The scent of pork bone broth, rich and milky-white after simmering for eighteen hours, was Lin Fan's truest spiritual sense.
It told him more about the world than any jade slip or cultivation manual ever could.
Right now, it told him the old man at his counter was being difficult.
"More pickled radish," the old man grumbled, tapping a gnarled finger on the worn wooden counter. "And don't be stingy, boy."
Lin Fan wiped his hands on his flour-dusted apron.
"Uncle Guo, any more radish and you won't taste the broth. It's about balance. Harmony."
"Harmony won't fill my belly. Radish will. Now hurry up."
With a sigh that fogged in the chilly morning air, Lin Fan complied, adding an extra spoonful of the sharp, crisp radish to the bowl.
He was a young man of eighteen, with the sturdy build of someone who spent his life kneading dough and hauling sacks of flour.
His eyes, usually bright with focus over a bubbling pot, were today shadowed with a quiet grief.
The noodle stall, a simple wooden structure with a faded banner that read
"Lin Family Noodles," felt too large, too empty.
His grandfather was gone.
The funeral had been three days ago. A simple affair, just like the man himself.
The only thing he'd left Lin Fan was this stall, the wok, the knives, and a mountain of debt to the local grain merchant.
As Uncle Guo slurped his noodles with satisfyingly loud gusto, Lin Fan's gaze drifted across the dusty street.
His eyes landed on a splash of color and motion that was utterly foreign to their sleepy, backwater village of Maple Creek.
Three figures, two men and a woman, moved with an unnatural grace.
Their robes, of fine white silk embroidered with silver thread, seemed to repel the very dust of the road.
They walked as if the earth itself was unworthy of their steps.
Cultivators from the nearby Frost Moon Sect.
The villagers gave them a wide berth, their gazes a mixture of awe and fear.
Lin Fan felt a familiar, hollow ache in his chest.
When he was twelve, a sect elder had passed through and, at his grandfather's pleading, had tested him for spiritual roots.
The elder had placed a cold, smooth jade disk on his forehead.
Nothing happened. No glow, no resonance, nothing.
"Culinary Trash," the elder had pronounced, his tone not unkind, but final. "His meridians are clogged, his dantian a barren field. He will live a good, long mortal life. Be content with that."
Be content.
Lin Fan watched the cultivators, their ethereal beauty and unspoken power a world away from his broth-stained apron.
The female cultivator, in particular, was like a painting come to life.
Her features were carved from jade, her long black hair falling like a waterfall of ink.
But her eyes… they were the color of a winter sky, and just as distant.
She held herself with a frosty dignity that made the bustling village market seem vulgar and loud.
They were heading straight for his stall.
His heart hammered against his ribs.
Had they heard of his grandfather's passing? Were they here to offer condolences? Or perhaps… to collect a debt he didn't know about?
The lead cultivator, a young man with a sharp, handsome face and an air of immense self-importance, stopped before the counter.
He didn't look at Lin Fan; he looked through him, his gaze sweeping over the simple stall with undisguised contempt.
"You. Cook," the young master said, his voice crisp. "We require refreshment. Something pure. Your cleanest water and plain rice."
Lin Fan's pragmatic nature warred with a sudden spike of irritation.
Your cleanest water. As if his entire stall was a pit of filth.
"I am a noodle chef, honored immortal," Lin Fan said, keeping his tone neutral. "I specialize in Longevity Noodles. The broth is simmered for a full day and night, the noodles are hand-pulled to perfection. It would be a far better refreshment than plain rice."
The young master's lip curled.
"Mortals and their greasy, decadent food. It clogs the spirit as well as the body. We cultivate purity. We will take water. Now."
The dismissal in his tone, the sheer disrespect for his craft, struck a nerve still raw from his grandfather's death.
This wasn't just about noodles; it was about the only thing he had left.
"I'm afraid I must insist," Lin Fan said, his voice hardening slightly. "The Lin Family Longevity Noodle is known for its clarity and restorative properties. It honors the ingredients. It is… harmonious."
The young master's eyes narrowed.
"Are you arguing with a disciple of the Frost Moon Sect, mortal?"