Morning in the Ironbone Sect broke not with the gentle call of songbirds, but with the rattle of wooden gongs echoing off stone walls, a harsh, hollow rhythm that made Lin Tian's skull throb in counterpoint.
He woke to the same low roof, the same smoke-stained rafters, but something felt subtly different. He lay there a moment, listening to the faint rush of wind outside and the crackle of a rekindled hearth. For the first time since arriving, he didn't feel utterly lost.
He'd tasted the edge of possibility.
Bai Yue's soft voice cut into his thoughts. "Lin Tian, hurry! You'll be late for Elder Han!"
Lin Tian sat up, wincing as his bruised cheek protested. He staggered to his feet, running a hand through his tangled hair. His robes still smelled of ash and bitterweed, but the memory of Elder Han's words burned brighter than any discomfort.
Knowledge. Ingredients. A path forward.
He splashed his face with a ladleful of cool water from the bucket in the corner, letting it wash away some of the fatigue clinging to his bones. Then he grabbed his battered iron ladle and slipped it into the cloth sash at his waist, as if it were a precious sword.
Bai Yue hovered near the curtain, eyes wide. "Do you think Elder Han will teach you?"
Lin Tian gave a tight smile. "If he doesn't, I'll make him regret wasting my time."
Bai Yue swallowed hard. "That's… bold."
"That's being a chef." Lin Tian's voice carried a quiet steel.
They stepped outside into a crisp dawn. A chilly mountain breeze rolled through the outer compound, carrying the scents of damp moss, charred wood, and faintly metallic mountain air. The sun crept over the eastern peaks, gilding the roofs in bronze light.
Disciples already crowded the courtyards, some practicing martial drills, others hauling buckets of water or bundles of wood. A few shot curious glances at Lin Tian as he passed—some mocking, others wary after yesterday's spectacle. Shan Long and his cronies were nowhere in sight, though Lin Tian kept an ear pricked for trouble.
Elder Han's medicine hall squatted like a great stone frog beside the main path. The doorway was draped with bundles of drying herbs whose scents formed a complex tapestry: sharp mint, earthy licorice, bitter wormwood.
Lin Tian stepped inside and stopped dead.
The hall was dim and crowded, its shelves sagging under ceramic jars, wooden boxes, and hanging strings of dried leaves and flowers. A narrow worktable ran the length of the room, stained with dark streaks where liquids had spilled and crusted over. Mortars, pestles, bone knives, and copper scales littered every surface.
At the table's far end stood Elder Han, hunched over a pile of roots, slicing them into paper-thin slivers with a blade so thin it looked like a sliver of moonlight.
Without looking up, the old man growled, "You're late."
"I'm early," Lin Tian protested. "It's barely dawn!"
"Late," Han snapped. "A real alchemist's day begins two hours before dawn. And a chef's, too."
He flicked a hand. "Come closer. Don't hover like a fly."
Lin Tian approached, eyes scanning the workspace. Everything was chaos, but not the messy chaos of incompetence. This was organized chaos, where every jar and tool had a secret logic, a secret place.
Han waved a gnarled finger over the herbs. "Name these."
Lin Tian blinked. "What?"
"You want to cook," Han barked, "so tell me what you're putting in your pots. Name. Properties. Taste. Use."
Lin Tian took a deep breath. He leaned forward and inhaled the scents rising from the piles:
A knobby root with faint golden skin.
Yellow ginger. Spicy, warming, drives out cold. Adds heat and brightness to dishes. Good for stomach pain.
A dark green leaf with jagged edges.
Bitterleaf. Extremely bitter, clears heat toxins. Must be used in small amounts. Will ruin a dish if overdone.
Thin, curled orange shavings.
Chen Pi. Aged tangerine peel. Sweet, aromatic, cuts grease. Balances rich flavors.
Han's white brows lifted fractionally. "Not bad for an ignorant brat."
Lin Tian snorted. "I've used these in kitchens all my life. Your 'Chen Pi' is essential for duck confit."
Han squinted. "Duck… what?"
"Never mind."
Han jabbed a finger at the final bundle—a cluster of pale purple buds. "And this?"
Lin Tian hesitated. He bent low, sniffing. A sharp, floral aroma hit his senses, with a faint sweetness beneath. "This one I don't know. It smells… cooling. Maybe good for headaches?"
Han grunted. "Ice Orchid Flower. Rare around here. Lowers fever, calms the mind. Also used in spirit energy recovery pills. Too precious for your slop, so don't touch it."
Lin Tian smirked. "I'll remember that."
Han gave a raspy laugh. "Good. You've got a tongue. And you're not completely stupid. Let's see how you handle poison."
Lin Tian blinked. "Poison?!"
"Bah. Everything's poison if used wrong. Even salt. Remember that." Han shuffled to the shelves and returned with a small wooden box. He flipped the lid open, revealing dozens of tiny cloth packets. He plucked one out and tossed it to Lin Tian.
Lin Tian caught it, nearly dropping it. "What's this?"
"Ying Bone Dust. Tasteless. Odorless. A pinch will give you stomach pains for days. Two pinches will kill a man. Mixes perfectly into porridge. So be careful whom you trust in the kitchen."
Lin Tian's blood ran cold. He stared at the powdery residue dusting the inside of the packet.
Han cackled. "Eyes wide, eh? Good. Now let's see you identify it by taste."
Lin Tian's head snapped up. "You want me to eat poison?!"
Han rolled his eyes. "Fool. Just taste the edge of your tongue. Don't swallow. Come on. Chef's job."
Trembling slightly, Lin Tian dabbed the very tip of his tongue against the powder. A dry, bone-dust taste blossomed across his taste buds, leaving a faint chill in his mouth. Metallic bitterness lingered.
"Metallic," he rasped. "Dry. Cold. Bitter."
Han nodded. "Good enough. You'd survive your first assassination attempt. Maybe."
Lin Tian stared at him, throat dry. "Elder… is poison that common here?"
Han squinted at him. "Boy, you're in the world of cultivation. Sect politics. Demonic sects. Martial rivals. Everything's poison sooner or later. If you plan to be a chef, you'd better learn how to taste it."
A chill skittered down Lin Tian's spine.
Han waved a dismissive hand. "Enough talk. Go clean the cauldrons outside. And find me a handful of sweet grass from the hill slope. You'll learn by doing."
Lin Tian opened his mouth to protest, but Han was already hunched back over his herbs, the knife flickering faster than sight.
Bai Yue tugged at Lin Tian's sleeve. "Come on. I'll help you find the grass."
Lin Tian sighed and rolled his eyes. "Wonderful. My first step on the road to immortality—scrubbing pots and picking weeds."
But as he followed Bai Yue out into the crisp mountain air, he felt a tiny spark of hope flickering again.
Knowledge was power. And power was survival.
And if he could learn to master poison, then maybe… just maybe… he could survive long enough to cook something worth tasting in this mad world.
....
The slope east of the Ironbone Sect was blanketed in morning mist that clung to every blade of grass like spun glass. Thin tendrils curled around the rough stone path as Lin Tian and Bai Yue made their way toward the shallow terraced fields hugging the mountainside.
Lin Tian carried a small woven basket Elder Han had thrust into his arms before sending them off. The basket smelled faintly of dried mushrooms and old dust.
Bai Yue trotted alongside him, eyes wide. "Did Elder Han show you poison?"
Lin Tian grunted. "He wanted me to taste it."
Bai Yue nearly tripped over a rock. "Taste it? Are you mad?"
"Probably," Lin Tian muttered. "But it's true. A chef has to know flavors—even deadly ones."
Bai Yue made a face. "I'd rather stick to porridge."
Lin Tian shook his head. "Porridge won't save your life when someone wants you dead. Trust me. In my world, people kill each other over recipes."
Bai Yue blinked. "Over… food?"
"You've never seen a three-star chef in a temper," Lin Tian said grimly.
They reached the terraces. Rows of thin green stalks sprouted in ragged clumps, dotted here and there with pale white blossoms. Morning dew glittered on the leaves.
"There," Bai Yue said, pointing. "That's sweet grass."
Lin Tian crouched and examined the plant. Thin blades, tender texture, a faint aroma like honey and mint. He plucked a leaf and chewed experimentally. The delicate sweetness spread over his tongue, followed by a cool, refreshing finish.
"Perfect," he murmured. "This would balance bitterweed beautifully. Could even make a passable soup."
Bai Yue tilted his head. "Soup… with grass?"
Lin Tian flashed him a grin. "Kid, you have no idea how many dishes with weeds are done right."
They set out to gather handfuls of sweet grass. Lin Tian worked carefully, selecting the healthiest shoots. He glanced up at Bai Yue's curious expression.
"Have you ever cooked, Bai Yue?"
The boy shook his head. "I've only stirred porridge. And fetched water. The seniors say cooking is just for the useless."
Lin Tian's brows drew down. "Cooking is everything. It's medicine. It's survival. It's the difference between living and dying."
Bai Yue considered that, then gave a shy smile. "Then… can you teach me?"
Lin Tian blinked. The earnest look in Bai Yue's eyes knocked the words out of him.
"…Of course." He cleared his throat. "Rule number one: taste everything. Even if it's poison. Just… not too much."
Bai Yue laughed—a small, bright sound in the fog.
They gathered until the basket brimmed with sweet grass. Lin Tian wiped his hands and surveyed the slope. Beyond the terraces, the mountain fell away into a deep valley, filled with swirling clouds. The peaks in the distance looked sharp as knife edges, glowing gold where sunlight struck their icy caps.
A breeze carried a faint metallic tang to his nose—a smell he recognized instantly, though it felt impossibly out of place here.
Smoke. And blood.
He stiffened, scanning the valley below. "Bai Yue. Do you smell that?"
Bai Yue sniffed. "Smoke? Maybe someone's burning wood?"
"No…" Lin Tian squinted, eyes narrowing. A darker column of smoke twisted upward through the mist, barely visible. He couldn't see the source, but his instincts screamed danger.
"Let's get back," he said sharply. "Now."
They hurried down the path, Lin Tian glancing back every few steps. His pulse thudded harder than it should have. This world might be one of swords and magic, but the smell of burning flesh was universal.
...
Elder Han was waiting for them at the medicine hall door, scowling.
"Why'd you take so long? You'd think you were picking immortal peaches, not weeds!"
Lin Tian held out the basket. "Sweet grass, fresh as requested."
Han snatched it away and peered inside. He sniffed, then grunted approval. "Hmph. Not bad. Now go wash your hands. You're helping me sort roots."
Lin Tian obediently moved to the small washbasin near the wall, scrubbing away dirt and sap.
Han eyed him sidelong. "I smell blood on the wind. Trouble brewing. You'd better keep your head low, boy. Outer disciples vanish easily in times like these."
Lin Tian dried his hands. "Were those bandits?"
Han let out a snort. "Could be bandits. Could be demonic cultivators. It could be rival sects testing our borders. Makes no difference. Weak sects are prey."
Lin Tian's jaw tightened. "There has to be a way to change that."
Han gave him a long, unreadable look. "Ambitious for a kitchen rat, aren't you?"
"I'm not just a cook," Lin Tian said quietly. "Food is power. Power changes everything."
Han barked a laugh. "Then cook us a miracle, boy. Because the Ironbone Sect's got one foot in the grave."
...
Hours later, Lin Tian was back in the kitchen hut, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Bai Yue hovered beside him, eyes huge.
"So what are you making?" Bai Yue asked.
"Stock," Lin Tian said firmly. "Real stock. Not that dishwater you call soup."
He'd managed to scrounge a small pile of chicken bones from the sect's waste barrels. Bai Yue looked horrified as Lin Tian inspected each bone, scraping away slimy bits of rancid fat and charred gristle.
"Isn't that garbage?" Bai Yue whispered.
Lin Tian grinned. "It's treasure. Just wait."
He filled the cauldron with fresh water, set the bones inside, and added a handful of sweet grass. Bitterweed in small measure for medicinal properties, a pinch of salt filched from Elder Han's stores, and a single scrap of dried Chen Pi for aroma.
As the mixture slowly heated, the hut filled with a subtle, gentle fragrance—a sweetness layered over the meaty depth of simmering bones. Bai Yue inhaled, eyes going glassy.
"It smells… good," he breathed.
Lin Tian stirred the pot with gentle, precise movements. "Patience is key. Rush a stock and you get mud. Let it speak to you."
Bai Yue blinked. "Speak…?"
Lin Tian tapped his ladle against the pot rim. "Every ingredient has a voice. Learn to listen. That's cooking."
Steam curled around them, carrying a scent that made even Lin Tian's stomach rumble. He tasted a spoonful, letting it swirl across his tongue.
Salt. Sweetness. A delicate bitterness lingered at the edges. And above all, a clean depth that felt like warmth spreading through his bones.
He grinned. "It's weak, but it's real food."
Bai Yue clasped his hands, eyes shining. "Can I try?"
Lin Tian offered him the ladle. Bai Yue sipped, eyes widening. He swallowed, then burst into a grin.
"It's amazing!"
Lin Tian tousled his hair. "That's just the beginning."
He glanced toward the door, where shadows lengthened across the dusty floor. Somewhere beyond those walls, smoke still rose from the valley. But here, in this small hut, Lin Tian felt hope.
He would build something new, starting with one humble pot of broth.
And if this world wanted to test him with swords, poisons, or demonic sects—well. He'd faced worse tempers in the kitchens of Beijing.