The following morning, the preliminary trial was announced to be a test of steadiness: each candidate would be given a single, humble root and a cauldron of plain stock. Within an hour they must coax from that root a broth capable of soothing a tense nerve. No fancy ingredients. No borrowed trickery. Only taste, heart, and Spirit Essence.
Yan watched as Qi Hu swaggered forward, knife glittering. He strolled like a peacock, full of confidence and threats. He could see his cronies shifting in the crowd, eyes already writing the victory speech in their hearts.
The trial began.
Knives flashed. Lids lifted and closed. Lowlights of steam pulsed like heartbeat.
Yan placed his root before him, a gnarled thing that smelled of earth and forgotten rain. He closed his eyes, placed a hand over it, and drew breath.
Taste thread.
The five threads—salt, sour, bitter, sweet, umami—surfaced like fish in a clear pond. He plucked them one by one, but this time he wove them not like chords but like a tapestry. He recalled Master Gao's words: "Not with mouth, with mind." He tasted memory of his grandmother stirring a pot as rain pattered against corrugated tin. He threaded it into the umami like a seam, binding the flavors.
Time blurred.
Qi Hu's broth hissed, loud and showy, perfumed with pepper and gold flakes—flash, not substance. He smirked, certain the elders would swoon at his bravado.
The judges moved among the stations, sipping silently, faces like unturned soil. The Grandmaster watched Yan for a long time, as if measuring his heartbeat against an invisible metronome.
The horn sounded.
Elders lifted spoons.
Yan's hands moved with the rhythm of everything he had learned: hold, pour, let breathe, coax the memory back, stitch Spirit Essence until the soup hummed like a well-tuned instrument.
He presented his bowl.
Master Wu tasted first. His face softened minutely, then hardened into inscrutable stone. Old Taste nodded almost imperceptibly. Chen Jin inhaled, eyes closing, then opened and beamed the tiniest smile. The Grandmaster's spoon descended. He tasted. A silence followed that felt like a held breath.
Then—slowly, like tea leaves unfurling—the Grandmaster's mouth curved.
Approval.
Qi Hu's face blanched.
Elder Chen Jin rose and announced, "Yan Chen passes the preliminary trial."
A cheer erupted from parts of the hall. Some apprentices who had earlier turned a blind eye applauded; others, like Qi Hu's crew, clenched as if wringing knives. Yan's chest felt as if it would burst. He bowed deeply.
Gao clapped him on the shoulder. "Good. The Vault door might yet listen to you." He handed him a thin slip of parchment bearing the sect's stamp: a token to request an audience at the Vault.
But as Yan raced out with the token burning a hole in his palm, a hand clamped down on his shoulder from behind. It was Qi Hu—tight, aggressive, smelling of sweat and raw spice.
"Enjoy your victory today," Qi Hu hissed close to his ear, voice low and mean as a broken whisk. "But the Vault won't open for the likes of you. Remember this: the Mountain doesn't favor boastful mouths. And if you steal something, I'll make sure you rot in the cellar."
Yan met Qi Hu's glare, and instead of recoil, felt a stubborn warmth rise. He tightened his grip on the spoon in his pocket until it hummed louder.
"Then don't try to steal," Yan said quietly. "Let the Vault choose."
Qi Hu's fingers twitched. "We'll see."
Yan stepped away, token in hand, breathing in the world like a man about to taste a new spice.
The path to the Inner Mountain rose ahead of him, threaded with stone steps and lanterns. Beyond it lay the Vault—the sect's silent, jealous heart—and perhaps, behind the Vault's seal, an ingredient that could change his fate.
The golden spoon hummed in his pocket, impatient and bright. Yan felt for the first time more than hunger in his chest. He felt a plan taking shape: to go into the Vault, to win the Jade Petal Feast, to make dishes that could move mountains.
He wanted to prove that a life reborn from city ramen could stand beside immortal banquets.
He wanted to carve his name into the sect's story—one spoonful at a time.
As he climbed the steps toward the Inner Mountain, a shadow moved at the edge of his vision—someone watching from the pines, masked, silent. The eyes that glanced at him were not the eyes of an apprentice. They were older. Sharp as a well-honed blade.
Yan's skin prickled.
Someone else knew about the spoon. Someone else wanted what the Mountain gave.
He couldn't yet see the face beneath the mask. But he felt the look like a spice on the tongue—bitter, unforgettable.
The journey to the Vault would not be about ladles and lotus alone.
It would be a battle for destiny.
And Yan Chen, with a golden spoon and an ancient cookbook, had just opened the first page.