Banners hung from the rafters—jade leaves embroidered with the Perplexing Spice Sect's sigil, the spoon entwined with a lotus. At the far end, the Grandmaster sat on a high dais like a stone lantern: calm, weathered, eyes that had seen decades of stoves and wars. Around him curved the Council—Elder Chen Jin, Master Liu, Master Wu, Old Taste—each a different kind of carved verdict. Soldiers in grey stood at intervals, like iron-scented punctuation.
Yan Chen's hands were bound with simple cord. It was not harsh, but it felt heavy as a pot lid when he bowed. The golden spoon in his pocket was chilled against his thigh; the phoenix dew vial was wrapped and sealed under the gaze of a guard. The black petal lay hidden in his palm, folded in cloth like an accusation.
He had been brought before the Council at dawn, paraded by the Enforcer. In the intervening hours, rumors had amplified—humming bowls, a Heavenly Utensil, the Vault's gift, and a masked intruder. The kitchen's silence had become the sect's thunder.
"Yan Chen of the Perplexing Spice Sect," the Grandmaster intoned, voice like steady water. "You who summon the Mountain's attention, stand and tell us plainly: how did you come upon the *Heavenly Cookbook*, and what is the meaning of the black petal that followed your gift?"
Yan Chen raised his head. His mouth was dry as a poorly seasoned pan. He had rehearsed nothing; everything he had done so far had been reactive, instinctual. He could feel the cord bite into his wrists.
"A man at the gate gave it to me," Yan said. "An old man. He said, 'Guard it well.' I—" He swallowed. "I didn't know. The cookbook guided my hands. I never intended to attract the Core's notice like this."
A low hum passed through the Council. Master Liu folded his hands. "A common trickster at the gate of the sect?" he mused aloud. "Curious."
Master Wu's eyes were softer. "Or perhaps fate folded a curious thing into his lap. It happens."
Elder Chen Jin's mouth was a knife in calm. "Fate that draws storms is often a storm in disguise." He glanced at the guards, then fixed Yan with an eagle's stare. "You must understand: the Mountain Core is old and jealous. It chooses rarely and with purpose. The Vault's treasures are older still. That a novice would borrow one is suspic koious to say the least."
Before Yan could speak, Qi Hu stepped forward with a theatrical cough and a glint of triumph. He positioned himself so the Grandmaster's sight would pick up his face first.
"Grandmaster," Qi Hu began, voice sweet as syrup and sharp as a serrated peeler, "if I may—this man is a kitchen servant. He had no right to open the Vault. If, as I suspect, he sought to steal, then perhaps the Vault's gift was not meant for him." He held his chin high, looking every bit the sect scion who was owed attention. "I submit that this man's methods are dangerous and his motives unclear. We cannot have a scullion running about with forbidden relics."
A few suppressed whispers rose. Someone snorted; a younger sectarian muttered, "Nice timing. The same Qi Hu who can't boil porridge without a tantrum…"
Qi Hu's smile did not falter. "I only look to protect the sect, Grandmaster."
The Grandmaster's eyes traveled across the hall like a ladle tasting broth. "You assume theft," he said calmly. "Do you have proof, Qi Hu?"
Qi Hu's confident face faltered an inch. He had the look of someone who had expected others to provide the proof for his accusations.
Yan Chen's voice came out thin but steady. "I did not steal. The cookbook was placed in my bag. I offered it to the Vault. The Vault accepted. They gave me the phoenix pepper dew. I—" He hesitated, conscience rising like steam. "I did not expect the masked figure. I do not know who placed the black petal. It appeared after the Vault opened."
Master Liu stroked his beard. "A black petal—edged in shadow. I thought that motif belonged only to old smugglers who traded with demon-cooks. If that's true…" His words trailed like a knife.
Old Taste tilted his head. "If the Vault's gate yields a violent shadow, it may mean a larger hand is at play. The sect's enemies covet Core-blessed preserves. They would send thieves. Or, darker yet, they would send claimants."
Master Wu's voice was quiet but firm. "Claimants?"
"Yes," Elder Chen Jin replied. "A claim is a spiritual lien. Some groups—less honorable than ours—can mark an item with a binding sigil. Whoever bears the mark must answer to the sigil's holder when the debt is called. Where you found the petal, who left it, Yan Chen? Was it placed on your bowl by that masked intruder?"
Yan felt a hot pressure behind his eyes. He nodded. "They… dashed across the Vault gate and left it there. I tried to stop them but—"
"Weapons," the Enforcer snapped. "Guards chased but the intruder moved like wind. They vanished before we could catch them."
Silence, thick as congealed broth.
The Grandmaster leaned forward, hands resting on his cane. "There are three ways this can unfold." His voice was an old recipe, measured. "One: the sect accepts this as an auspicious sign; you will be taken into training, your gift nurtured, and the Vault's blessing used to strengthen the sect. Two: the sect locks you away until the black sigil's meaning is uncovered and the apparent danger neutralized. Three: the sect uses you as bait, to draw out the claimant and end their threat."
A murmur ran like steam through rice. "Bait?" someone breathed.
The Grandmaster's eyes, however, found Yan. "We will not act without your consent."
Yan's hands cramped. The cord chafed. Bail Yun's presence at the back of the hall was a steady stone—her face unreadable but present. He had to decide without time to think, as if choosing between ingredients when the pot boiled over.
He could be locked away, safe but silenced. He could be trained, offered a path that might turn into a gilded cage. Or he could be used—pit against unknown danger. All had risk.
He thought of the spoon's hum in his pocket. He thought of the cookbook's leather warming like a hearth in midsummer. He thought of the little kitchen in the city and the ramen that had been his last memory—simple, ordinary, and his. If he accepted training, he could learn to control the growing storm inside him; if he stayed silent, he might never taste that world again.
He answered, voice steady. "I will be trained. I want to learn. But I will not be used as bait."
The Grandmaster's eyes held him for a long moment. Finally, the old man nodded. "Learn then. But the sect will not be foolish. You will be under the tutelage of Master Gao—he is skilled in taste mapping and tempering spirit. Bai Yun will be your steward—both as a symbol and a guardian. You will submit to daily checks. You will report your movements. Break those conditions, and the Vault's boon will be sealed."
People exchanged looks. Qi Hu's face was a complex sculpture of fury and humiliation.
Yan bowed, the cord biting. "I accept these terms."
The verdict settled like rice under a lid. Master Gao stepped forward, clasped Yan's wrists and removed the crude cord, replacing it with a lighter silk band embroidered with a tiny lotus. "It is both a bond and a reminder," Gao said quietly. "Wear it with intent."
Bai Yun crossed the hall in three swift strides and placed her hand on Yan's band, thumbs pressing lightly—an odd, private benediction. "Don't embarrass me," she said tersely, but her voice softened: "Learn quickly."
Qi Hu's lip curled. "So the scullion becomes the master's pet and the lady's plaything," he muttered. Several apprentices snickered. For a moment, Yan's temper rose like a scald. He imagined throwing a ladle at Qi Hu's smug mouth.
Instead, Master Liu's dry chuckle cut across the hall. "Qi Hu, control your spice. This man will either be an ally or a lesson. Either way, we will judge by results."
Qi Hu's answer was a forced bow and a low mutter, "As you wish, Master."
---
Outside the hall as the crowd dispersed, Yan felt both relief and a new weight. He had chosen to learn. The taste of possibility was warm and nervous.
Master Gao led him away through narrower corridors. "Tomorrow we begin," Gao said. "But more—there is the matter of the black petal." He sat Yan in a little chamber that smelled faintly of star anise and mildew and produced a small box of polished bone. Inside, he opened it and revealed a handful of scrolls and a single ring of dark metal etched with a serpent.
"You must know," Gao said carefully, "that marks like the black petal are rarely casual. They're a binding. If the masked intruder was indeed a claimant, they will return a message soon. They may send emissaries. Or they may come for the phoenix dew."
"The masked figure said something," Yan blurted. "They said… 'Your first test has begun.'"
Gao's eyes narrowed. He tapped the ring. "There are rumors of a network—rogues who traffic in Core-blessed ingredients and in marks. They call themselves different names depending on the province. The Vault marks and black petals are their signature in some places. They prey on sects when something rare surfaces. Some members are artisans; others are assassins. We don't have reliable proof they exist in force… until now."
Yan's mind jumped ahead to the vial in his pouch. "So they want the phoenix dew?"
"If they do," Gao said, "they will take it by force if they can. Or they will find a way to make you give it up. You must secure the vial. The elders will arrange that. But that is not enough. You have to be ready."
Bai Yun reappeared by the door, leaning in with a folded paper in hand. "The Enforcer found this outside the Vault gate after the intruder fled," she said. "The masked one left a calling card. It's a fan. A cipher built into the folds." She handed the paper across.
Yan unfolded it with trembling fingers. Ink bled like dried soy. In the middle was a painted black petal, edged with silver. Below it were three characters: *Seven Nights Due*.
Gao's face blanched. "A deadline. They give the holder seven nights to deliver the debt, or the mark activates."
Bai Yun's jaw clenched. "So they threaten you to hand over the vial in seven nights."
Yan swallowed the paper as if it were bitter herb. Seven nights. The Jade Petal Feast was thirty days away. The preliminary trial was behind him. He had, at most, a week to prove his worth—or lose everything.
The golden spoon in his pocket warmed at his touch, humming a restrained song. Yan looked at the spoon and then at the black petal.
He had not asked for this life, but it was given. Now it demanded pay.
He could run and hide in the cellar. He could hand over the vial to save his skin. Or he could learn quickly enough to defend what the Vault had entrusted him with.
He looked at Bai Yun and Master Gao. "I'll keep it safe," he said. "And I'll learn."
Bai Yun's eyes were like hard jade. "Then start training. Tonight, you rest three hours. Tomorrow, dawn. And Yan—" she hesitated, then added, softer, "Don't try to do everything alone."
Gao's last remark as he closed the chamber door echoed in Yan's ears: "This isn't just about food anymore. It's about who you choose to feed."
Outside, the mountain wind chewed at the pagoda roofs like a giant tasting spices. Seven nights hung over him like a stormcloud. Yan closed his palm around the black petal in secret, feeling its edge press like a question.
He had accepted training. He had accepted supervision. He had a deadline from a shadowy guild.
He had also just remembered how to dream.
Tonight, he would sleep exactly three hours and then wake to chop lotus and coax phoenix dew into safety. He would not hand the Vault's gift to thieves. He would not be a bait or a bargain. He would, with spoon and pot and stubborn heart, fight the debt.
The spoon hummed softly, as if assuring him that some instruments had more than one song left.
And somewhere in the pines, unseen and patient, something watched him like a palate waiting to judge.