Yan Chen's eyes fluttered open, assaulted by blinding sunlight reflecting off polished stone and dancing droplets of sweat in the air. The scent of sizzling garlic and hot pepper flooded his nostrils. A deafening clamor of banging pots, chopping knives, and harried shouts echoed around him. Confusion draped over Yan Chen like a wet blanket — where was he?
His last memory was of ordering dinner in a cramped city street, feeling dizzy, and then darkness. Now he lay sprawled on a cold, uneven floor among buckets of chili and broth.
Pain shot through Yan Chen's body as he tried to move. Every muscle and joint burned. He groaned, blinking rapidly to clear spots from his vision.
His hands and feet were stiff, and strips of wet cloth hung from his chest and throat. Cautiously, he raised a trembling hand to his neck, feeling rough canvas tied tightly around it. The fabric was strange: thick canvas embroidered with simple runes he could not read.
"What kind of uniform is this?" Yan Chen thought, squinting down at the coarse grey tunic and the ill-fitting apron that felt two sizes too large on his oddly slim frame.
He blinked again. Above him swayed bamboo lanterns, and around him opened a cavernous kitchen chamber etched with runes of flame and spice. Hung herbs, dried chili strings, and cages of live poultry dangled from rafter hooks. Pulsing flasks of rainbow-colored oils shimmered on wooden shelves. It felt like a dream — or a nightmare.
A majestic mountain breeze slipped through open lattice windows, and in the distance he heard the muted rhythm of a gong, marking the hour for the evening meal. The world was both ancient and fierce, utterly unlike the city night he knew.
"Hey, get up!" snarled a voice like a rolling kitchen cart. Two figures loomed over Yan Chen. One was tall and muscular, with a sneer curling his lip and a braid trailing down his back. The other was shorter and wiry, with a hooked nose and eyes full of disdain. Both wore pale green uniforms trimmed with spice-red borders — the garb of outer sect disciples, he realized hazily. Each held shards of broken pottery and a handful of spilled, dark broth from Yan Chen's chest and legs.
Yan Chen's head pounded. He tried to speak, but a torrent of acrid liquid had burned its way down his throat when he fell. The two disciples smelled strongly of roasted chili and arrogance.
"Stand up! Clean this mess!" the wiry one barked, flinging more ceramic shards at Yan Chen. "The kitchen boss is coming. He wants tonight's bacon-spiced stew, and it better be ready!"
Qi Hu, the taller youth, shoved Yan Chen in the ribs. "Get a move on, farm boy!" he growled. "What are you doing lying there? Dreaming of dumplings?"
Pain flared as Yan Chen staggered upright, coughing blood-tinted saliva into the porridge pan simmering at his feet. Gasping, Yan Chen brushed slick soup and pottery fragments from his arms. "W-where am I?" he croaked, eyes racing. He still felt the phantom heat of the stew he'd been carrying.
A flash of memory filled him: I was Yan Chen, an ordinary student in modern Earth, about to taste some spicy ramen… and something happened! In his dorm room he'd felt a chill and then blackness. Now he realized the truth: he had been transmigrated into the Perplexing Spice Sect, and in all likelihood he was the lowest servant in this kitchen. The realization struck him colder than winter wind.
Qi Hu sneered. "Answer me!" he barked, jabbing a finger at Yan Chen's chest. "Why did you spill my stew? And who do you think you are, crashing on the floor like that? We outer sect disciples have important things — cultivation classes, meditation — and we pay for this sect membership! Who dumped broth all over my feet?!"
Yan Chen blinked. His mouth was parched and swollen, his throat raw from the burn. He tasted a hint of rancid oil and peppers. All he managed was a rasping, "I… I'm sorry." Cultivation terms made no sense to him. Outer sect disciples? He'd only just arrived himself!
"I'm sorry?!" The wiry disciple kicked at the pooled soup with his heel, splattering sticky broth onto Yan Chen. "What's that supposed to mean? You ruined the ingredients, idiot! These recipes aren't cheap — you could pay your weight in pepper for this!"
Qi Hu leaned closer, nostrils flaring. "Idiot," he spat, "you kitchen slave. We outer sect disciples control real Qi, runes, and cultivation. What do you have? Nothing? A blind ant like you wouldn't know the first thing about flavor or spirit energy." He twisted his boot in the soup next to Yan Chen. "Why don't you fetch me a new pot, or I'll put your head in the stew!"
Yan Chen's vision blurred. The coarse cloth mask covering his mouth was half-torn now, and the acrid sting in his throat felt like kerosene. The disciples towered over him, eyes full of sadistic pleasure. "I… I was carrying the pot!" he croaked, raising his good arm. "I fell — I didn't mean to—"
"Save it!" Qi Hu sneered, spitting on the floor. His eyes glittered with contempt. "Maybe you think you're some divine chef? You better show us a miracle, slave," he taunted. He kicked Yan Chen in the side, sending him sprawling backward.
But then something miraculous happened: adrenaline surged through Yan Chen, guiding his instincts. He lunged and grabbed the edge of the broken pot Qi Hu had again lifted. The clay rim bit into his palm, but with a grunt Yan Chen yanked it free. Instead of falling, the pot lodged in his grip as if defying Qi Hu's attack.
Qi Hu charged again, but Yan Chen twisted aside and avoided him. Qi Hu tripped over a displaced bundle of firewood and slammed into a nearby stove.
"Ahh!" Qi Hu howled, dancing frantically as his long braid caught flame. A burst of fire flared, and the kitchen guard thumped it out with a ladle, cursing. For a heartbeat, the entire kitchen froze in shock.
Yan Chen stood in stunned silence, the broken pot still clenched in his hand. None of this was possible. Suddenly he noticed something: the leather-bound cookbook he had brought with him lay on the counter, its first page glowing faintly with golden script. Legends said this book belonged to a Culinary Deity. Yan Chen's heart thumped — had the book awakened along with him?
An old kitchen guard, a burly man with a scar on his cheek, stormed over. "Clean this mess up!" he barked, though his eyes remained on Yan Chen. Qi Hu scowled, his bravado shaken.
Yan Chen caught the scent of his own Bacon-Spiced Broth bubbling on the stove. Almost on instinct, he reached into a pouch at his waist and pulled out a dried chili pod and some crushed ginger root. He sprinkled the chili seeds into the cauldron, then dropped in the ginger. A hiss of steam erupted. Finally, he uncapped a small flask of golden sesame oil and dripped a few drops in.
The air shifted. The new aroma was intoxicating — fiery and rich, with a smoky-sweet undertone. Qi Hu scrunched his nose in surprise. The wiry disciple raised an eyebrow. The guard leaned over the cauldron, sniffing curiously.
"What… what did you put in there?" the guard demanded.
Yan Chen swallowed, voice still raspy. "Just some chili, ginger, and oil," he answered. "I thought it needed a bit more… depth."
The guard took a careful sip. His eyes went wide. "It's… exquisite," he murmured, astonished. "The usual stew is fine, but this… this is like tasting a memory. Fiery, yet comforting. Layers I never sensed before."
He handed the bowl to Senior Chef Yao, who had just arrived at the doorway. The entire kitchen leaned in as Senior Chef Yao, the sect's legendary Culinary Elder, sniffed the air and lifted the bowl. She tasted the broth with deliberate slowness, eyes closed.
After a moment, Senior Chef Yao's eyebrows shot up. "Remarkable," she whispered. "The balance… the herbal notes heal the edges of bitterness. I sense Qi — direct cooking Qi." She opened her eyes and stared at Yan Chen. "Who cooked this?"
All eyes turned to Yan Chen. He stood taller, adrenaline and excitement coiling in his veins. Qi Hu's face twisted in disbelief. The wiry disciple stammered, "Our kitchen hand here did it — I tripped him and he…"
Senior Chef Yao raised a hand. "Silence." She turned to the guards. "Remove his collar," she commanded calmly.
Fear and confusion gripped Yan Chen. The guards exchanged glances, then stepped forward. Gently, they untied the crude red pepper branch that hung around Yan Chen's neck — the token of his lowly status. As the cord hit the stone floor, Yan Chen sucked in a breath. For the first time since coming to this world, he felt unshackled.
He stepped toward the open doorway, the cool night breeze brushing his face. Clenching his fists beneath the swirl of debris, Yan Chen made a silent vow: I will not remain a kitchen rat forever. They will all one day kneel before me.
At that moment, something caught his eye. There, framed in the doorway, was a slender figure: a young woman with long black hair and a jade hairpin. She wore the same green-and-red uniform but carried herself with calm confidence. Her eyes met Yan Chen's for an instant — curious, assessing — then she slipped away into the shadows of the courtyard. Yan Chen's heart fluttered. Who was she?
Senior Chef Yao lowered the empty bowl onto the counter and eyed Yan Chen critically. Qi Hu scowled in the background.
"Yan Chen," she said at last, voice crisp, "you display talent… or at least instinct. The Perplexing Spice Sect will hold its Jade Petal Feast next month. I suspect the sect head will want to know the story behind this stew. Finish your duties here. Then come find me in the kitchen garden — there's someone who wishes to speak with the maker of this stew."
Yan Chen nodded, voice steady. "Yes, Senior Chef," he replied. His heart pounded, but he bowed and returned to his work.
He had barely shuffled back to the stove when he thought of the Jade Petal Feast. He had caught only whispers of it before — the sect's grand banquet contest, where cooks displayed their mastery to the sect head and honored guests. If he were allowed to compete, he could rise far above his current station. This night's events were only the beginning of his journey toward greatness.
Yan Chen returned to the stove with renewed purpose. Even Qi Hu's grumbles felt hollow now. He focused on stirring the broth with careful precision, every motion a reminder of his silent promise. The fragrance of spices and ambition filled his senses, and for the first time, he felt truly alive in this new world.
He rubbed the spot on his neck where that crude collar had chafed. Free of it, the seed of ambition that had been planted within him only grew stronger. The Perplexing Spice Sect had seen a glimpse of Yan Chen's potential — and he would not let it go to waste.
Yan Chen allowed himself a small grin. Perhaps this reincarnation, after all, might come with a purpose beyond mere servitude. He had awakened in this world with a purpose and a power that he was only beginning to grasp. The heat of destiny had just begun.
He took a deep breath, savoring the moment. Whatever lay ahead, he would meet it head on — with the knowledge that the Heavenly Kitchen itself had chosen him for greatness. He was ready to rise from the ashes of humiliation and prove the legend of the Heavenly Kitchen in his own way.