from the Frost Province cold. It wasn't a natural heat; it was the "Spirit-Fire" from the arrays beneath the stoves, a dry, aggressive warmth that felt like it was trying to peel the skin off Ye Feng's face.
"Move it, trash!" the Head Chef barked, his voice straining over the roar of a dozen industrial-sized cauldrons. "Senior Brother Han has requested the 'Heavenly Dew Soup.' If it isn't served in ten minutes, I'm putting your heads in the furnace!"
Ye Feng stood at a side station, his hands deep in a bowl of grey, gritty dough. He wasn't even supposed to be touching the soup; his job was to prepare the "coarse bread" for the servants. But as he worked the dough, he watched the soup station.
The "Heavenly Dew Soup" was a delicate balance of moon-lotus and spirit-water. But the disciple in charge of it was shaking. He was pouring in too much salt, his eyes darting toward the door as if he expected a blow to land at any second.
"He's going to ruin it," Fatty Wei whispered, ducking behind a stack of flour sacks. "And when Han tastes it, he's going to blame the kitchen. We're dead, Feng. I should have stayed in the carriage. I could have been eating silk-wrapped dates right now."
Ye Feng didn't respond. He looked at the Iron Pendant. It was vibrating again, a low hum that only he could feel. It was as if the metal was laughing at the incompetence of the "Immortals" around him.
Suddenly, the kitchen doors swung open with a bang.
Senior Brother Han stepped inside. His hand was wrapped in thick, medicinal bandages—the hand Ye Feng had shattered at the gate. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot with a mixture of pain and humiliated rage. He didn't look like a proud disciple anymore; he looked like a cornered animal.
"Where is my soup?" Han snarled, his voice rasping.
The disciple at the cauldron froze, the ladle trembling in his hand. "I-it's almost ready, Senior! Just one more—"
Han didn't wait. He stepped forward and kicked the disciple in the ribs. The boy flew back, crashing into a rack of spice jars. The ladle fell into the soup with a splash, and the delicate moon-lotus began to wilt into a brown, bitter sludge.
"Useless," Han spat. He turned his gaze toward the corner. He saw the "Mortal" boy who had humiliated him. "You. The farmer. You think you're clever because you have a hard head? Come here."
Ye Feng wiped the flour from his hands. He walked toward the cauldron, his steps silent, his expression a mask of calm that infuriated Han even more.
"Taste it," Han commanded, pointing to the ruined soup. "Taste the failure of your station."
Ye Feng picked up a clean spoon. He dipped it into the blackened liquid and took a sip. It was foul—burnt, overly salted, and stripped of all spiritual energy.
"It's bitter," Ye Feng said simply.
"Like your future," Han sneered. He raised his good hand, Qi flickering around his knuckles like a dying candle. "Since you like the kitchen so much, let's see how you handle the heat."
He lunged. It wasn't a strike meant to kill, but to maim—to burn the "trash" who had dared to stand in his way.
Ye Feng didn't dodge. He didn't have time to be "normal." He felt the heat of the spirit-fire stove behind him and the cold rage in his chest. As Han's hand approached, Ye Feng reached out and grabbed the Senior's wrist.
Sizzle.
The Qi from Han's hand should have scorched Ye Feng's skin. Instead, it seemed to be sucked into the Iron Pendant. Ye Feng felt a surge of warmth—not the dry heat of the kitchen, but a clean, powerful vibration.
"You're wasting the fire," Ye Feng whispered.
He didn't hit Han. He simply squeezed.
Han's eyes went wide. He felt as though his wrist were being held in a hydraulic vice. No, it was worse—it felt like the gravity of the entire mountain was pressing down on that one point of his body. He tried to pull away, but he was rooted to the spot.
"Let... go..." Han wheezed, his face turning purple.
"The soup is ruined because you're afraid," Ye Feng said, his voice dropping into a register that made the flames in the stoves flicker and turn gold. "You're afraid of a farmer. You're afraid of the pain in your hand. And most of all, you're afraid that you aren't as 'High' as you think you are."
Ye Feng shoved him back. Han stumbled, his legs giving out as he collapsed into a pile of vegetable scraps.
The kitchen went deathly silent. The Head Chef stared at Ye Feng as if he were seeing a ghost. Fatty Wei looked like he wanted to faint and cheer at the same time.
Ye Feng didn't look at Han. He turned to the cauldron of ruined soup. He picked up a handful of 'Ghost-Fire' peppers—the ones Old Man Gu had warned him about—and tossed them in. Then, he grabbed a bottle of cheap, fermented grain wine from the shelf.
He poured the wine into the fire beneath the cauldron.
WHOMP.
A pillar of golden flame shot up, licking the ceiling. Ye Feng grabbed the ladle. He didn't use a technique; he used the "Silence" his Grandma had taught him. He stirred the soup with a rhythm that matched the throb of his pendant.
Five seconds. Ten seconds.
The black sludge began to glow. The bitterness evaporated, replaced by a scent so divine, so intoxicating, that even the Head Chef's eyes began to water. It smelled of the sun rising over a field of fresh ginger.
Ye Feng ladled a bowl and set it on the table.
"Drink," Ye Feng said to the shivering Han. "And then leave. If you come back to this kitchen, I won't just break your hand. I'll break your foundation."
Han looked at the soup, then at the boy with the rusty pendant. He didn't say a word. He grabbed the bowl, drank it in one gulp, and scrambled out of the kitchen, his eyes full of a terror that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Old Man Gu, sitting on his stump in the corner, took a long pull of his wine and smiled. "Not bad, brat. But you're going to need a bigger pot. The Elders just smelled that. And they're hungry."