Chapter 112: The Villainess Eats Malatang

The kitchen was a scene of utter devastation.

The floor swam with thick, red liquid – presumably broth – amidst a gruesome scattering of mangled flesh, chopped bones, and unidentifiable bits of soft or hard debris.

The stench hit with physical force, a noxious wave so overwhelming that everyone who entered reflexively clamped hands over their mouths and noses.

Someone with a weaker stomach let out a faint, wet retching sound.

And in the center of this culinary carnage stood the apparent culprit, brandishing a gleaming, wickedly sharp kitchen knife and screaming defensively,

“It wasn’t me! I… I couldn’t possibly have done this!”

Qing surveyed the disaster, a different kind of horror dawning on her.

Seriously? Why waste all this perfectly good food?!

Pathetic lumps of meat, vegetables, tofu, and noodles floated forlornly in pools of malatang oil coating the floor.

Qing snapped, her voice sharp with annoyance.

“Hey! What do you mean, ‘it wasn’t you’? Aren’t you supposed to be that ‘Greatest Chef Under Heaven’ guy, Bai Changzi?”

“Yes! I am Bai Changzi, the Greatest Chef Under Heaven!” the chef retorted wildly. “And this… this is trash! Why? Why doesn’t it taste right?! It shouldn’t taste like this! What’s the damn problem?!”

He darted around the chaotic kitchen like a madman, eyes blazing with frantic energy, grabbing random ingredients, sniffing them intensely. “Is it the pork bone stock? No, that’s perfect! Did the Ma spice [^(Referring to Sichuan peppercorns, responsible for the 'numbing' aspect of mala)] change somehow? No! The tenderized meat? That’s not it either…”

He spun around, looking desperate. “What is it?! Everything seems fine! Every single ingredient is perfectly fine!”

“Look,” Qing interrupted, trying to inject some reason, “I get that something obviously went wrong here. But why the hell are you throwing perfectly good food all over the floor? Isn’t that incredibly wasteful?”

Qing still hadn’t quite shaken the deeply ingrained trauma from her earliest days in the martial world—scavenging through garbage just to survive.

That painful memory, likely destined to haunt her forever, continued to fuel a powerful, almost obsessive reverence for food. Any food.

“No!” Bai Changzi shrieked, clutching his head. “This stuff isn’t fit for consumption! It’s garbage!”

“Uh, no,” Qing pointed out dryly. “You were the one who turned it into garbage by throwing it everywhere.”

“What?!” The chef rounded on her, incensed. “I made garbage?! How dare you! How dare you speak such words to me, Bai Changzi, the undisputed Greatest Chef Under Heaven!”

Qing calmly held out her hand to the side.

Like a well-trained valet, Choi Leeong instantly materialized the Bokshinjeok flute from somewhere and placed it firmly in her grip.

The voice that followed from Qing was chillingly quiet.

“Bai Changzi, Bai Daechang [^(Daechang: Korean term for beef large intestines, often grilled; a pun on the chef's name)], whatever.” Mmm, now I really want some grilled daechang. “Anyway, isn’t that pile of slop currently decorating your floor supposed to be my dinner? I suggest you provide a satisfactory explanation. Now.”

“No! I’m telling you! This isn’t my Ultimate Malat—ACK!”

WHACK!!!

A deeply satisfying, meaty thwack echoed through the kitchen.

This, Qing mused, was precisely why people needed to maintain at least a sliver of situational awareness, even when completely losing their minds.

The Greatest Chef Under Heaven was now in a truly sorry state.

He rolled on the floor, clutching his head, his once-pristine white chef’s uniform now thoroughly marinated, soaked to its absolute limit in bright red malatang broth.

Still clutching his head, Bai Changzi scrambled into a polite kneeling position, broth squelching around him.

“So,” Qing prompted again, unmoved. “About my dinner?”

“I… I am deeply ashamed,” the chef mumbled, unable to meet her gaze. “I have no excuse…”

“What? What exactly is the big problem here?” Qing demanded. “Is it such a heinous crime for me to simply want to eat one delicious bowl of your famous malatang? I waited exactly forty-five damn days for this reservation, all because people rave about how amazing your cooking is!”

“That is precisely the issue!” Bai Changzi cried out, sounding genuinely distressed. “I cannot, I will not, serve an imperfect, flawed dish to esteemed guests who have come specifically seeking the pinnacle of my culinary art!”

“Imperfect?” Qing repeated skeptically.

“This taste… It just isn’t the right taste!”

Bai Changzi then launched into a detailed explanation.

The Ultimate Malatang, he elaborated, was an elite dish commanding a price of one gold piece per bowl.

Consequently, only the absolute finest ingredients were used. The pork was exclusively tenderloin from young pigs, aged precisely between seven and nine months for maximum tenderness, the surface lightly fried before being cooked separately.

The beef followed similar exacting standards, using only the tenderloin from healthy, prime calves.

Even the lotus root wasn't just any lotus root—it came from a specially cultivated private pond, managed under specific conditions, and so on, and so forth, blah blah blah…

Qing cut him off, looking incredulous.

“Okay, hold up. So you’re just saying you use the best possible ingredients, cook each one perfectly separately, and then dump them all into the broth at the end. How can that possibly taste bad? Do you even need a ‘Greatest Chef Under Heaven’ for something that basic?”

“Cooking,” Bai Changzi declared passionately, insulted to his core, “is about far more than just ingredients! It’s about meticulously assessing the condition of each component daily! Accounting for humidity, ambient temperature! Observing the precise marbling and texture of the meat, the vibrancy and shape of the vegetable leaves! It’s about possessing the skill and intuition to draw out the absolute optimal flavor from everything! Who else but me,” he proclaimed grandly, “would gather such unparalleled ingredients and lavish such painstaking effort on a mere bowl of malatang?”

“A mere bowl of malatang?” Qing echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, malatang ultimately originates from the humble meals of commoners,” the chef conceded, “but there should be no hierarchy in cuisine itself! In fact, since the debut of my Ultimate Malatang, numerous evolved and refined variations have appeared throughout Sichuan, gradually elevating it from a cheap meal replacement into a legitimately recognized dish in its own right!”

Huh. Qing reassessed him. A second ago he seemed like a raving lunatic, but listening now, he actually sounds like a dedicated, surprisingly principled, and highly skilled chef.

“Okay, fine,” she said, returning to the main point. “But why did you throw my dinner all over the floor?”

“Well, you see…”

Bai Changzi sighed, looking troubled again. Today, he had prepared everything perfectly, as always. Knowing esteemed guests were expected, he’d poured even more care and effort into it than usual.

However, the very instant the perfectly prepared ingredients were combined in the broth, something went terribly wrong. The expected harmony, the perfect balance of flavors… it was just off.

He’d checked every single ingredient again, tasted everything individually—nothing seemed wrong! It was maddening!

“And so,” he concluded miserably, “I simply cannot serve the dish today.”

“Is it really that serious?” Qing asked, still skeptical.

“Absolutely!” Bai Changzi insisted. “It’s an incredibly subtle distortion, mind you. Something no one in the world, except perhaps someone possessing a palate as refined as mine, the Greatest Chef Under Heaven, would likely even notice. But it is undeniably, fundamentally not a proper dish.” He paused, then looked up at her warily. “Um… are you going to hit me again?”

“Yep,”

Qing confirmed cheerfully, nodding while hefting the Bokshinjeok slightly.

Bai Changzi adopted a look of solemn martyrdom.

“Even if I am struck down, my unwavering determination to serve only the absolute best cuisine will never be broken!”

“Craftsmanship and integrity are nice and all,” Qing retorted impatiently, “but you need to know when to quit, right? Don’t you give a damn about the hungry customers waiting outside who you just screwed over?”

“Taste is power!” the chef declared dramatically. “And achieving the pinnacle of cuisine naturally requires a period of eager, anticipatory wait—ACK!”

WHACK! Bai Changzi went rolling across the broth-slick floor once more.

Still, respecting his (insane) dedication to his craft, Qing had controlled the strike, using only about one exclamation mark’s worth of force this time.

She turned away from the tumbling chef with a sigh.

Well, looks like dinner here is officially ruined, she thought, her stomach rumbling angrily. Dammit, I skipped lunch for this, now I’m starving… “Friend,” she called out to Jayu, “where were we talking about going earlier?”

“It seems we merely wasted our time here,” Jayu replied smoothly, seemingly unfazed by the kitchen chaos. “Though it was certainly… an interesting spectacle. Tell me, do you happen to enjoy duck? While perhaps not reaching the legendary heights of Beijing, Sichuan-style roast duck possesses its own unique and delightful flavor.”

“Oooh, duck?” Qing’s eyes lit up, the malatang tragedy already forgotten. “Sounds good!”

Comparable to Beijing duck, he said? Even if not quite as good? Hmm. Beijing duck was world-famous even back home, but I never got a chance to try the authentic stuff after coming here…

“Sichuan duck. Yeah, I’m definitely looking forward to that!”

“Indeed. Duck makes an excellent evening meal,” Peng Choryeo suddenly interjected, naturally joining the conversation. “According to the Yellow Emperor’s Inner Canon [^(Ancient and foundational Chinese medical text)], duck nourishes one's vital energy and strengthens the body. It is truly an ingredient all martial artists should appreciate.”

Tang Nanah suddenly cried out, rushing back over, having apparently witnessed the entire exchange.

“W-Wait just a moment! Hasn’t this situation somehow naturally evolved into that weakling treating everyone?! Sister! I was absolutely determined to treat you to dinner tonight!”

“But,” Peng Choryeo replied bluntly, scratching the back of her head, “isn’t roast duck significantly better than malatang anyway? Truthfully, I wasn’t really that keen on malatang to begin with.”

Tang Nanah quickly regrouped.

“W-We have plenty of duck at the Tang Clan residence too! The finest available! We even raise them specially on a diet of sulfur!”

“Oh?” Peng Choryeo looked intrigued. “Sulfur duck? Right. The Yellow Emperor’s Inner Canon does mention that while humans cannot directly consume sulfur, feeding it to ducks allows its beneficial properties to settle within them. Consuming such duck is said to significantly strengthen bones and nourish the joints.”

Sulfur, along with saltpeter, was a strictly controlled substance by the government.

It wasn't just expensive; purchasing large quantities was practically impossible for most.

Therefore, feeding precious sulfur to mere ducks was akin to feeding gold bars to dogs—an act of extravagant, almost unbelievable luxury.

(Of course, for the Tang Clan, possessing both immense power and wealth, such extravagance was easily achievable.)

“I will ensure you are treated to a proper feast at our family estate tonight, okay? Please, Sister?” Tang Nanah pleaded sweetly, clinging to Peng’s arm again.

Qing tilted her head.

Yellow Emperor’s Inner Canon? What’s that? Some kind of ancient gourmet guidebook? Sounds interesting. Need to find a copy and read it later.

Just as Qing was making a mental note,

Peng Choryeo casually patted her shoulder.

“Qing-ah. Let’s go. Sounds like the Tang Clan is offering to treat us.”

“Ah,” Qing blinked, surprised. “Is that what was happening? I didn’t really think she was including me in the invitation.”

To Qing, Tang Nanah still strongly resembled a yappy Chihuahua— fawning all over the imposing Peng Choryeo while simultaneously baring tiny, vicious teeth at Qing herself from the safety of Peng’s presence.

That mixture of pathetic and cute, yet ultimately contemptible.

“Ah, Sister! Wait! I…” Tang Nanah started to protest, clearly not having intended to invite Qing.

“Our Qing-ah’s seniority in the martial world hierarchy is quite significant,” Peng Choryeo stated calmly, cutting Nanah off before she could object. “How could they possibly fail to invite the named disciple of the Divine Maiden Sect's Matriarch? And even if they somehow did overlook her, how could I possibly accept an invitation that excluded her? It would be unthinkable.” She paused, then turned slightly towards Nanah. “By the way, Nanah-ah, was there something wrong?”

Peng was right. Qing’s martial generation placed her as a grand elder within the Daoist lineage.

Excluding her from a formal dinner invitation while she was present would be a massive diplomatic insult, effectively trampling on the face of numerous major Daoist sects.

Peng Choryeo accepting such an exclusive invitation would make her complicit in the slight.

The quick-witted Tang Nanah instantly understood the implications and hurriedly changed her tune, forcing a bright smile.

“Ah, he-hehe… No, nothing’s wrong at all… Of course, Young Lady Ximen is invited too!”

Damn it! Nanah seethed internally, already plotting various poison combinations.

What the hell? This veiled bitch actually has a powerful background?

That complicates things… using poison becomes much riskier if I get caught.

A new thought immediately followed.

Then… I just need to make sure I don’t get caught, right?

What poisons can I administer secretly?

Hmm, I’ll have to combine a few using the Split Poison method. [^(Poisons harmless individually but deadly when combined, often administered separately, e.g., one in food, one on utensils.)]

A vicious glint entered Tang Nanah’s eyes.

Arrogant veiled bitch!

Tonight, you won’t be leaving the privy!

And besides, she reassured herself, even if she somehow was caught, she could probably talk her way out of it with one good application of her ultimate secret technique, Tears of Flowers Filling the Sky.

As Tang Nanah was thus occupied, mentally concocting wicked schemes and radiating barely concealed malice,

Peng Choryeo simply remarked dismissively,

“This girl. So frivolous.”

Qing, however, brightened up considerably.

“Well then, shall we go? Friend,” she added, turning to Jayu, “you should come with us too! When else will we get a chance to experience the famous hospitality of one of the Five Great Clans?”

“Th- Me, you mean?” Jayu asked, momentarily surprised.

He then burst into genuine laughter.

“That does sound rather appealing, actually. The hospitality of the Tang Clan… I have indeed been thinking I should experience it at least once.”

And so, the Tang Clan ended up receiving some very unexpected dinner guests that day.

The daughter, Tang Nanah, who had gone out intending to have a strategic meal with her future sister-in-law, Female Overlord Peng Choryeo, returned not only having failed to secure that private dinner but also dragging along a cluster of hangers-on.

Consequently, even the Tang Clan Lord himself had to personally come out to entertain these unplanned visitors.

After all, one of them was supposedly the named disciple of that Matriarch.

Although young, her martial seniority demanded at least a brief appearance from the Clan Lord himself.

(It wasn't high enough for him to visit her, naturally—she should be the one coming to pay respects—but receiving her at the estate required his presence.)

He had called them mainly just to size her up.

And so, the doors to the main hall opened.

The Tang Clan Lord, who had been lounging half-heartedly on his seat, suddenly sprang upright as if jolted by electricity.