Okay, I'll remove the headings from the previous narration and present it as a continuous flow of text.
The sparring matches concluded, leaving the air thick with the scent of exertion and the low murmur of tired, impressed whispers about Harish. He gave Ren a polite nod, attempting to appear as winded as his opponent, but internally, Harish felt a peculiar emptiness. It wasn't fatigue; it was a profound, echoing void in his stomach, a bottomless pit that no amount of Murim fare seemed capable of filling. His System's relentless energy demands, fueling his rapid growth and instantaneous skill mastery, had translated into an appetite of truly monstrous proportions, not just for quantity, but for taste.
The first stop after the martial arts class was inevitably the refectory, a vast, utilitarian hall carved from dark, unadorned stone, filled with long, communal wooden tables. The aroma of simmering chicken type monster meat stew and steamed grains usually sent a comforting warmth through the other disciples. For Harish, it sent a primal, desperate alarm through his very being. It wasn't just that the portions were small; it was that the food itself, while nourishing, was utterly, soul-crushingly bland.
He lined up, clutching his empty wooden bowl, his chubby frame vibrating with an almost imperceptible tremor of anticipation. The kitchen staff, gruff and efficient, ladled out portions. For a regular Murim initiate, the single bowl of hearty chicken type monster meat stew, accompanied by a small pile of dense, steamed buns, was considered a generous meal. The stew, a thin, grayish broth with chunks of tough, stringy monster meat and a few limp vegetables, lacked any discernable seasoning beyond salt, and even that was sparse. For Harish, it was a cruel, culinary joke.
His bowl filled, Harish quickly found a vacant spot at a table. He sat down, took a deep breath, and began to eat. The first bun vanished in two bites, the chicken type monster meat stew slurped down in a matter of seconds. It tasted… functional. Like eating pure sustenance, devoid of joy. Other disciples around him were still gingerly breaking apart their buns, savoring the broth with a discipline Harish simply could not comprehend. Harish, meanwhile, was already scraping the bottom of his bowl, a single, forlorn grain of rice clinging to the wood like a desperate survivor.
"More!" his stomach roared, a deep, embarrassing rumble that Harish tried to suppress with a cough. He glanced around. No one seemed to notice. Good. Must be subtle. Act normal.
Subtlety, however, was not a strong suit when faced with a black hole for a stomach and a palate accustomed to a riot of flavors. His mind drifted, a poignant, almost agonizing memory surfacing. He remembered the vibrant, fiery taste of his mother's chicken biryani, each grain of rice infused with aromatic spices, tender chicken falling off the bone. He yearned for the tangy explosion of pani puri, the sweet richness of gulab jamun, the comforting warmth of a spicy dal, scooped up with fluffy naan. Back in xxxxx, food wasn't just sustenance; it was an experience, a celebration of life, bursting with chilies, turmeric, cumin, and garam masala. This Murim food, by contrast, felt like eating flavored cardboard.
Harish tried the "look innocent and get back in line" strategy. He walked with a casual stroll, attempting to blend in with a fresh batch of students coming in. He even hummed a little tune, perhaps one he'd heard from a street vendor back in India. He approached the serving window again, holding his empty bowl.
The kitchen matron, a woman with arms like tree trunks and an expression carved from granite, squinted at him. Her eyes, sharper than any battle-hardened Murim master, swept over him. "You just went through, boy. Your memory failing you already?" she grumbled, ladle hovering menacingly over a steaming vat of the same bland stew.
Harish plastered on his most innocent, chubby-cheeked smile. "Oh, no, Matron! I-I was just helping my friend, you see. He, uh, he left his bowl. So I'm just getting his portion!" He gestured vaguely towards a bewildered Lysander who was still halfway through his own meal, slowly savoring his bland stew.
The matron's eyebrow rose, a truly impressive feat of facial acrobatics. She didn't say anything, but her gaze was a physical weight, like a thousand-ton boulder. Harish knew he was busted. He mumbled an apology and retreated, his cheeks burning, his stomach still protesting with a groan loud enough to make a nearby disciple look up, momentarily confused.
His next strategy involved befriending other disciples and subtly hinting at his "insatiable metabolism" or "unique dietary needs." Lysander was too disciplined to waste food, and anyway, he clearly enjoyed the Murim fare. Borin ate like a true craftsman, savoring every bland bite, completely oblivious to Harish's internal culinary despair. Seraphina ate almost nothing, her delicate movements making Harish feel like a gluttonous beast whose primary purpose was consumption.
"Hey, uh, you gonna finish that?" Harish asked a younger initiate with hopeful eyes, gesturing at a half-eaten bun. The initiate, startled, quickly finished his bun and clutched his bowl tighter.
This is a problem, Harish decided, massaging his rumbling belly. A very, very big problem. Not just the quantity, but the quality. My taste buds are in mourning. He had briefly considered trying to sneak into the kitchen after hours, but his Primal Insight, while not explicitly forbidding it, showed him a myriad of embarrassing failure scenarios, none of which involved satisfying his hunger and finding something with actual flavor. The sheer level of inner energy flowing through him, constantly being refined and expanded, simply demanded more fuel than these ascetic Murim meals provided. It was a silent, relentless drain, leaving him perpetually on the brink of starvation and culinary despair.
He dragged himself to his second class of the day: Murim History and Lore. The lecture hall was dimly lit, filled with ancient scrolls and dusty tomes. Elder Jin, a venerable scholar with a wispy beard, droned on about ancient sects and forgotten battles. Harish tried to focus, he truly did, but his stomach had now advanced from rumbling to an intermittent, mournful growl. Every mention of "legendary feasts" or "victorious banquets" in the historical accounts sent agonizing pangs through his core, not just for food, but for good food. He scribbled notes, but half his brain was consumed with calculating how many plates of spicy chole bhature he could hypothetically eat before exploding. Seven? Maybe ten? No, definitely twenty. At least.
After what felt like an eternity, the classes for the day finally concluded. Harish joined a long queue of initiates, all shuffling towards a smaller, austerely designed building adjacent to the main training hall. This was the Dormitory Allotment Office. The structure itself was a quintessential example of Murim architecture: solid, imposing, built from dark, unyielding granite, its roof tiled with heavy, charcoal-grey ceramic. It rose three stories high, its windows narrow slits designed for defense rather than light. A single, heavy wooden door, reinforced with iron bands, served as the entrance.
Inside, the office was equally spartan. A single, long wooden counter separated the students from a weary-looking scribe. He sat hunched over a massive, bound ledger, its pages yellowed with age, a brush pen moving meticulously across its surface. The air was cool, carrying a faint scent of old paper and stone.
"Name?" the scribe grunted without looking up as Harish reached the front of the line.
"Harish," he replied, trying to sound as unremarkable as possible.
The scribe's hand paused, then he slowly lifted his head, his tired eyes widening almost imperceptibly. He scrutinized Harish, then looked back at the ledger, his gaze lingering on a particular entry. Harish felt a familiar prickle of apprehension. His "anomaly" status preceded him, even in dormitory assignments.
"Ah, yes. Harish. Special allocation," the scribe finally announced, his voice devoid of emotion, almost a flat pronouncement. He slid a small, intricately carved wooden token across the counter. "Dormitory 3, Room 17. Shared occupancy." He pointed a bony finger at a specific entry. "Your roommate is… Cheon Woo Jin."
Harish blinked. Cheon Woo Jin? The silent, intense one who always seemed to be lurking in the shadows? The one who gave off serious 'don't talk to me' vibes? Great. Just what I needed. More privacy gone. He swallowed, the thought of his System notifications popping up under a watchful eye sending a shiver down his spine. "Thank you," he mumbled, trying to decipher the unreadable expression on the scribe's face, now laced with a hint of something Harish couldn't quite place – perhaps amusement, perhaps pity.
He navigated his way through the sprawling dormitory complex. It was a maze of austere hallways, their stone walls cool to the touch, echoing with the distant sounds of other initiates. The building was designed as a series of quadrangles, each enclosing a small, minimalist training courtyard with a single, gnarled pine tree at its center. The architecture emphasized discipline and resilience. The only decorations were simple, carved motifs of ancient Murim symbols, meant to inspire introspection and martial purity.
Finally, he found Dormitory 3, Room 17. The door was heavy, made of dark, polished wood, simple and unadorned. He inserted the wooden token into a small, almost invisible slot, and with a soft click, the heavy door swung inward.
His room was exactly as he expected: minimalist to the extreme. The walls were bare, unpainted stone. A single, low wooden bed frame, covered with a thin, firm futon and a rough blanket, occupied one corner. There was a small, unadorned wooden desk and a single stool. A tiny, built-in shelf in the wall served as a cabinet for personal belongings. The only window was a narrow, high slit, admitting a sliver of natural light but offering no view. It was a room designed for rest and meditation, not comfort or luxury. There was no space for storing hidden snacks – especially not any of the flavorful, spicy treats he so desperately craved.
And then, he saw him. Already settled on the other futon, back straight, an ancient-looking scroll held open in his lap, was Cheon Woo Jin. His grey eyes glanced up as Harish entered, devoid of surprise, as if he had been expecting him. He merely offered a curt, almost imperceptible nod before returning his gaze to his scroll.
Harish's heart sank, his earlier hunger momentarily forgotten in a wave of awkwardness. This was going to be a long stay. He collapsed onto his own futon, feeling its familiar hardness. Well, at least it's private, he had thought. Now, not so much. He reached into his robes, pulling out the single, slightly squashed steamed bun he'd managed to salvage from his earlier "meal." He tried to nibble it discreetly, but the loud grumbling of his stomach betrayed his every attempt at stealth. He swore he felt Cheon Woo Jin's gaze briefly flick towards him before returning to his scroll, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in his focused concentration. Harish sighed, resignation washing over him. The gnawing emptiness was a constant reminder of the physical demands of rapid evolution, and it was a stark contrast to the comforting aroma of garam masala and freshly baked roti that defined his memories of home in India.
He knew his journey in the Heavenly Demon Cult would be filled with intense training, political intrigue, and hidden dangers. But as he lay there, listening to the quiet hum of the ancient dormitory and the subtle rustle of Cheon Woo Jin turning a page, Harish realized his most immediate, pressing challenges weren't some powerful enemy or arcane secret. They were simply figuring out how to get enough to eat – and perhaps, somehow, finding a way to get a taste of home in this world of bland discipline, all while keeping his extraordinary existence a secret from his unnervingly observant roommate.
The heavy wooden door of Room 17 closed, sealing Harish's immediate future with the mysterious Cheon Woo Jin. How will this close proximity impact Harish's hidden growth, and what unexpected turns will their shared destiny take within the Heavenly Demon Cult?