He placed a hand on the jade hilt of the sword at his waist.
A faint, chilling aura emanated from him, causing the temperature around the stall to drop several degrees.
Uncle Guo, frozen mid-slurp, looked on in terror.
It was then that the female cultivator spoke. Her voice was like the chime of ice crystals, clear and cold.
"Junior Brother Zhang, that is enough. We are not here to intimidate the locals." She turned her winter-sky eyes to Lin Fan. For a fleeting second, he saw not contempt, but a deep, profound exhaustion lurking in their depths. "We will have three bowls of your noodles."
Junior Brother Zhang looked outraged but bit back a retort.
Lin Fan nodded, turning back to his station. He pushed down his anger and focused on what he knew.
He kneaded the dough, his hands moving with a practiced, rhythmic certainty.
He pulled and stretched it, the dough whirling and snapping until it separated into dozens of perfect, uniform strands.
He plunged them into the roaring boil of the broth.
As he worked, he added his finishing touches: a sprinkle of emerald-green scallions, a few drops of fragrant sesame oil, a spoonful of his grandfather's secret-recipe chili crisp.
He presented the three bowls. The broth was clear and amber, the noodles coiled neatly within, the toppings a vibrant contrast.
Junior Brother Zhang sniffed, picked up his chopsticks with disdain, and took a small, reluctant bite.
His face, which had been set in a permanent scowl, underwent a subtle transformation.
His eyebrows twitched in surprise. He took another, larger bite.
The broth was deeply savory, the noodles perfectly chewy, the chili crisp adding a complex, lingering heat that warmed the body without burning.
It was… good. Unbelievably so.
But his pride wouldn't let him admit it.
"Passable," he grunted, shoving the bowl away half-finished. "As expected of mortal slop."
The female cultivator, Leng Xuan, ate with a quiet, elegant precision.
She showed no outward reaction, but she finished her entire bowl.
When she was done, she placed her chopsticks neatly across the empty bowl and looked at Lin Fan.
"The cook was correct," she said, her voice still cold, but now with a thread of something else, acknowledgment. "It was harmonious. The balance of heat and coolness in the spices was… notable."
A warmth that had nothing to do with the stove bloomed in Lin Fan's chest.
It was the first genuine, if reserved, compliment his cooking had received since his grandfather died.
Then Junior Brother Zhang stood, tossing a single, low-grade spirit stone onto the counter.
It was worth a hundred times the price of the noodles, a blatant display of wealth and power.
"For your trouble," he said dismissively, already turning to leave.
"Honored immortal," Lin Fan said, his voice tight. "I cannot change this. My business is copper and silver."
Junior Brother Zhang stopped and slowly turned back, his expression turning dangerous.
"Are you… refusing my payment?"
"I am asking for fair payment," Lin Fan corrected, meeting his gaze. "Not charity."
The air grew cold again, much colder than before.
Frost began to form on the edge of the counter.
"You insolent worm," Junior Brother Zhang hissed. "You think your petty mortal pride is worth my patience? I'll freeze this wretched stall of yours into a block of ice!"
He raised a hand, and the moisture in the air coalesced into a shard of glistening ice, sharp as a dagger, aimed directly at Lin Fan's heart.
Time seemed to slow. Lin Fan saw the murderous intent in the young master's eyes.
He saw Uncle Guo scrambling backward in terror.
He saw Leng Xuan's eyes widen, a hand starting to rise to intervene but too slow.
In that frozen moment, a lifetime of watching his grandfather work flashed before his eyes.
A memory surfaced: his grandfather's voice, stern and steady.
'Fan'er, remember. In our wok, we control the heat. We are the masters of transformation. Even the most violent boil can be soothed.'
Pure, unthinking instinct took over.
As the ice shard flew towards him, Lin Fan didn't duck. He didn't plead.
His right hand, moving on its own accord, dipped a ladle into the pot of still-simmering broth next to him.
With the practiced motion of a cook skimming fat, he swung the ladle forward.
The milky-white broth splashed through the air, meeting the projectile of ice.
There was no dramatic explosion. Instead, there was a violent hiss of steam.
The deadly ice shard didn't just melt; it vanished, its spiritual structure utterly unraveled by the broth.
The liquid didn't stop. It splattered across Junior Brother Zhang's chest.
The cultivator gasped, stumbling back. It wasn't the heat that shocked him.
It was the sensation that flooded his meridians, a chaotic, overwhelming surge of conflicting energies.
The savory umami of the pork bones, the fiery wrath of the chili, the gentle warmth of the sesame oil.
His carefully cultivated frost-based spiritual power shuddered and recoiled, thrown into complete disarray.
He felt his dantian, the core of his cultivation, sputter and grow sluggish, as if it had been filled with mud.
He collapsed to one knee, clutching his chest, his face a mask of pain and utter, incomprehensible shock.
Silence descended upon the street, broken only by the hiss of the steam and Junior Brother Zhang's ragged breaths.
Lin Fan stood, ladle still in hand, his own heart pounding like a war drum.
He looked at the incapacitated cultivator, then at the boiling pot of broth, then at his own hands.
'What… what have I just done?'
His eyes met Leng Xuan's. Her cold composure was shattered.
She was staring at him, not with anger, but with a look of intense, world-altering astonishment.
In the quiet of his mind, a single, impossible thought echoed.
'Culinary Trash?'