It was the most magnificent thing he had ever tasted in his entire, short life.
"It's... It's not poison," the boy whispered, a single tear tracking down his cheek. "It's... it's salvation."
He didn't take another polite bite.
Then he shoved his face into the bowl, shoveling the rice and pork into his mouth with the frantic, feral desperation of a starving wolf.
That was the catalyst.
The hall erupted.
The sheer, undignified sounds of three hundred teenagers aggressively gobbling down food echoed through the pavilion.
Chopsticks clashed like swords.
Disciples fought over the remaining lotus roots.
They lifted the massive serving vats, practically licking the spicy glaze off the cast iron.
The fear entirely vanished, replaced by a ravenous gluttony.
"More! Martial Uncle, please, we need more!" a girl cried out from the back, holding her empty bowl up like a beggar, her face smeared with sauce.
