The walk back from the Night-Soil Garden felt like a trek through a minefield laid by a paranoid alchemist. Every rustle of leaves was an assassin sent by Elder Xi. Every distant laugh from a main path was a mocking echo of his impending, ridiculous doom—death by soup. But nestled against his chest, wrapped in a simple cloth that did little to mute its pulsating warmth, was the Scarlet Hell-Volley Mushroom. It felt like a rebellious heartbeat, a secret promise. He had a forbidden ingredient and a potential ally who smelled faintly of fertilizer and revolution. It was something. It wasn't enough to stop the cold dread pooling in his stomach.
The silence from Su Mingyu was a void, a deafening absence that screamed louder than any command. Two days had passed since he'd created a Gold Core cultivator and sent shockwaves through the sect's power structure, and she hadn't so much as sent a servant for a meal. It felt less like being an asset and more like being a bomb that had been left in a room to see if it would go off on its own. Elder Xi's words echoed in his head, a toxic refrain: "She will use you until your value is maximized… and then discard you."
He needed to reassert his value. But he couldn't use Little Mao's mushroom. Not yet. That was a trump card, a secret weapon, and playing it would burn his new, fragile supply line to the ground. He needed something else. A display of skill so undeniable, so public, that it would force Su Mingyu's hand and remind everyone—especially the watching viper—why he was worth more alive than dissected. He needed to cook, not for power, but for political survival.
The opportunity, and the crisis, arrived not with a whisper, but with a cacophony of panic. A commotion erupted near the Reflecting Moon Pavilion—not the organized chaos of training, but the ragged, desperate sound of true fear. A group of outer sect disciples, their faces pale and etched with terror, were carrying a makeshift stretcher toward the Alchemy Pavilion's infirmary. On it lay a young man, maybe sixteen, his body contorted in a grotesque parody of agony, his skin flushed a deep, feverish, unnatural red. Thin, acrid smoke tendrils curled from his nostrils and the corners of his mouth with every ragged, whistling breath.
"Make way! Qi deviation! Make way!" one of the bearers cried, his voice cracking under the strain of both the weight and the fear.
Qi deviation. The boogeyman of every cultivator. The catastrophic, often fatal collapse of one's spiritual energy. The Alchemy Pavilion's disciples at the infirmary entrance looked down their noses, their expressions a mix of annoyance and clinical detachment. They moved with infuriating slowness, as if the boy's life was an inconvenient scheduling conflict.
"Again?" one of them sighed, not even bothering to lower his voice. "Third one this month from the Water-Cutting Blade practice. They never learn to control their ambition. Their foundations are trash."
Lin Fei's new Spiritual Palate flared without his conscious command. He could taste the problem in the air—a scorched, metallic tang of runaway fire qi, burning through the boy's meridians from the inside out like a wildfire in a dry forest. The standard Alchemy Pavilion treatment would be a powerful Frost-Dragon's Breath pill, but his palate screamed that it would be like using a glacier to put out a candle—it would extinguish the fire but leave everything frozen, brittle, and dead. The boy would live, but his cultivation would be shattered, his future extinguished.
An idea, insane and brilliant and terrifying, ignited in his mind. This was it. The public stage. The perfect patient.
"Stop!" Lin Fei commanded, stepping into their path. He channeled every ounce of his Apprentice Chef authority, which wasn't much, but it made them pause. He pointed at the infirmary disciples. "You. Bring him to my pavilion. Now."
The disciples carrying the stretcher stared at him, confused and desperate. The alchemy disciples sneered, their annoyance turning to open contempt.
"Physician Lin," one said, the title a mockery on his lips. "This is a serious medical condition. A matter of spiritual collapse. Not a matter for… nutritional therapy." The other disciples snickered.
"His dantian is cooking itself," Lin Fei shot back, his voice hard, cutting through their derision. He pointed at the smoking boy. "Your Frost-Dragon pills will save his life and shatter his cultivation. I can save both. Now, unless you want to explain to the Sect Master why you denied her personal physician a patient in need, you will get out of my way."
The threat of Su Mingyu's name worked like a charm. It was a card he hated to play, but it was the only one he had. The alchemy disciples hesitated, their sneers faltering, then stepped back with grudging, suspicious looks. The bearers, desperate and seeing any hope as better than none, didn't need further encouragement. They hurried the stretcher into the Reflecting Moon Pavilion, laying the shuddering boy on the floor.
Lin Fei's heart was a trip-hammer. This was it. A public test. A patient everyone had seen. A result that would be impossible to hide.
The boy, introduced by a sobbing friend as Zhiruo, was in bad shape. His skin was hot to the touch, radiating a dry, dangerous heat. Lin Fei's Spiritual Palate confirmed the diagnosis: a raging inferno of uncontrolled fire qi, a Meridian Combustion.
[Condition: Meridian Combustion. Cause: Forced assimilation of incompatible Fire Sparrow marrow. Recommended Treatment: 'Mountain Spring Cool-Fire Broth'.]
The system provided the recipe in a flash. It required a delicate balance: the cooling essence of Frost-Dew Lotus roots, the stabilizing property of Granite-Bark fungus, and a core ingredient—the still-beating heart of a Glacial Salamander, a low-level beast known for its innate ice affinity.
He had the first two in his standard, 'mundane' ingredient stash. The heart was the problem. It would require a trip to the Beast Tamers' yard, a formal request that would be logged, noticed, and questioned by Elder Xi's faction. There was no time. Zhiruo shuddered violently, a small, actual flame licking from his lips. The disciples in the room gasped, recoiling.
Think. Think. He was a chef. A chef improvised. A chef used what was on hand.
His eyes landed on the spirit icebox, used for storing perishables. And on the blocks of clear, pure ice within, infused with simple chilling runes. Not a living beast's heart, but… a core of pure, stable, intense cold. A symbol. A focus.
It was unorthodox. Insane. The system flashed a warning about unpredictable energy reactions and spiritual feedback loops. But it was all he had. It was a gamble with a boy's life, but the alternative was a guarantee of his ruin.
"Everyone out!" he ordered, his voice brooking no argument. "And someone get me a block of ice from that box! Now!"
They scrambled to obey, fleeing the intensity in the room. The moment the door shut, Lin Fei became a whirlwind. He smashed the Frost-Dew Lotus roots with the flat of his knife, releasing their cool, watery essence into a pot. He shaved the Granite-Bark fungus into a fine, earthy powder, its scent a grounding counterpoint to the chaotic heat. He combined them, pushing his qi into the mixture, not to heat it, but to weave it, to harmonize the cooling and stabilizing energies into a cohesive whole.
The block of ice arrived, carried by a wide-eyed, terrified disciple. Lin Fei took it. This was the crazy part. Using his sharpest knife, he carved the block, his movements swift and sure. He didn't just chop; he sculpted, shaping the ice into a perfect, crystalline, anatomical heart. He pushed his qi into it, activating the simple runes to their maximum capacity, focusing and intensifying their chilling power into the symbolic shape. He was not just making a ingredient; he was making a concept. The idea of cold. The essence of stillness.
He plunged the ice-heart into the simmering broth.
The reaction was instantaneous and beautiful. Instead of melting catastrophically, the ice-heart glowed with a soft, steady blue light. The broth swirled around it, the conflicting energies of fire-suppression and intense cold not fighting, but dancing, held in perfect, precarious balance by the Granite-Bark powder and Lin Fei's guiding, weaving qi. The aroma that filled the room was incredible—the crisp, clean smell of a winter morning after a storm, the promise of an end to fever.
He strained the now-tepid, shimmering blue broth into a bowl. "Hold his head up," he instructed Zhiruo's friend, his voice calm now, the calm of the eye of the storm.
He poured the broth down the boy's throat.
A collective breath was held from the disciples watching through the cracks in the door. For a moment, nothing happened. The silence was absolute. Then, a visible wave of cool blue energy washed over Zhiruo's body from his core outward, like a tide of moonlight. The angry red flush of his skin receded, replaced by a healthy, normal pink. The smoke from his nose and mouth ceased. The terrible tension drained from his contorted limbs, leaving him limp but peaceful. His breathing, which had been ragged and shallow, evened out into the deep, rhythmical breath of peaceful, healing sleep.
A moment later, his eyes fluttered open. They were clear, aware, and most importantly, free of pain. "I… what happened?" he whispered, his voice hoarse but steady, his gaze lucid. "It doesn't… hurt anymore."
His friend burst into tears of pure, unadulterated relief, clutching his hand.
The disciples in the room stared, first at Zhiruo, then at Lin Fei, with something akin to religious awe. They had just witnessed a miracle that defied alchemical doctrine. They had seen soup perform a exorcism on a qi deviation.
The door to the pavilion swung open. The audience had arrived, drawn by the culmination of the spiritual event.
Su Mingyu stood there, flanked by two stern-looking elders Lin Fei didn't recognize. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes took in the scene in a single, comprehensive glance: the healed disciple sitting up, the weeping friend, the bowl in Lin Fei's hand, the lingering, miraculous scent of the broth in the air.
And just behind her, her face a thundercloud of fury and thwarted opportunity, was Elder Xi. Her plan to let him languish in obscurity had just spectacularly exploded.
"Sect Master," one of the alchemy disciples from outside stammered, bowing so deeply he almost toppled over. "The physician, he—he treated a qi deviation! With soup!"
Su Mingyu's gaze finally landed on Lin Fei. A slow, deliberate, triumphant smile spread across her face. It wasn't a warm smile. It was the smile of a gambler who has just seen the dice land exactly where she needed them, the smile of a general whose secret weapon had just performed flawlessly on the battlefield.
"It seems my investment continues to yield… unexpected dividends," she said, her voice carrying easily through the silent, awe-struck pavilion. She turned to the elders beside her. "You see? This is the 'nutritional therapy' I told you about. Unconventional, yes. But the results…" She gestured to the healed Zhiruo. "…speak for themselves." She was selling it, using the public miracle to legitimize him to the higher, skeptical echelons of the sect. He was no longer her secret; he was her showcase.
Elder Xi could barely contain her rage. Her plan to isolate and pressure Lin Fei had just spectacularly backfired in the most public way imaginable. His value had skyrocketed in front of witnesses. "Sect Master," she said, her voice tight, strained. "This is… reckless in the extreme! To use such untested, primitive methods on a disciple in such a critical state… the risk…"
"The method is tested now, Elder Xi," Su Mingyu interrupted smoothly, her tone leaving no room for argument. She gestured to Zhiruo, who was now trying to stand with his friend's help. "And the result is a fully healed disciple, his cultivation not only intact but, I suspect, purified and strengthened by the ordeal. His foundations seem more solid than ever." She looked back at Lin Fei, her eyes glinting with triumphant possession. "Well done, Physician Lin. You have exceeded expectations."
It was everything he'd wanted. Public validation. A check on Elder Xi. His value reaffirmed.
But as he looked at Su Mingyu's victorious face, at the way she claimed his success as her own strategic victory, he felt a cold knot form in his stomach. She hadn't come to check on him during the silent days of uncertainty. She'd only appeared once the success was public, to reap the political reward. Elder Xi was a viper, but Su Mingyu was a falconer, and he was the hooded falcon on her glove. She had thrown him into the arena, and now she was taking the credit for the victory.
She owned him. And the world had just been reminded of it.
The catalyst came that evening, after the pavilion had cleared out and the last of the astonished onlookers had departed. A single, jade slip was delivered not by a servant, but by a flicker of shadow that deposited it on his table and vanished without a sound. It was from Su Mingyu.
The message was brief and devoid of pleasantries. "Your display today was timely. The Grand Alchemy Symposium is in three months. Representatives from all major sects will be there. The Jade Phoenix Sect will host. You will prepare a dish that will be the centerpiece of the event—something that will silence our rivals and cement our dominance. Do not fail me."
The Symposium. A gathering of the very best alchemists in the region, the high priests of the very tradition he was subverting. And she wanted him, a chef, to provide the main event. It wasn't a request; it was a command. It was a declaration of war on tradition itself, and she was throwing him into the lion's den as her champion. The cliffhanger wasn't a shadowy threat in the night. It was an invitation to the brightest, most dangerous stage imaginable, with a thousand hungry, skeptical eyes waiting to see him fall, and one dragon of a Sect Master waiting to see if her investment would pay the ultimate dividend.