. His voice shook. "Don't… don't come closer!"
Yu Mo's expression barely flickered. A single finger flicked outward, so fast it was nearly invisible. A needle glinted in the lantern light, streaking toward Bai Yue's neck.
Lin Tian's instincts screamed. He shoved Bai Yue aside. The needle buried itself in Lin Tian's upper arm instead. A white-hot lance of agony ripped through him, followed instantly by a chilling numbness. His arm went slack, the cleaver dropping from nerveless fingers.
Yu Mo lowered his hand. "You really shouldn't waste yourself protecting apprentices. Especially when you'll both die."
Lin Tian tried to lift his arm, but felt nothing. His left side had gone dead cold, like ice creeping under his skin. He could feel the poison traveling through his veins, a cold tide winding toward his chest.
Yu Mo knelt in front of him. "I've watched you from afar, you know. A mere mortal chef who dares believe food can alter the dao. That's almost… charming."
Lin Tian's lips curled into a snarl. "It can."
Yu Mo tilted his head, studying him. "You remind me of my old self. So stubborn. So convinced the world must bow to your ideas." His smile faded. "But the world is not a kitchen, Chef Lin. The world is a cauldron. And we are all merely ingredients. Stirred. Cooked. Reduced. Until only the strongest flavor remains."
He reached out and gently tapped Lin Tian's chest with two fingers. The touch felt feather-light, but Lin Tian felt poison explode outward from the point of contact, racing through his bloodstream. His vision wavered, black and red swirling across his eyes.
Yu Mo's voice was soft as silk. "I've come to finish what my disciples could not. And to end this ridiculous notion that broth and spices can challenge heaven."
Bai Yue lunged at Yu Mo, screaming. "Leave him alone!"
Yu Mo barely glanced at him. A thin blade of poison qi erupted from his fingertip, slicing across Bai Yue's stomach. Bai Yue crumpled with a gurgling cry, blood pouring between his fingers.
"Bai Yue—!" Lin Tian tried to crawl forward, but his arms failed him, trembling uselessly under his weight.
Yu Mo wiped an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve. "Now then. Where were we?"
Lin Tian forced words past bloodied lips. "Go… to hell…"
Yu Mo exhaled a long, sorrowful sigh. "All cooks… think they're immortal."
He raised his hand again. Poison qi gathered around his palm, dense and black as ink. The heat of it warped the air, bending lantern light into trembling ribbons.
Lin Tian tried to push himself upright, but his limbs refused to answer. His body felt hollow, as if all the warmth had been drained away. He saw Yu Mo's palm descending, slow and inevitable, and knew he would not survive its touch.
A wave of despair threatened to choke him.
But then—
A wind swept through the wrecked kitchen, carrying a crisp, fresh fragrance—green onions sizzling in hot oil, ginger singing in a wok. It was as subtle as it was powerful, cutting through the heavy stench of poison and blood.
Yu Mo paused, frowning. His black eyes flicked toward the shattered doorway.
A figure stood there, outlined by drifting embers. A woman in flowing white robes embroidered with pale gold. Her long hair shimmered like dark silk. She held a slender sword in one hand, its blade as clear as glass, gleaming under the quivering lanterns.
Her eyes were sharp and cold as winter stars.
"Step away from him," she said.
Yu Mo's brow rose slightly. "And who… might you be?"
The woman's gaze never wavered. "A cultivator of the Frost Orchid Sect."
Yu Mo's smile returned. "Ah. Another righteous fool."
The woman moved. One instant, she stood in the doorway; the next, she was beside Lin Tian, sword flashing in a blinding arc. A wave of cold swept outward, and frost formed instantly along the shattered tiles. Yu Mo leapt back, his robes whipping around him.
Lin Tian blinked up at her in shock. He struggled to focus, poison clouding his thoughts.
She knelt beside him, glancing over his wounds. Her fingers touched his throat, feeling for a pulse. Her voice was cool but edged with urgency. "Can you stand?"
Lin Tian tried to speak but only managed a groan. The world tilted around him.
Yu Mo laughed softly. "So many wish to save him. I wonder what flavors you'll make when your blood boils, Frost Orchid girl."
The woman rose, sword held low. "Touch him again… and I'll cut out your heart."
Yu Mo's smile turned sharklike. "Then come try."
He lunged forward, poison qi streaming around him in black ribbons. The woman met him blade-to-hand, sparks spraying as sword clashed against swirling dark energy. The shockwave blew Lin Tian backward across the tiles.
He landed hard, vision swimming. Pain flared white behind his eyes.
And as the sounds of battle echoed around him, Lin Tian slipped into darkness, the smell of ginger and smoke lingering on the edge of consciousness.
.........
Lin Tian drifted in a void of red and black. His body felt weightless, as though he floated in an endless ocean of blood. Shadows rippled around him, whispering in voices he couldn't quite hear. Somewhere distant, metal rang against metal. Shouts echoed like thunder rolling over a mountainside.
His mind struggled to surface. His thoughts kept slipping like water through trembling fingers. A part of him wanted to surrender to the darkness, let the pain fade. But another part—the stubborn iron core that had carried him from a mortal kitchen into this world of swords and sects—refused to die.
A memory flashed behind his eyes.
A blazing stove. The hiss of oil. His old master standing over him, voice low and firm:
"A chef never leaves the kitchen until the dish is done. Even if the flames lick your skin. Even if your blood is all that seasons the broth."
Lin Tian gasped as breath surged back into his lungs. He jerked awake, eyes snapping open.
The first thing he saw was frost spreading over shattered tiles like creeping silver vines. Snowflakes drifted through the smoke, hissing as they landed on burning wood.
Swords clashed again. Sparks burst in flaring arcs. Yu Mo's figure wove through a storm of icy sword strikes, poison qi spilling from his fingertips like black silk ribbons. The Frost Orchid cultivator met every attack with lethal grace, her blade singing a cold song as it whirled.
A wall of ice erupted between them, driving Yu Mo back with a snarl. Cracks spiderwebbed through the frozen barrier as he slammed his palms into it, poison qi eating away at the frost.
Lin Tian pushed himself upright, swaying. His entire body was trembling. Blood ran freely from wounds across his chest and arms. His left arm hung useless at his side, poisoned muscles refusing to answer.
Bai Yue lay beside him, semi-conscious, one hand pressed to the gash in his stomach. His face was pale, sweat standing out on his skin like dew.
Lin Tian reached out, teeth gritted against the pain. "Bai… Yue…"
Bai Yue's eyelids fluttered. "Senior… Lin…?"
Yu Mo's voice rose over the clash of blades. "Foolish girl. You think you can save him? I've killed entire sects with my poison!"
The Frost Orchid woman's voice cut like ice. "I've heard your boasts enough for a lifetime."
She lunged. Her sword became a pale blur, slicing at Yu Mo's throat. Yu Mo dodged sideways, but a thin line of blood opened across his cheek. His eyes widened in disbelief, black qi flaring around him.
Lin Tian tried to rise. His hand fumbled for his cleaver where it lay glinting amid shards of porcelain. He dragged it closer, fingers slick with his blood.
Yu Mo turned his gaze on Lin Tian, eyes blazing. "Stay down, chef. Or I'll finish your apprentice first."
The threat sparked a surge of rage through Lin Tian's battered body. He planted one foot under himself, trying to stand. His knees nearly buckled, but he locked them tight.
"You'll… touch him over my dead body."
Yu Mo sneered. "Easily arranged."
He moved in a blur, hand shooting out toward Bai Yue's throat. But before he could touch him, Lin Tian hurled his cleaver like a thrown spear.
The blade whistled through the haze, spinning end over end. Yu Mo twisted to avoid it—but it still slashed across his arm, leaving a deep gash that spilled black ichor. Yu Mo recoiled, eyes wide with fury.
"You… dare…!"
Lin Tian staggered forward, grabbing a handful of crushed herbs from a toppled jar. He hurled the powder into Yu Mo's face. The powder ignited with a fiery hiss as it hit the poison qi, creating a brief explosion of sparks and acrid smoke.
Yu Mo screamed, clutching at his eyes.
"NOW!" Lin Tian roared.
The Frost Orchid woman didn't hesitate. She lunged, sword aimed straight for Yu Mo's chest. He tried to pivot away, but his foot slipped on spilled broth. The sword pierced his robes, burying itself just below his sternum.
Yu Mo gasped, black blood bubbling from his lips. His poison qi flared wildly, then shivered, flickering like a dying flame.
He stared at Lin Tian, hate smoldering in his sunken eyes. "This… is not… over…"
Lin Tian snarled, face pale and streaked with blood. "Get out of my kitchen."
The Frost Orchid cultivator twisted her sword free. Yu Mo let out a ragged scream as blood sprayed across the tiles. He staggered backward, clutching his wound. Dark qi coiled around him like serpents, carrying him toward the shadows. His form shimmered, growing translucent.
With a final hiss of rage, Yu Mo's body dissolved into a swirl of black mist and vanished.
Silence slammed down over the kitchen like a dropped cleaver.
Lin Tian dropped to one knee, his cleaver slipping from nerveless fingers. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Every muscle screamed. The floor swayed beneath him like the deck of a storm-tossed ship.
The Frost Orchid woman lowered her sword, eyes scanning the chamber for any lingering threats. Satisfied that Yu Mo was gone, she turned to Lin Tian.
"You're bleeding out," she said quietly.
Lin Tian chuckled weakly. "I've been worse."
"You'll die if we don't treat that poison."
Lin Tian gritted his teeth. "I'll… live. There's… broth to finish."
Bai Yue groaned beside him. The Frost Orchid woman dropped to check his wounds. "He needs healing as well."
Lin Tian's head lolled, vision swimming. "Take… him first…"
The woman glanced at him, her expression softening. "You risked your life for your disciple."
Lin Tian managed a lopsided grin. "He's… the only one who doesn't burn the rice."
The woman huffed out a faint, incredulous laugh. She pressed her palm to Bai Yue's abdomen. A pale glow spread from her fingers, closing the gash slowly, flesh knitting back together under her touch.
Lin Tian sagged forward, body quaking with exhaustion. The adrenaline drained away, leaving only cold emptiness and pain.
He felt the woman's presence close beside him again. "Lean on me."
He tried to speak but couldn't. She slipped an arm under his shoulder, gently pulling him upright. Her robes smelled faintly of orchids and cold mountain air.
As she guided him from the ruined kitchen, Lin Tian glanced over his shoulder. Smoke still curled upward in thin grey ribbons. The fires were dying, embers glowing among the wreckage of shattered pots and broken tiles.
He swallowed, throat thick with blood and grief.
So many dead. So much lost. And yet… the Ironbone Sect still stood. His kitchen still stood.
And his knives were not yet cold.
Outside, the courtyard was littered with corpses and fallen banners. The moon hung low in the sky, staining the flagstones with a silvery glow. The Frost Orchid woman eased Lin Tian to the ground and began examining the wound in his shoulder.
Bai Yue staggered out behind them, clutching his stomach. His voice cracked. "Senior Lin… are you still going to teach me dumplings…?"
Lin Tian coughed, tasting iron. He forced a weak grin. "If… I survive this… first lesson… tomorrow."
Bai Yue burst into relieved sobs.
The Frost Orchid woman shook her head, muttering, "Stubborn idiot…"
But there was a faint curve to her lips.
As Lin Tian's vision faded, he heard distant shouting from the Ironbone disciples. He smelled the crisp night breeze. And he thought:
"I'll keep cooking. Even if the world tries to devour me."