## Chapter 2: Stable Jobs and Unstable Noodles
The smell hit Wang Ling first. Not the familiar ozone and solder of Shenzhen, but the thick, earthy aroma of manure, damp straw, and the musky scent of the two shimmering donkey-like creatures – "Sky-Donks," Bin had called them. Sunlight, filtered through the violet sky, streamed through gaps in the stable roof, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Wang Ling groaned, rolling off the lumpy cot in the storage shed. Every muscle ached. Shoveling stable muck was harder than any assembly line shift.
He looked at Fluffy, perched on a relatively clean bale of hay. "Morning, buddy. Another glamorous day." He touched his System Inventory. The Gameboy was still there, useless without batteries. The hot sauce bottle felt ominously potent. The water bottle was half-full from yesterday's cautious sips at the pump. And the noodles... his stomach growled fiercely.
*Ding!*
**[Daily Check-in Available!]**
**[Would you like to Check-in now?]**
Wang Ling sighed. "Go on, then. Surprise me." He braced for more impracticality.
**[Daily Check-in Complete!]**
**[Reward: 1 x Swiss Army Knife (12 Functions), 1 x Pack of Instant Coffee (100g), 1 x Roll of Duct Tape (Silver)]**
A small red knife, a foil bag of dark powder, and a heavy silver roll appeared in his Inventory. Wang Ling blinked. A knife? Coffee? Duct tape? Still useless against cultivators, but... marginally more practical than a plush dog? Maybe he could fix something. He left them stored. Practicality could wait. Work couldn't.
He splashed icy water on his face from the pump outside, the shock helping wake him up. Bin arrived moments later, looking slightly less terrified than yesterday, carrying a wooden bowl of the same thick, grainy porridge and a hunk of bread.
"Breakfast," Bin mumbled, placing it on a cleanish patch of stable floor, eyeing Fluffy warily. "Master Fu says... muck out quick today. Extra cartload of spirit-grain chaff arriving for compost." He scurried away before Wang Ling could thank him.
Wang Ling ate quickly. The porridge was bland but filling. He got to work. Shovel, scrape, dump into the small cart. Sweep. Repeat. It was mind-numbing, sweaty labor, but it grounded him. Here, he wasn't the lost transmigrator; he was Wang Ling, stable hand. Simple. Predictable. Safe.
He was wrestling a particularly stubborn clump when a voice rang out, sharp and imperious.
"Bin! Where is that lazy boy? Father requires the Sky-Donks prepared for his journey to Jade Leaf Town! Immediately!"
Wang Ling peeked out the stable door. A young woman stood in the inn's small courtyard. She looked about his age, maybe younger, dressed in robes of deep emerald green, far finer than anything he'd seen on the street. Her dark hair was intricately braided, held with delicate jade pins. She radiated an aura of effortless authority and a faint, palpable energy that made Wang Ling instinctively want to duck back inside. A cultivator. Definitely important.
Bin came running from the kitchen door, wiping floury hands on his apron. "Young Mistress Li Rong! Apologies! I was just finishing the bread... the Sky-Donks... stable boy is mucking..."
Li Rong's sharp eyes scanned the courtyard, landing on Wang Ling half-hidden in the stable doorway, shovel in hand, covered in straw and worse. Her nose wrinkled slightly. "Stable boy? This one? He looks barely strong enough to lift a feed bag, let alone handle Spirit-Grazers." Her gaze swept over him dismissively, seeing only a grubby, Qi-less mortal. It passed over Fluffy perched on a hay bale without a flicker of interest – just a child's toy.
"Y-Yes, Young Mistress," Bin stammered. "He's... new. But he works hard!"
Li Rong sighed impatiently. "Hard work is irrelevant if he can't control the beasts. Father leaves within the hour. Get them brushed, harnessed, and ready at the front gate. And ensure their spirit-water troughs are full with purified spring water! None of that tap rubbish!" She turned on her heel, her robes swirling, and strode back towards the main inn entrance without another glance at Wang Ling.
Bin deflated, then turned to Wang Ling with panic in his eyes. "You heard her! Brush them! Harness them! Front gate! Purified water only! The pump out back won't do; you need the special cask from the kitchen cellar! Hurry!"
Wang Ling felt a fresh wave of panic. Brush giant donkey-things? Harness them? He'd never handled an animal bigger than a neighbor's grumpy cat. And purified water? "Bin, I don't know how..."
"Just do it!" Bin hissed, already running towards the cellar. "Use the soft brushes by the tack! Harnesses are on the wall! Don't get kicked! And for heaven's sake, don't let Young Mistress see you dallying!" He vanished down the cellar steps.
Wang Ling looked at the two Sky-Donks. They gazed back with large, intelligent eyes, chewing placidly. They seemed calm enough. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed a large, soft brush hanging nearby. "Okay... easy now..." He approached the nearest one cautiously.
The Sky-Donk watched him, then lowered its head slightly, nudging his hand with its velvety nose. Wang Ling flinched, then slowly started brushing its shimmering hide. It felt surprisingly warm and smooth. The creature let out a soft huff, almost like a sigh, and leaned into the brushing. Emboldened, Wang Ling worked methodically, finding the rhythm calming. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad? He moved to the other one, who also seemed to enjoy the attention.
He found the harnesses – complex arrangements of leather straps and buckles. It took him a few minutes of fumbling, recalling diagrams from a long-forgotten camping trip, but he managed to get them secured reasonably well. The Sky-Donks stood patiently, seemingly amused by his efforts.
Now, the water. Bin emerged from the cellar, struggling with a heavy stoneware cask. "Here! Purified spring water! Fill both troughs inside the stable! Quickly!"
Wang Ling took the heavy cask. It sloshed. He lugged it inside, pouring the crystal-clear water into the two stone troughs. The Sky-Donks immediately dipped their heads, drinking deeply. He watched them, a sense of minor accomplishment washing over him. He'd done it. He hadn't been trampled or fired.
*Ding!*
**[Host is experiencing minor resource scarcity!]**
**[Contextual Reward Unlocked: 1 x Portable Water Filter Straw]**
A small, plastic tube with a mouthpiece appeared in his Inventory. Wang Ling almost laughed. A water filter? Now? After he'd just hauled the purified stuff? Typical System timing. He ignored it.
He led the Sky-Donks out of the stable. They followed docilely. As he approached the inn's front gate, he saw Li Rong speaking with a stern-looking middle-aged man in even finer robes – her father, presumably, Patriarch Li. A few guards stood nearby, radiating low-level Qi. Li Rong glanced over as Wang Ling approached with the beasts.
"Hmph. Took long enough," she sniffed, her eyes barely registering him. "Ensure their spirit-stones are secure in the saddlebags, Father."
Patriarch Li nodded, his gaze sweeping over the harnessed Sky-Donks with a practiced eye. It lingered for a fraction of a second on the knots Wang Ling had tied – slightly unconventional, but functional. A faint flicker of something – curiosity? – passed over his stern features before vanishing. He said nothing, turning to mount his Sky-Donk. To him, Wang Ling was just background noise, a slightly more competent than expected stable hand. The knots were odd, but not worth remarking upon. He sensed nothing unusual about the boy, no aura, no power.
Li Rong mounted the other beast gracefully. With a final command to the guards, Patriarch Li nudged his mount, and they trotted out the gate, heading down the bustling street. Li Rong didn't spare Wang Ling another glance.
Wang Ling let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He'd survived his first encounter with high-level locals. Barely noticed. Perfect. He turned to head back to the stables. Time to tackle that extra chaff.
* * *
The "spirit-grain chaff" was delivered mid-morning – a towering pile of golden, straw-like husks dumped unceremoniously near the compost heap behind the stable. It shimmered faintly. Wang Ling stared at the mountain. This would take hours.
He grabbed his shovel and started forking it onto the compost pile. It was lighter than manure but dusty, making him cough. After fifteen minutes, he was sweating and covered in a fine golden powder. He paused, wiping his brow. He remembered the System's coffee. Maybe caffeine would help?
He pulled the foil packet from his Inventory. 'Instant Coffee - Dark Roast'. He opened it, sniffing the rich, bitter aroma. Pure nostalgia. He needed hot water. The pump provided only cold. He glanced towards the inn's kitchen. Bin was probably busy. He couldn't just wander in.
His eyes fell on the water bottle in his Inventory. Half-full of cold water. Then he remembered the Swiss Army Knife. He pulled it out. It looked perfectly ordinary to him – red plastic scales, various small tools folded in. He unfolded the small blade, then saw the tiny spoon. Perfect for coffee.
He scooped two spoonfuls of the dark powder into his water bottle. He screwed the lid back on and shook it vigorously. Cold coffee. Not ideal, but better than nothing. He took a swig. Bitter, gritty, but recognizably coffee. A tiny piece of home. He sighed, leaning against the stable wall for a moment, sipping the cold brew, gazing at the mountain of chaff. He missed proper coffee. He missed electricity. He missed not shoveling magical compost.
He didn't see Old Man Fu standing partially hidden by the corner of the inn, observing his break. Fu watched Wang Ling sip from the strange silver bottle. He saw the small red tool in his hand – its compactness, the glint of metal parts Fu couldn't quite make out. He saw the foil packet discarded nearby. *Cold water? Mixed with that dark powder? An odd ritual for a stable boy.*
Fu focused his Qi senses, honed over decades. He felt... nothing. The bottle was inert metal. The red tool felt like mundane materials – plastic, steel. The dark powder? Just dead plant matter. Yet... the way Wang Ling handled them, the slight relaxation on his face as he sipped... Fu remembered the ward surge at the gate. Coincidence was becoming a pattern. *He carries tools of unknown purpose, consumes strange substances. Is it part of his disguise? Or... is this how beings of his level sustain themselves?* Fu filed the observation away. Mundane objects, handled by an apparently mundane boy, yet Fu *knew* he wasn't. The contradiction was fascinating.
* * *
Wang Ling finished the chaff mountain by late afternoon, aching and covered in golden dust. He pumped water over his head and arms, shivering in the cooling air. Bin brought him another bowl of stew and bread. "Master Fu says... well done. With the chaff. And the Sky-Donks." He still eyed Fluffy nervously but seemed slightly less scared of Wang Ling himself.
"Thanks, Bin," Wang Ling said, genuinely grateful. The stew tasted even better after the hard work. As he ate, sitting on an upturned bucket outside the stable, he noticed Bin glancing at the discarded foil coffee packet.
"That powder... what is it?" Bin asked hesitantly.
"Oh, this? Just coffee. A drink from... far away. Helps you wake up," Wang Ling explained.
"Coffee?" Bin frowned. "Like Spirit-Awakening tea?"
"Uh... kinda? But bitter. And this is just instant. You mix it with water." He gestured to the bottle.
Bin looked skeptical. "Instant? Like... pre-made? Doesn't sound very potent." He clearly saw it as a poor substitute for proper cultivation aids. He picked up the empty foil packet, examining it. The shiny material was strange, but not inherently powerful-looking. He crumpled it and tossed it towards the compost heap. "Looks like rubbish." He wandered off.
Wang Ling smiled faintly. To Bin, it *was* just rubbish. Good. He wanted to stay invisible. He touched the Swiss Army Knife in his pocket. Maybe he could whittle something later? Pass the time.
* * *
Two days passed in a rhythm of stable work, simple meals, and System check-ins that continued the theme of baffling practicality:
* **Day 3:** A rechargeable LED flashlight (dead battery), a pack of gum (spearmint), and a basic first-aid kit (band-aids, antiseptic wipes).
* **Day 4:** A roll of twine, a box of matches, and a small, inflatable travel pillow.
Wang Ling stored it all, the flashlight's dead battery a particular frustration. He used the matches to light a small fire in a brazier outside the shed one cool evening, finding comfort in the familiar crackle. Bin saw it and shrugged – mortals often needed fires. Nothing special.
He practiced with the Swiss Army Knife, carefully whittling a small piece of firewood into a rough shape. It was fiddly work with the small blade, but it kept his hands busy. Old Man Fu, watching discreetly from his window, noted the unusual precision of the cuts, the way the small blade seemed unnaturally sharp for its size, but again, sensed no active Qi or power from the tool itself. *A master craftsman's tool, perhaps? Passed down?* The mystery deepened, but only for Fu.
Wang Ling felt like he was settling in. He was dirty, tired, and poor, but he had shelter, food, and relative anonymity. He started to learn snippets of the local language from listening to Bin and the occasional stable-related command from Fu. He learned "water" (*shui*), "food" (*fan*), "brush" (*shua*), and "hurry up" (*gan kuai*!). He was just Wang Ling, the quiet, hardworking stable boy. Perfect.
Then came the Noodle Incident.
It started with hunger. The stew and bread were filling, but bland. Wang Ling craved flavor. He craved his instant noodles. But he needed *hot* water. The kitchen was off-limits. The pump provided only cold. He eyed the brazier where he'd had his small fire the night before. An idea sparked.
After finishing his chores one evening, as dusk painted the sky deeper violets and indigos, Wang Ling waited until Bin had gone home and Fu seemed settled in his room. He gathered some dry kindling and small logs from the woodpile behind the shed. He built a small fire in the brazier using his matches. It caught quickly, flames dancing cheerfully.
He pulled out his thermos and unscrewed the top, revealing the wide mouth. He filled it to the brim with cold water from the pump. He carefully placed it directly into the heart of the fire, nestled among the glowing coals. He knew it was risky – would the stainless steel hold? Would it boil properly? He had no pot.
He pulled out the family pack of noodles, tearing it open. The familiar scent of dried noodles and the enclosed seasoning packet made his mouth water. He tore open the seasoning packet, the spicy, savory powder making him sneeze. He dumped both the noodle brick and the seasoning into the thermos mouth, now nestled in the fire. He found a long, sturdy stick and used it to stir the mixture gently. Steam began to rise.
He was so focused on his culinary experiment, stirring his thermos-noodle-pot, that he didn't notice the figure approaching the back courtyard until a voice spoke, sharp with disapproval.
"What in the name of the Azure Dragon are you doing, boy? Setting fire to rubbish?"
Wang Ling jumped, nearly dropping his stick. Standing a few paces away, silhouetted by the light from the inn's windows, was Li Rong. She'd returned early from Jade Leaf Town. She stared at him, then at the fire, then at the thermos sitting in the flames with some dubious-looking concoction bubbling inside. Her nose wrinkled in distaste. "Is that... are you *cooking* in a fire? With that... metal flask? And what *is* that foul-smelling powder? It reeks of cheap alchemical reagents!"
Panic seized Wang Ling. Caught! By the Young Mistress! He scrambled to his feet, dropping the stick. "Young Mistress! I... I was just... making dinner..." He gestured weakly at the thermos.
"Dinner?" Li Rong stepped closer, peering into the thermos with a mixture of disgust and morbid curiosity. The noodles were softening in the boiling water, the orange, oily broth swirling, releasing a strong, pungent, artificial meaty-spicy aroma. "That looks and smells like poison brewed in a beggar's cup! Are you trying to kill yourself? Or fumigate the stables?" She waved a hand in front of her nose. "Put that fire out immediately! And get rid of that... that *slop*! If Master Fu sees you defiling the courtyard with this... this *cultivation-disrupting* filth..." Her voice dripped with contempt. She saw a dirty stable boy attempting a pathetic, possibly dangerous meal with strange, low-quality ingredients. Utterly beneath her notice, except as a nuisance.
Wang Ling flinched. "But... it's just noodles..." he protested weakly.
"Just noodles?" Li Rong scoffed. "That is no spirit grain! That powder reeks of unstable energies! It's probably attracting vermin spirits! Dump it! Now!" She pointed imperiously towards the compost heap.
Defeated, humiliated, and terrified of angering her further, Wang Ling grabbed the long stick again. The thermos was searing hot. He carefully hooked the stick under the handle, intending to lift it out of the fire to douse it later. But the handle was slick, his grip clumsy with panic. The stick slipped.
The thermos, full of near-boiling, heavily seasoned noodle soup, wobbled precariously... then tipped over.
Time seemed to slow for Wang Ling. He saw the thermos fall sideways, the bubbling orange broth sloshing out, heading straight for Li Rong's expensive emerald green robes!
Li Rong saw it too. Her eyes widened in outrage and disgust. She was a cultivator! A mere stable boy's clumsy accident couldn't touch her! She instinctively raised a hand, summoning a whisper of Qi to form a basic kinetic barrier, enough to deflect a falling object or a splash of water. It was effortless, automatic.
The boiling, oily broth hit her barely visible shimmer of Qi.
What happened next defied Li Rong's understanding of physics, Qi, and culinary disasters.
The broth *didn't* splash. It didn't vaporize. It... *detonated*.
Not with fire, but with pure, concussive *flavor*.
A shockwave of eye-watering, nose-searing, *spiritual* SPICE erupted from the point of impact. It was invisible but tangible – a wave of profound, aggressive "Umami-Spice" essence that hit Li Rong's defensive Qi like a battering ram forged from chili peppers and MSG.
*WHUMPF!*
Li Rong's hastily erected barrier *shattered* like glass. Not just dispelled – utterly obliterated. The force of the spicy shockwave wasn't physical; it was a conceptual assault on her senses and her Qi control. It punched through her defenses and hit her square in the chest.
"GACK!" Li Rong was lifted clean off her feet. Not thrown violently, but lifted and deposited unceremoniously onto her backside three feet away, her fine robes unharmed but now dusted with dirt from the courtyard floor. The breath was knocked out of her. Tears streamed uncontrollably from her eyes, her nose ran, and her mouth felt like she'd swallowed a sun. She gasped, choking on the overwhelming, all-pervading SPICE that seemed to coat the inside of her lungs and short-circuit her meridians. She couldn't form a coherent thought, let alone channel Qi. She just sat there, spluttering, tears and snot mingling, utterly humiliated and spiritually flummoxed.
Wang Ling stared, frozen in horror, the stick still in his hand. The thermos lay on its side near the dying fire, steaming innocently. The spilled broth sizzled on the hot coals, releasing even more potent fumes. Fluffy watched from the stable door, its stitched smile seeming vaguely judgmental.
"Oh no! Young Mistress! Are you alright?!" Wang Ling cried, dropping the stick and rushing forward, genuine terror in his voice. He'd just assaulted a cultivator with noodle soup! He was dead! "I'm so sorry! It was an accident! Please! Let me help you!" He reached out a hand, not knowing what else to do.
Li Rong flinched back, scrambling away from him on her hands and knees like a crab, still coughing and gasping. Her eyes, streaming and red, locked onto him with a look of pure, unadulterated terror and disbelief. Not anger. Not contempt. *Terror.* She'd felt it. Her Qi barrier, strong enough to deflect a thrown rock, had been obliterated by... *soup*. Not by power radiating *from* the boy, but by the *soup itself*. The unstable, foul-smelling concoction he'd called "noodles" contained... *what*?
"St-Stay back!" she choked out, her voice raw. "D-Don't touch me! Y-You... you..." She couldn't articulate it. The implications were too vast, too terrifying. This wasn't a clumsy stable boy. This was... something else. Something hidden. Something that weaponized *lunch*.
She scrambled to her feet, swaying slightly, her face a mess, her pristine aura shattered along with her Qi barrier. She cast one last look of utter dread at Wang Ling, then at the innocuous-looking thermos lying beside the fire, and fled. She didn't run towards the inn; she ran *around* it, towards the main street, vanishing into the dusk like a spooked deer.
Wang Ling stood alone in the courtyard, the smell of smoke and incredibly potent instant noodles hanging heavy in the air. He looked at the spilled thermos, then at the spot where Li Rong had landed. He felt cold dread wash over him.
"Oh, crap," he whispered. He'd just turned boiling noodles into a spiritual WMD and blasted the Young Mistress across the yard. Accidentally. With lunch.
He was so, so fired. Probably executed.
He didn't see Old Man Fu standing in the deep shadows near the kitchen door, having witnessed the entire event. Fu hadn't seen the Qi barrier shatter – that was beyond his visual perception. But he'd seen Li Rong raise her hand, summoning Qi. He'd seen the thermos tip. He'd seen Li Rong get knocked backwards and land hard, spluttering and terrified. He'd seen her flee in abject fear *from Wang Ling*.
Fu's mind raced. *He knocked back a cultivator. Not with strength. Not with Qi. With... his cooking?* The thermos lay there, an ordinary metal flask. The spilled broth smelled pungent, but Fu sensed no active power in it now. Yet the result... Li Rong's reaction... the sheer impossibility...
Fu stepped out of the shadows, his face carefully composed into mild concern, hiding the storm of realization and awe beneath. "Wang Ling? What was that commotion? I heard Young Mistress Li Rong cry out."
Wang Ling jumped again, whirling around. "Master Fu! I... I had an accident! With my dinner! The thermos tipped... the hot water... it splashed near her... she got scared and ran off! I think I burned her? Or scared her? I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to!" He babbled, gesturing at the mess.
Fu walked over, looking at the spilled noodles sizzling on the coals, then at the thermos. He crouched, pretending to examine it. It felt warm, inert. The broth smelled aggressively artificial, but held no lingering power he could detect. Yet... the evidence was Li Rong's terrified flight.
He stood up, looking at Wang Ling's terrified, earnest face. The boy genuinely believed he'd just had a cooking accident. There was no guile, no hidden triumph. Just fear of punishment.
"An accident with hot water," Fu repeated slowly, his voice calm. "Unfortunate. Young Mistress Li Rong can be... high-strung. Especially concerning unexpected... aromas." He paused. "Clean this up. Dispose of the... food. Douse the fire properly." He turned to go, then stopped. "And, Wang Ling?"
"Yes, Master Fu?"
"Perhaps... keep your culinary experiments away from the courtyard fire in the future. Use the hearth in the storage shed if you must. Less... noticeable."
Wang Ling sagged with relief. Not fired! "Yes, Master Fu! Thank you, Master Fu! I will! Immediately!"
Fu nodded and walked back towards the inn, his heart pounding. *He knocked back a Qi Refining cultivator with a pot of noodles. Accidentally. And believes it was just hot water.* The sheer, terrifying power cloaked in such profound, oblivious mundanity was staggering. The Hidden Dragon wasn't just hidden; he was camouflaged as a slightly clumsy stable boy with a taste for bizarre, spiritually volatile food. Fu needed a very strong cup of spirit tea. The world felt much less predictable than it had an hour ago. And it all centered on the boy now frantically shoveling spicy noodle sludge onto the compost heap, utterly unaware of the explosive ripple he'd just caused in the carefully ordered world of Verdant Spring City. Li Rong wouldn't forget. And Fu knew the quiet days were over. The noodle bomb had detonated Wang Ling's carefully constructed anonymity, at least for two very important, and now deeply unsettled, observers.