The kitchens were never silent.
Even when the lanterns burned low and the servants had gone to their straw mats, the soot-black beams groaned, the oil-stained walls breathed, and rats skittered across the rafters.
I had grown up in that noise. For years, it had been the sound of my cage.
But now, with the Dao Stove humming beside me, every hiss of Spirit Flame was no longer chains.
It was applause.
---
By the third day after the Awakening, the kitchens were no longer a forgotten corner of the sect.
They had become a pilgrimage.
At dawn came the desperate: outer disciples clutching half-healed wounds, faces pale with sleepless nights. They spoke little, coins clutched tight in sweaty hands. One bowl, one sip, and they left with steadier breaths, backs straighter, eyes wide with something close to gratitude.
At noon came the arrogant: sons of clans, their robes embroidered, their voices loud. They pushed past servants, laughing at the "stove-rat," only to grow quiet the moment fragrance curled into their lungs. By the time their bowls were empty, their faces flushed with qi circulation, not a word of mockery left their lips.
In the evening came the forgotten: servants too poor to buy medicine, orphans carrying chipped coins, hoping for scraps. I did not turn them away. I ladled porridge into their bowls, and the Dao did the rest.
Every face told me the same truth.
Food was Dao.
And Dao was endless.
---
The System counted without mercy.
> [Quest Progress: 29/100 disciples fed. Time remaining: 4 days.]
The number etched itself into my bones. Ninety-five had become seventy-one.
Each bowl was another step. Each mouth another proof.
---
But gratitude was rare.
One arrogant disciple finished his porridge, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and sneered. "So it makes qi flow smoother. Fine. But you're still trash. Don't think this makes you equal to cultivators."
He shoved the bowl back, stomped out—only to trip over the step and sprawl face-first in the mud.
The servants laughed, muffling their giggles in their aprons.
I didn't laugh. I just stirred the pot. The Dao Stove flared once, as though laughing in my stead.
---
Not all the eyes watching me were hungry.
Sometimes, through the smoke, I caught shadows at the windows. Men in plain robes, their stares too sharp, their stillness too practiced.
Spies.
The Elder's hounds.
Their whispers slithered through the cracks.
"Too many are flocking to him…"
"If this continues, the Inner Court will notice…"
"Then we silence him before that happens."
I pretended not to hear.
But the Stove heard. Its flame always snapped higher when their gazes lingered too long.
---
That evening, I prepared marrow soup.
The bones cracked as I split them, pale marrow glistening inside. I dropped them into the pot with onions, carrots, and salt. The broth hissed, releasing a deep fragrance that filled every corner of the kitchen.
Servants clustered near the doorway, whispering prayers, their hands pressed together as if I were a shrine.
The pot bubbled, steady as a heartbeat. Steam lifted in curls of gold.
Then—
The Stove hissed.
A sharp, acrid note cut through the fragrance. Bitter. Wrong.
Poison.
It was faint, cleverly hidden, folded inside the broth like shadow. To an ordinary cook, it would pass for spice. To an ordinary disciple, it would taste like bitterness.
But the Dao Stove rejected it. Its flame leapt silver, runes burning, broth bubbling furiously as if spitting it out.
---
I turned.
At the corner of the kitchen stood a servant I did not recognize. His hand trembled, clutching a small clay jar half-hidden in his sleeve.
The other servants gasped, stumbling back.
My voice cut low. "You dared poison my food?"
The boy stammered, sweat dripping down his face. "I—I was told… to test you. To see if it was real…"
"By who?"
His lips trembled. He said nothing.
The Stove roared. Spirit Flame leapt high, silver sparks spitting. The jar in his hand cracked, splitting apart. Smoke gushed out, acrid and vile. The broth writhed as though choking.
Then the flame snapped, silver lines weaving across the pot.
The poison shrieked as it burned away, curling into ash.
The boy screamed, dropping the shards, his fingers blistering red.
---
The System chimed, its voice cold and unyielding.
> [Hidden Trigger: Dish Sabotaged]
✦ Dao Stove has purified poison
✦ Bonus unlocked — Detect Impurity (1★): All foreign substances in ingredients revealed when cooking
---
The servants dropped to their knees, foreheads pressed to the floor.
"Heaven protects him…"
"Even poison cannot touch his food…"
"The Stove itself rejects lies!"
Their whispers rolled through the kitchen like prayer.
I looked down at the trembling boy. My words cut sharper than steel.
"Tell your master this: my food cannot be tainted. Not by poison. Not by lies. Anyone who eats from my stove eats truth, whether they want it or not."
The boy fled, stumbling, leaving only the stench of burnt poison behind.
---
But the disciples kept coming.
Greedy ones, slamming coins on the counter, demanding food like lords.
Mocking ones, laughing until the fragrance made their voices falter.
Desperate ones, limping, pale, leaving with tears when the food eased their pain.
Every bowl carried my Dao.
Every bowl was another slap.
The System did not pause.
> [Quest Progress: 41/100 disciples fed. Time remaining: 4 days.]
Sixty left. Four days.
---
That night, when the doors were shut and the servants asleep, I sat alone by the Stove.
The Spirit Flame flickered low, silver threading through orange. Shadows danced across the blackened beams.
I remembered being a boy, forced to eat scraps from disciples' tables. Bitter, spoiled food that scraped my tongue, while they laughed and called me dog.
Now those same disciples begged for a taste of my bowls.
I touched the Stove's warm iron. "Poison is false cooking. Lies in the pot. That is what my Dao rejects."
The Stove pulsed in answer. Silver runes glowed faintly, almost like script.
For an instant, I swore I heard a whisper. Food is Dao. Dao is endless.
I closed my eyes. The vow burned hotter.
I would finish this quest. I would climb, bowl by bowl.
And I would never taste poison again.
---
Outside, under the crooked pine, Luo Feng met Yun Kai.
"He purged the poison," Luo Feng hissed. "The stewards failed. Even the Stove spat it out."
Yun Kai's jaw tightened, hatred burning in his eyes. "Then it's our turn. Tomorrow, we break him in front of everyone. Let him cook a dish even Heaven cannot save."
Luo Feng smirked. "And if he refuses?"
"Then," Yun Kai growled, "we choke him with his own food."
---
The Stove's flame flared suddenly, sparks dancing silver across its iron body.
It sensed the danger.
And so did I.
I opened my eyes, staring into the fire.
And smiled.
---