Slowly, the other staff members began to gather behind the Head Chef. There were about twenty of them—sous chefs, dishwashers, vegetable choppers. They all had weak cultivation, barely reaching the 3rd or 4th stage of Dou Disciple, but their eyes were unified.
They looked at Yoriichi with disgust.
"Look at him," a dishwasher whispered loudly. "Standing there like a statue. Doesn't even look ashamed."
"He's probably full," another sneered. "Ate enough for twenty men. Disgusting. My brother is in the Third Team. What is he going to eat now?"
"Trash will always be trash. Xiao Yu can't protect him from being a glutton forever."
Yoriichi met Chef Zhang's furious gaze. His face remained the mask of the stoic samurai—calm, unreadable, devoid of fear. But inside, he felt a sharp pang of guilt.
This lack of reaction infuriated Chef Zhang. He expected tears. He expected begging. He expected the "Young Master" to threaten him with his sister's name.
But Yoriichi just stared.
"Don't look at me with those dead eyes!" Chef Zhang screamed, his temper snapping.
He flared his Dou Qi. A wave of green energy exploded outward.
BANG!
It wasn't a direct punch, but a shockwave of raw power. Yoriichi, weakened and off-balance, was blasted backward. He slammed hard into the stone wall behind him.
"Ghh!"
A sharp cry of pain escaped his lips. The impact jarred his healing ribs, sending white-hot lightning through his chest. The old bruises from Xiao Yan's fight throbbed in harmony with the new trauma. He slid down the wall, gasping for air, clutching his chest. A metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.
"Get out," Chef Zhang hissed, pointing a trembling finger at the door. "Get out before I forget who your grandfather is. Get out before I break your legs and throw you in the compost heap where you belong! And if you come back here without money, I will cripple you myself!"
Yoriichi sat on the cold floor for a moment, his chest heaving. He took a deep, shuddering breath.
Inhale.
Stabilize.
The pain was information. The shame was a lesson.
Slowly, painfully, Yoriichi pushed himself up. He used the wall for support. His legs, already exhausted from the morning training, trembled under his weight.
The sea of servants parted to let him pass. They didn't move out of respect; they moved to avoid touching him, as if his failure was contagious. They snickered, making faces, whispering insults that were meant to be heard.
"Useless."
"Thief."
"Walking waste."
Yoriichi walked through the gauntlet. His expression did not change. His eyes looked straight ahead, focusing on the exit.
Chef Zhang watched him go, his chest heaving. He was slightly surprised. Any other pampered child would be weeping on the floor. Most would have fainted from a Dou Shi's killing intent. But this boy... he took the hit, stood up, and walked.
Yoriichi reached the heavy wooden door. The sunlight outside was blindingly bright compared to the gloom of his current situation.
He stopped. His hand rested on the doorframe, his knuckles white.
He didn't look back, but he spoke. His voice was raspy, weak, but it carried a strange, heavy resonance that cut through the murmurs of the servants like a blade.
"I know what I have done," Yoriichi said. "I know the consequences of my selfishness."
The kitchen went quiet again.
"I am broke," he admitted, his voice steady. "And I am weak. I cannot pay you today."
He paused, taking a breath to steady his shaking hands.
"But I owe you for this meal. The energy I took... I will return it."
He turned his head slightly, just enough so they could see the profile of his face—the sharp jawline, the side nose, and the eye that burned with a quiet conviction.
"I promise," Yoriichi said. "I will compensate you for this loss. I will pay this debt before my death. On my honor."
He didn't wait for a response. He pushed off the doorframe and stepped out into the sun.
He walked away, his gait uneven. A slight limp in his left leg, a hunch in his shoulders from the pain in his ribs. But he kept moving.
As he moved away from the Cooking Hall, the adrenaline faded, and the reality set in. The shame weighed heavier than the stone he had lifted earlier.
"I am a thief," Yoriichi thought bitterly, looking at his calloused hands. "In my attempt to get strong to protect others, I harmed the very people I should be protecting. Is this the cost of survival here? Must I become a monster to defeat monsters?"
He shook his head. "No. I will find a way. I will pay them back tenfold. I will buy them the finest ingredients. But first... I must survive. I must have something to trade."
He sighed, the weight of the world pressing down on him. It was truly more dangerous here than in the Sengoku period. There, demons were clearly monsters. Here, hunger and poverty could turn men into monsters.
He walked aimlessly for a while, letting his feet guide him while his mind raced with plans to earn gold. He couldn't ask Xiao Yu; he had too much pride to beg from his sister. He couldn't ask the clan; they had cut his allowance.
He needed a trade. He needed a skill that commanded respect.
He found himself wandering near the eastern sector of the clan compound—the logistical hub. The air here was hotter, drier.
CLANG.
A sound rang out. Clear. Sharp. Metallic.
CLANG.
WHOOSH.
Yoriichi stopped. His ears, sensitive from decades of hunting, twitched.
It was the sound of a heavy hammer striking hot iron. It was the sound of bellows feeding a hungry fire. It was a rhythm he understood deep in his bones.
He looked up.
A few hundred meters away, a large, squat building sat at the edge of the compound. Thick, black smoke poured from its chimneys. The heat coming from it distorted the air, creating shimmering waves of mirage.
A wooden sign hung over the entrance, scorched and soot-stained: Xiao Clan Smithing Hall.
Yoriichi stared at the sign.
In his previous life, he wielded a blade that was a masterpiece of metallurgy. He understood the soul of steel. He understood that a sword was not just a weapon, but a vessel for the wielder's spirit.
And right now, looking at the smoke and feeling the intense heat wash over his face, he felt something he hadn't felt since arriving in this world.
A calling.
"Fire," Yoriichi thought, his eyes reflecting the distant glow of the furnace. "Metal. Rhythm. Transformation."
It wasn't stealing. It wasn't begging. It was creation.
Ignoring the pain in his ribs and the fatigue in his legs, Yoriichi changed direction. He walked toward the sound of the hammers, drawn like a moth to a flame.
The second life of the Sun Breather had found its first spark.