Slowly, the other staff members began to gather behind the Head Chef. There were about twenty of them—sous chefs, dishwashers, vegetable choppers. They all possessed weak cultivation, barely reaching the 3rd or 4th stage of Dou Zhi Qi, and they stared at the empty bamboo steamers in absolute, horrified silence.
Chef Zhang, a burly man who had recently broken through to the 1-Star Dou Shi realm, stood frozen. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a grease-stained towel, looking from the towering stacks of empty plates to the slender youth sitting calmly at the wooden table.
In a normal establishment, Zhang would have thrown a glutton out by the collar. But this was the Xiao Clan estate. And the youth wiping his mouth with a linen napkin was Xiao Ning, the direct grandson of the First Elder. To lay a hand on him, or even raise his voice in open disrespect, was a quick way to lose his position—or his hands.
"Young Master Ning..." Chef Zhang began, his voice tight, carefully suppressing his rising panic. He offered a stiff, mandatory bow. "Forgive my intrusion, but... you have just consumed the entire morning nutritional quota for the Third Patrol Team. They will be returning in any hour."
Yoriichi paused, placing the napkin neatly on the table.
He didn't flinch, nor did he display the arrogant, defensive bluster the kitchen staff expected from the pampered young master. Instead, his crimson eyes swept over the empty plates, his mind rapidly processing the situation through a purely logical lens.
'I miscalculated the logistical impact of my biological requirements,' Yoriichi noted internally. 'Sun Breathing forces this mortal vessel to burn calories at an exponential rate. By satisfying my own bodily deficit, I have inadvertently depleted the operational resources of allied guards.'
It wasn't a feeling of melodramatic shame or guilt; it was the cold, pragmatic realization of a tactical error.
Yoriichi stood up, his posture flawlessly straight. He did not look full, sluggish, or sick. His body had already begun instantly converting the massive amount of food into pure, burning vitality.
"I see," Yoriichi replied, his voice a calm, even rumble that lacked any trace of apology, but rather conveyed absolute acknowledgement. "My physical conditioning required a vast excess of sustenance this morning. I did not consider the patrol rotations."
Chef Zhang swallowed hard, unsure how to respond to the eerily mature, emotionless tone. "Young Master, we do not have the raw ingredients to cook another batch in time..."
"Calculate the total market value of the ingredients I consumed," Yoriichi instructed, cutting him off smoothly but without malice. "Include a twenty percent surplus for the inconvenience caused to your kitchen's schedule. Send the final tally to my courtyard by this evening. I will compensate the hall from my personal funds."
Zhang blinked in profound shock. The famously bratty and unreasonable Xiao Ning was offering financial compensation? And acknowledging an inconvenience?
"Y-Yes, Young Master. As you command," Zhang stammered, bowing a little deeper this time, genuinely thrown off balance by the youth's imposing, icy tranquility.
Without another word, Yoriichi turned and walked toward the heavy oak doors of the Cooking Hall.
The sea of servants hastily parted to let him pass, keeping their heads bowed. The moment the heavy doors clicked shut behind him, sealing him outside in the bright morning sun, the kitchen erupted into frantic, hushed whispers.
"Did you see that? He ate twenty men's worth of food and didn't even burp!" a dishwasher hissed.
"Is he cultivating some demonic beast technique?" a vegetable chopper muttered. "And since when does Young Master Ning offer to pay for anything?"
"Silence!" Chef Zhang barked, slamming a heavy iron ladle against a metal stockpot. The gong-like sound instantly silenced the room.
Zhang's eyes flashed with stern warning. "He is the First Elder's bloodline. If I hear a single one of you gossiping about the main family's business, I will personally throw you out of the estate gates. Get the reserve flour from the cellar! We have fifty guards to feed in an hour. Move!"
Outside, the bright sunlight washed over Yoriichi's face.
He walked down the manicured stone paths of the clan compound, his gait smooth and perfectly balanced. The intense fatigue from his morning training was completely gone, replaced by a roaring, vibrant heat in his muscles. The caloric intake had done its job perfectly.
However, a new, pressing issue had arisen.
'I promised to pay the kitchen,' Yoriichi thought, his analytical mind sorting through his current assets. 'But my grandfather severely restricted my monthly gold allowance after my prior disciplinary infractions. Purchasing the medicinal herbs required for my meridian recovery will also require significant capital. Relying on the clan's allowance is a fragile, dependent strategy. A warrior must be self-sufficient.'
He could not ask his sister, Xiao Yu. It was a matter of basic self-respect; a man did not burden his family with his own logistical shortcomings.
He needed a trade. He needed a method to generate wealth and resources independently, one that relied on his own two hands rather than his grandfather's political shadow.
As he walked aimlessly through the eastern logistical sector of the compound, lost in calculation, a distinct sound cut through the quiet morning air.
CLANG.
It was clear. Sharp. Heavy.
CLANG. WHOOSH.
Yoriichi stopped instantly. His ears, sensitive enough to hear a demon's heartbeat from a mile away, twitched.
It was the unmistakable sound of a heavy hammer striking red-hot iron. It was the roar of bellows feeding a hungry, suffocating fire. It was a chaotic, industrial rhythm, but to Yoriichi, it was a sound he understood deep within the very marrow of his bones.
He looked up.
A few hundred yards away, situated at the edge of the compound to keep the heat away from the residential sectors, sat a large, squat building built of dark basalt. Thick columns of black smoke poured from its stone chimneys, and the ambient air around it shimmered with waves of intense thermal distortion.
A heavy, scorched wooden sign hung over the wide, open entrance: Xiao Clan Smithing Hall.
Yoriichi stared at the billowing smoke.
In his previous life, he had wielded a blade that was the absolute pinnacle of human metallurgy—a Nichirin sword that drank the sunlight. He understood the soul of steel better than any living man. He understood that a sword was not merely a tool for slaughter, but a sacred vessel forged from the unyielding spirit of the wielder.
And right now, feeling the distant, dry heat wash over his face, a profound, undeniable spark ignited within his ancient soul.
'Fire,' Yoriichi mused, his crimson eyes reflecting the faint, orange glow spilling from the open forge doors. 'Metal. Rhythm. The absolute transformation of raw earth into a polished edge.'
It was a path of creation. A path to forge his own strength in this new world, completely independent of the clan's charity.
Without a single moment of hesitation, Yoriichi altered his course. His silent, measured steps carried him directly toward the roaring fires, drawn by the familiar, comforting song of the hammer and the anvil.