The kitchens should have been quiet at dawn.
Usually, it was only the clatter of bowls, the hiss of the Stove, the smell of broth rising with morning mist. But on the fifth morning, silence had no place.
The courtyard seethed.
Servants whispered nervously, their eyes darting like minnows. Outer disciples jostled shoulder to shoulder, robes damp from dew, some clutching coins, others folding arms tight as if pretending they weren't desperate.
A few even hid beneath cloaks, hoping to steal bowls without their names being seen.
They were hungry—not only for food, but for Dao.
And above the restless noise, one thought beat again and again like a drum:
"He's nearly done."
---
The System pulsed steady in my chest.
> [Quest Progress: 85/100 disciples fed. Time remaining: 2 days.]
Two days. Fifteen left.
The number beat like a war drum.
The Stove's flame danced higher, silver sparks snapping, as though it too felt the weight of the countdown.
---
Whispers spread like wildfire through the crowd.
"I heard he slapped Yun Kai with soup yesterday."
"Soup?! That wasn't soup—that was Heaven's punishment in a bowl."
"Bah, tricks. My cousin says pills do better."
"Then why are you here?"
"…Shut up."
A group of servants huddled near the back, voices hushed but trembling. "My brother ate porridge yesterday. Slept through the night for the first time in years."
Closer to the counter, a gambler waved spirit stones. "Two to one odds he fails before finishing a hundred!"
Another shouted back, "Three to one he feeds every last one of us before sunset!"
Their arguments turned to shoves, then laughter, then more shouting.
The kitchens, once ignored, had become the center of the sect.
---
The morning rush began as usual. Bowls clinked. Coins rang across the counter. Steam curled fragrant.
A servant whispered thanks, clutching his bowl as if it were life itself.
A disciple muttered disbelief even as his qi steadied in his veins.
More mouths opened, more faces changed.
Then the Stove hissed.
The silver flame snapped sharp, sparks spitting like knives. My throat mark throbbed. The air thickened, smoke curling strange.
I frowned, turning toward the sack of rice. At first glance, it looked ordinary—white grains, faint fragrance. I reached deeper. My fingers brushed slick powder clinging to the bottom. Bitter. Sharp.
Poison.
---
The Stove flared. Silver fire leapt high, runes glowing across its iron body like molten brands. Sparks hissed from the counter seam, crawling toward the sack.
Gasps tore through the courtyard.
"What—what's happening?"
"The Stove… it burns without wood!"
"Is Ren doing this?"
The sack smoked, bottom blackening. A foul stench hissed out, acrid, sour, burning the nose.
I lifted a handful of grains, letting them trickle between my fingers.
"This food," I said, voice low but cutting through every shout, "was meant to kill you."
The courtyard froze.
"My Stove burns lies," I said, silver fire snapping behind me. I crushed the poisoned grain in my fist. Ash scattered. "And this… is the taste of betrayal."
---
Silence shattered.
"Who would dare—?!"
"Poison—inside the sect?!"
"It must be Yun Kai's lackeys!"
A few faces turned pale. One boy tried to slip away, only for another to seize his sleeve. Shouts rose. Fingers pointed.
The servants cowered, whispering prayers to the Stove.
But I did not chase. I did not need to. The Stove had already passed judgment.
---
I reached for herbs instead.
Bitter leaves, veins dark as night. Dried roots so hard they cracked beneath my knife. A pinch of mountain moss, shriveled but still faintly fragrant.
Spirit Flame roared silver-blue, licking the pot, drawing out every trace of essence.
The leaves released sharp fragrance, like cold wind through pine. The roots hissed, deep as earth after storm. The moss melted into pale steam, thin and pure.
Rice hissed as I washed it thrice, water running clear as crystal. Into the pot it fell, swelling, each grain gleaming faintly as the flame kissed it.
Steam rose in silver threads, weaving together into faint shapes. Some swore they saw dragons. Others, herbs blooming into mist-flowers.
The smell shifted—not heavy, not sweet, but bright. Like spring water after storm.
The crowd inhaled as one.
"My chest feels lighter…"
"The poison stink is gone…"
"What dish is this?"
I ladled the first bowl.
---
"Drink," I said.
A disciple stepped forward, face pale. He lifted the bowl, hesitated—then sipped.
At once he gagged. Black vapor hissed from his lips. His body shuddered, qi rattling, then smoothed, breath deep and steady.
His eyes widened. "The poison qi from my duel—it's gone!"
Gasps swept the courtyard.
"Poison qi purged?"
"Even pills failed him—"
"Food did this?!"
---
Another disciple rushed forward, clutching his chest. He swallowed—black mist poured out of his nose, his face flushed red, then eased. He laughed wildly, throwing his arms up. "Three months! I thought I'd rot inside—gone!"
A girl in silk scoffed, "It's all show—" but greed dragged her forward. She sipped, lips curling—then froze. Her qi surged, bottleneck snapping. A faint crack echoed in the air. She dropped the bowl, cheeks scarlet. The crowd jeered. "Face-slapped!"
An old servant bowed low, hands trembling. He drank slowly. Tears rolled down his face. "I—I can work again… the pain is gone…" He pressed his forehead to the stones. "Master Ren… Master Stove…"
Two rival disciples shoved each other, fighting for the next bowl. "It's mine!" "No—mine!" I set two bowls down. They gulped, black smoke hissing. Their eyes locked, both laughing. "Brothers," they said at once. Oath sworn in food.
One limping boy approached, eyes wide. He drank, and his limp vanished. He stumbled forward, dropped to his knees, and bowed three times, forehead cracking against stone.
The Stove roared with each bowl. Silver flame climbed higher, sparks bursting into constellations overhead.
---
The System chimed, voice like thunder.
> [Ding! Dish Cooked: Spirit Herb Porridge (1★)]
✦ Effect: Purges minor poisons, clears qi channels, soothes meridians
✦ Bowl Points +30
✦ Quest Progress: 90/100 disciples fed
Ninety.
Only ten left.
The number rang like victory.
---
The courtyard boiled.
"They tried to poison us!"
"Yun Kai's lackeys!"
"Drag them before Elder Zhao!"
All eyes turned toward their corner. Those disciples stiffened, faces bloodless. One stammered, "It—it wasn't—"
Another disciple shoved him down, spitting. "Lies! If not for Ren's Stove, we'd be corpses!"
The crowd roared. Yun Kai's faction shrank, glares stabbing like knives.
---
I set down the ladle. My voice cut cold.
"You sneered. You plotted. And now you poison your own brothers."
The Stove flared, sparks leaping bright.
"Remember this: lies turn to ash in my fire. Schemes crumble at my counter. You may mock a cook—" I pointed at the bowls steaming between us—"but in the end, you eat."
The courtyard fell silent. Even enemies dropped their eyes.
---
That night, in a distant hall, Elder Zhao's stewards knelt.
The chamber was dim, scrolls stacked like walls, candles dripping wax. Elder Zhao sat cross-legged, gaze sharp as knives.
"The Stove revealed poison," one whispered, trembling.
"The disciples turned on Yun Kai's men," said another.
"He feeds ninety already. By tomorrow, he will finish."
Elder Zhao's face darkened. Aura pressed heavy. The stewards bowed until foreheads bled.
"Then tomorrow," Elder Zhao said coldly, "we end this circus. He will not reach one hundred."
---
Back in the kitchens, the Stove burned silver, steady and fierce.
I touched its iron frame, heat seeping into my palm.
"Ten left," I whispered. "Just ten more."
The flame pulsed, silver sparks rising like stars into the night, constellations blazing across the dark.
And in the shadows, Yun Kai's hatred boiled, venom dripping from every thought. Luo Feng leaned close, whispering, "Tomorrow, we break him."
Tomorrow, they would strike again.
And tomorrow, I would feed them all.
---