At dusk, a small figure dragged a human-shaped mass nearly twice his size, inching forward down the street.
At this hour, it was hard to spot any pedestrians—only a few vague silhouettes could be made out near the end of the alley.
Ke Ming released the heavy weight he'd been hauling and wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.
So heavy…
Maybe it was because he was still growing, or maybe the months of hard labor were finally paying off. Even full-grown adult "ingredients" could be dragged along the ground without taking too much out of him.
But the one in his hands right now was clearly beyond what he could handle.
Feels like it's over two hundred pounds.
Work was still work—he had to finish it. Besides, something this heavy would keep him fed for days.
"Let go. I'll take it."
A tall figure jogged up, a sack slung over his shoulder—so wide it looked like it could fit two people.
"Brat, this little strength won't make you a good cook."
With some effort, the man pinned the sack under one arm—and with the other, lifted the "ingredient" one-handed.
"Eating my cooking every day and still not getting any stronger."
The Head Chef scolded him, then suddenly spun around, eyes locked on the dark mouth of the alley, and barked coldly:
"You'd better be careful. That one's mine."
"Move. Back to the storage room."
…
Little incidents like that weren't common. In Alley 23, anyone bold enough to provoke the Head Chef of Xinxu Garden either ended up on a plate—or got dealt with quietly.
Even if the Head Chef didn't kill them himself, someone that conspicuous would eventually get targeted by a gang. Their end was rarely peaceful.
Of course, Ke Ming drew even more attention than those loud-mouthed "ingredients." Whether it was his clothes, or the sharpness in his eyes—none of it looked like something a Backstreets kid should have.
Fortunately, his boss's name carried weight:
The Head Chef of Xinxu Garden.
"Head… Chef?"
"What is it? Spit it out—don't stand there squirming."
"Do you know about my parents…"
"Section Head from the Six Association. That's all I know."
The Head Chef cut him off and paused what he was doing.
"Brat, when I pick up an ingredient, do I look like I'm going to ask for their life story?"
"Look at that coat of yours. What kind of people your parents were—you know better than I do."
"Then… the 'Mask'…"
"Dead. Those tin cans still had the nerve to come asking me for money?"
The Head Chef bared his teeth in a grin that made your skin crawl.
"They thought they'd struck gold. By the time they got to me, every one of them was missing an arm or a leg."
"Dead… all of them?!"
"Yeah. Took me forever to pick out the usable meat—then you went and ate it all."
"I… ate it?"
Ke Ming froze, staring blankly at the floor.
"Anyway, how the hell did those guys snatch you out of the Six Association's hands?" The Head Chef clicked his tongue. "Hard to say."
Ke Ming looked down at the cleaver in his hands—the bone chopper he'd been using—and a fury he couldn't hold back surged up his chest.
He raised the blade, turned it, and lunged at the Head Chef.
"You—! The Mask… they killed my parents, and they just… died like that?"
The Head Chef casually knocked the cleaver out of Ke Ming's hands and spoke lazily, as if he couldn't be bothered.
"What are you getting worked up for? You think a few busted tin cans can lay a finger on the Section Head of Section Three?"
He paused, then added as if remembering something trivial:
"Hm. About time."
"W-what…?"
Ke Ming sprang back in terror, curling up like a startled rabbit.
"Starting tomorrow, I'm teaching you to cook."
"Huh? O-okay, Head Chef!"
…
"How did I ever… go blind enough to think I should teach you to cook…"
For the first time in his life, the Head Chef wore an honest-to-god headache on his face. He tilted his head up at the ceiling and covered his face with both huge palms.
Ke Ming sat beside him, perfectly obedient.
The Head Chef shook his head and glared at him viciously—though the way his face had flushed a purplish red made him look ridiculous.
Ke Ming couldn't help it. He snorted, then laughed out loud.
"What're you laughing at? Laugh again and I'll toss you in there to keep the ingredients company."
He kicked Ke Ming, then turned away to clean up the disaster of a kitchen.
"I'll clean it up—"
"You sit there! You're all thumbs. Don't break my tools."
Ke Ming sat quietly in the armchair, craning his neck, trying his best to catch every movement the Head Chef made.
Honestly… maybe what happened before doesn't matter that much.
People have to look forward. There's no benefit to drowning in the past.
He glanced at the Head Chef bustling around, then looked down at the oversized coat hanging off his small frame, and grinned stupidly.
They wouldn't want me to live with hatred on my back, either…
"Brat, what are you thinking about now? If you can't learn this 'Legs-Assemble-Easy' dish today, you're spending Deepnight outside."
"Y-yes, Head Chef! It's just…"
"Just what?"
"This dish name is way too lame. Can we change it?"
…
Northern District of the City — Star Observatory Office
An old man with silver hair wore a dark gray trench coat trimmed in green. A tricorn hat sat on his head, and he adjusted the monocle over his left eye.
"You've confirmed everything?"
A man in a black suit sat upright beside him, fingers interlaced over his abdomen.
"Yes. The murderer is the Head Chef of Xinxu Garden in Alley 23. Male, thirty-five years old. He's undergone advanced tattoo augmentation and is skilled at using knives in combat, though he hasn't received formal training. His overall strength is acceptable. He had one son and one daughter—both deceased. Cause unknown."
"Just him?"
"One child. Six years old. Parents unknown. Background unknown."
"Then let's just kick the door in and settle it," said a tall man in sportswear, irritated, legs crossed as he waved a workshop weapon shaped like a baseball bat.
"Please be patient, my dear Mr. Levert."
The suited man lifted his chin slightly, signaling Levert to sit properly.
"Don't keep calling me 'my dear Mr.'—it gives me the creeps."
Levert folded his arms and stuck out his tongue like he was about to vomit.
"Enough. Quiet."
The old man stood.
"I'll go myself."
The wind lifted the silver hair by his ear. Time had carved deep lines into his cheeks, yet his straight nose and emerald-green eyes still carried an uncommon presence—he wasn't frail with age. He looked, if anything, like a man in his prime.
"Thank you for troubling yourself, Mr. Lovie."
-------
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