As the first bite of chicken wing entered Feng Zhaotian's mouth, time seemed to pause.
His brows twitched—just slightly. The movement was almost imperceptible, but anyone who knew him well would've recognized it for what it was: utter astonishment.
The outside of the wing was perfectly crisp, the glaze caramelized just right, but it was the taste that struck him dumb. The soy sauce had a deep umami base, layered with garlic that wasn't harsh but mellowed, aromatic. A trace of sweetness danced at the back of the tongue, followed by a soft kick of black pepper that built slowly. He bit down—tender meat, succulent juices, flavors bursting in harmonious waves.
What the hell is this?
His jaw worked slowly, reverently. He didn't speak, nor did he rush the second bite. The silence in the grand living room of the villa grew heavier with every passing second. The staff exchanged incredulous glances, unsure whether to retreat or hold their breath.
Then Feng Zhaotian opened the container of porridge.
The aroma was gentler, but no less tantalizing. Steam curled upward, carrying the fragrance of long-simmered broth, finely chopped scallions, and what looked like silken egg ribbons folded seamlessly into the congee. He took one spoonful—and stopped again.
Smooth. Rich. Subtly seasoned. The kind of taste that lingered on the tongue and warmed the chest. The simplest ingredients, yet executed with a finesse that not even Michelin chefs always managed.
He stared at the spoon for a second longer, lips parting slightly, then muttered under his breath, "Incredible…"
But then, the expression on his face shifted ever so slightly—disappointment.
Not because of the taste. But because there wasn't enough.
He glanced down. Only four wings. A modest serving of porridge. Clearly not a meal intended for a man of his stature or appetite. Just enough to satisfy a teenage girls.
Feng Zhaotian turned his sharp gaze on Dagui, who stiffened instantly.
"Whuch restaurant did you get this?" he asked, voice low but firm.
Dagui, already half-sunk into the marble floor in fear and regret, straightened quickly. "It's not from a restaurant, sir."
Feng Zhaotian frowned. "Then?"
"It's from a food stall… in the Northern District."
A beat of silence.
The moment those words landed, it was as if the entire room collectively gasped. Even the senior butler visibly twitched. The maids paused mid-step. A food stall? In the Northern District?
Everyone's thoughts spiraled into the same mental image—cramped, grimy alleyways, oil-stained carts pushed by sweaty middle-aged vendors, unregulated cooking methods, stray dogs, and flies buzzing over uncovered food. The kind of place where no one with money dared to eat, unless they had a death wish—or a fool's taste.
Feng Zhaotian, however, leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in thought.
"Are you sure?" he asked, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Yes, sir," Dagui replied with a gulp. "It's a small breakfast stall run by a woman and her kids. I went there by accident, really. It's... it's not exactly fancy, but the line was long. I thought I'd try."
For a moment, no one dared to speak. Then, Feng Zhaotian chuckled.
A deep, unexpected sound.
His personal assistant was stunned seeing his reaction.
He had seen him storm out of high-level board meetings, reject multi-million-yuan pitches without blinking, and rip seasoned managers apart with a look. But rarely had he heard him chuckle like this—quiet, amused, and thoughtful.
"They say elegance is in restraint," he murmured, almost to himself. "But this… this is something else."
He stared at the now-empty food container as though it were a relic and thought. How he has traveled the world. Had truffle foie gras in Paris, ate hand-fed Kobe beef in Osaka, even got a privilege of dining at the 'Qing Imperial Banquet cuisine restaurant' in Beijing last winter.
That restaurant was legendary. Situated in a private estate away from the eyes of general public, the cuisine was recreated from ancient recipes passed down from palace archives. It was considered the highest culinary experience money could buy, or at least elites and aristocrates think so.
But this, he thought as he looked at the side of the takeaway box lightly, this humble soy-garlic chicken wing... has shattered every rule he knew about taste.
He exhaled softly, eyes narrowing with a glint of interest.
A new idea had already begun taking root in his mind—an idea that could change the direction of the today's banquet.
Then Feng Zhaotian looked up, his sharp gaze locking onto Dagui's. His voice was calm, but there was a note of unmistakable authority in it.
"Let's go. I want to meet the owner of that food stall personally."
Dagui blinked, stunned. "S-Sir, you want to go to the Northern District?"
Feng Zhaotian's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Why? Is there a problem?"
"N-No... of course not..." Dagui stammered, hesitating for a second. He had more to say, perhaps to suggest he could handle it alone—but the moment he opened his mouth, he saw that Feng Zhaotian had already risen and was striding toward the front door.
Dagui swallowed his words and hurried after him, trailed by a wave of stunned silence. The housekeeper, the assistants, even the seasoned old butler—all watched in disbelief.
---
The black Aston Martin DB12 cruised through the aging streets of the Northern District with sleek defiance, its glossy exterior gleaming under the afternoon sun. In this part of town, such a car was as out of place as a diamond in the mud.
When they arrived at East Food Street, Dagui scanned the row of vendors quickly—but his heart sank.
"The stall's gone," he muttered, looking toward the now-empty space where Li's breakfast stall had stood that morning.
He turned toward his employer, only to flinch slightly. Though Feng Zhaotian said nothing, the shift in his aura was palpable. His calm, composed demeanor gave way to a cold pressure that could freeze the air around them.
Without waiting for a response, Feng Zhaotian opened the car door and stepped out.
Dagui blinked in disbelief. The president was getting out—here?
He scrambled to follow.
The moment Feng Zhaotian's polished shoes touched the asphalt, it caused a ripple across the street. Heads turned. Conversations paused mid-sentence.
East Food Street was still buzzing from the earlier commotion that had unfolded at Li's breakfast stall. Many locals were already whispering about the Li's breakfast stall, who had caused such a stir with her food. Now, another sensation swept the crowd—an expensive luxury car had just pulled up, and out stepped a middle aged man dressed in an impeccably tailored suit with the air of someone like high ranking official.
Several teenage boys on summer break, still loitering near the snack carts and bubble tea stalls, immediately recognized the car model. "That's an Aston Martin DB12!" one of them whispered excitedly. "That's like... millions! What's that doing here?"
"No way... someone that rich actually came to our district?"
They craned their necks to get a better look at the tall, composed middle aged man now walking steadily toward the food stalls, flanked by his nervous chauffeur.
Whispers spread like wildfire.
"Who is he?"
"Did he come to invest in something?"
"Wait, is he here for that breakfast stall?"
But Feng Zhaotian ignored the stares, the murmurs, the astonishment and clearly walked towards the empty spot between nakny food stalls Dagoi has pointed earlier.
---
Xiulan had been in a foul mood ever since the morning.
Li Jianfang's breakfast stall had stirred an unexpected frenzy—her food had drawn a crowd so large that the street practically vibrated with excitement. Word had spread fast, and by the time Li Jianfang packed up with a record profit of three thousand yuan, people were already whispering her name like she was a local legend.
But for Xiulan, it was a nightmare.
Ever since then, passersby had stopped at her stall only to ask about the breakfast stall. None of them so much as glanced at her food. Her stove had long gone cold. Not a single customer had eaten at her stall all day.
She wasn't alone in her bitterness. A few other vendors, those who harbored long-standing jealousy toward Li Jianfang, had gathered around her, joining in her complaints. They grumbled, mocked, and gossiped, but none of it brought Xiulan any comfort. If anything, their words only deepened her frustration.
Just as she was debating whether to close early for the day, a commotion at the far end of the street caught her attention. Conversations halted, eyes turned. A sleek black car had pulled into the narrow street—so glossy, so polished, that it looked like it had rolled out of a movie set.
Xiulan didn't know the brand, but she could tell it was expensive—absurdly expensive. Her eyes widened in awe. Then the door opened, and a man stepped out.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried himself with the quiet authority of a high-ranking official. His tailored suit hugged a strong, disciplined frame. His features were sharply defined, and though middle-aged, he exuded a mature, commanding charisma that left Xiulan completely spellbound.
Her eyes nearly popped out of her head, practically forming red heart shapes. Married or not, her imagination ran wild. Compared to this dignified man, her own husband—a greasy, overweight factory worker—was less than nothing.
To her shock, the man was walking directly toward her.
She barely had time to compose herself before he stopped in front of her stall. She froze, still mesmerized, unable to move or speak.
"Excuse me," the man said, his voice deep and cultured. "Do you know the owner of the food stall that was here earlier?" He gestured to the empty space beside hers.
Xiulan didn't register his words. Her mind was still swirling from the sight of him up close. She might have stood there gawking forever had someone in the crowd not nudged her sharply back to reality.
Finally, the question sank in.
When she saw where he was pointing—Li Jianfang's stall—her expression shifted. The dreamy admiration drained from her face, replaced by a flicker of disbelief... and then fury.
Her breathing quickened. Her nostrils flared.
"I don't know!" she snapped, spitting the words like venom. Then, without sparing him a second glance, she turned on her heel and stormed back into her stall.
Furious now, she began packing up her things, banging pots and slamming lids with loud, aggressive clatter. Her muttering turned to cursing, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. She hurled vulgar insults at Li Jianfang—so crude and venomous that even Feng Zhaotian, who had remained calm until now, frowned in open disgust.
He turned toward Dagui, about to speak, when a teenage boy—no older than fourteen or fifteen—stepped hesitantly toward them.
"Are you looking for the owner of Li's breakfast stall?" the boy asked, a little nervous but curious.
Dagui's eyes lit up. "Yes! Do you know where she lives?"
The boy nodded. "Yeah, she lives just a few streets from here."
Relief washed over Feng Zhaotian's face, and Dagui couldn't help but breathe out a quiet sigh. Without hesitation, Feng Zhaotian gestured for the boy to come with them.
The teenager hesitated at first but then agreed, climbing into the passenger seat of the Aston Martin DB12. He shifted uncomfortably at first, overwhelmed by the plush leather, the glowing dashboard, the rare luxury of it all—but beneath his nerves, he was glowing with excitement.
After all, how often did someone from the Northern District get to ride in a car like this?
----
Inside the Li household, it already 10AM and Li Ziqing stood in front of the wooden counter, sleeves rolled up and hair loosely tied. Beside her, Li Jianfang with apron was working in the kitchen with equal precision as her daughter.
They were preparing feast—a well-earned reward for the record-breaking profit made from the breakfast stall that morning.
But while Jianfang was focused on the ingredients before her, Ziqing's mind was elsewhere. "System," she murmured inwardly as she stirred the broth, "what happens if I don't complete today's mission?"
Then the system's neutral yet strangely chipper voice echoed in her mind:
[Ding... No penalties will be applied for an incomplete mission.]
Ziqing blinked in surprise. "Really? No sudden illness, no point deduction, no... spiritual backlash?"
[Ding... Affirmative. No punishment will be issued. However... Host is encouraged to consider every opportunity to complete the mission for optimal skill progression]
Suppressing a snort, Ziqing shook her head and focused back on the task at hand.
Today's feast was no ordinary one. She hadn't chosen dishes from any imperial menu of the Qing Dynasty—she wanted something more legendary, more symbolic. The dishes she selected came from folklore, mythical traditions, and lost recipes passed down among hermit chefs and spiritual mountain clans—meals that once existed only in whispers and aged bamboo scrolls.
She was cooking and at the same time was teaching Li Jianfang also. At the same time she was subtly transferring her skills directly into Li Jianfang's brain using system granted Skill Echo Coupan.