The heavy oak door of the Cooking Hall slammed shut, sealing the kitchen from the outside world. But the echo of Yoriichi's final words seemed to linger in the humid air, heavier than the thick scent of burnt oil and spices.
"I will pay this debt before my death. On my honor."
Chef Zhang stood frozen in the center of his domain. His massive chest heaved beneath his grease-stained apron, his fists still clenched at his sides like iron mallets.
The green Dou Qi that had flared around him moments ago—a terrifying pressure that could crush a rock—slowly receded, retracting into his body like a coiled viper returning to its den. But the adrenaline remained, buzzing in his veins.
He stared at the closed door. The wood was splintered slightly where Yoriichi had gripped it.
"What was that?" Zhang thought, a deep frown carving canyons into his forehead. "That wasn't the voice of a spoiled brat. That wasn't the whine of a defeated dog running to his sister."
Chef Zhang was a 1-Star Dou Shi. In the hierarchy of the Xiao Clan, he was not an Elder, but he commanded respect. He had served for ten years, converting his rewards into cultivation resources not to fight wars, but to maintain the stamina needed to feed an army of disciples.
He had seen hundreds of young masters come and go—arrogant geniuses, weeping failures, cunning politicians. He knew the smell of fear. When he released his killing intent, grown men often stumbled.
But that boy... Xiao Ning...
He had been blasted against the wall. He was clearly in pain; Zhang had heard the wet crunch of bruised ribs impacting stone. His face was pale, his body trembling from exhaustion. Yet, his eyes.
Those deep, dark red eyes didn't flicker with fear. They didn't hold a trace of resentment or pettiness. They were vast, calm, and terrifyingly empty, like a deep well that had swallowed the moon.
"Did you hear him?" a shrill voice broke the heavy silence.
It was one of the vegetable choppers, a skinny man with a rat-like face named Li. He stepped out from behind a counter, wiping his hands on a rag, a sneer twisting his lips into an ugly shape.
"He owes us? 'On his honor'?" Li laughed, a high-pitched, mocking sound that grated on the ears. "What honor? He's the trash who got beaten half to death by a cripple! He probably just ran away to cry to Xiao Yu. 'Big Sister, the mean chef yelled at me!'"
"Exactly," another servant chimed in, emboldened by the first. "He ate twenty buns! Twenty! That gluttony is disgusting. We should report this to the First Elder. Tell him his grandson is stealing food like a common beggar."
"Let's spread the word," a dishwasher suggested, grinning maliciously as he scrubbed a pot. "Let everyone in the market know that Young Master Xiao Ning is a thief. Maybe the Jia Lie clan will pay for that information. It would be a good joke."
The kitchen erupted into a buzz of gossip. They were like vultures, eager to pick at the carcass of a fallen noble. It made them feel powerful to look down on someone who was born above them. To them, Xiao Ning's fall was entertainment.
"SILENCE!"
The roar was deafening. It wasn't just a shout; it was a physical blow.
Chef Zhang spun around, his eyes blazing with a green light. He grabbed a heavy iron ladle from the counter and slammed it onto a metal stockpot.
CLANG!
The sound was like a gong of judgment. It rang through the kitchen, vibrating the teeth of everyone present.
The servants flinched, shrinking back instantly. The rat-faced Li paled, dropping his rag as if it burned him.
"You lot have too much time to wag your tongues," Zhang growled, stepping toward them. The floorboards creaked under his weight. "Did I give you permission to speak? Did I give you permission to gossip about the main family inside my kitchen?"
"B-but Chef," Li stammered, backing away until he hit the counter. "He stole—"
"He admitted it!" Zhang cut him off, his voice dropping to a dangerous, rumbling bass. "He stood there, took the hit, and admitted his fault. He didn't make excuses. He didn't blame the food. He didn't threaten to have me fired or call his grandfather."
Zhang looked around the room, meeting the eyes of every servant, daring them to challenge him.
"In this world, talk is cheap. But a vow made under the pressure of a Dou Shi..." Zhang looked back at the door, his expression complicated. "That boy meant it. I felt it in his Qi. He wasn't lying."
He remembered the look in Yoriichi's eyes. It was the look of a man who accepted death as a constant companion. It was a look Zhang had only seen once before—in the eyes of a veteran mercenary who had survived the chaotic region of the Black Corner Domain. It was the look of a sword that had been broken and reforged.
"Why does a sixteen-year-old boy have the eyes of a veteran killer?" Zhang wondered, a chill running down his spine despite the heat of the ovens.
He turned back to his staff, his face hardening into stone.
"If I hear a single word of this leaving this kitchen," Zhang threatened, pointing the bent ladle at them like a weapon, "if I hear anyone mocking him for being hungry... you will be peeling potatoes until your fingers bleed. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Chef!" the staff chorused, terrified.
"Now get back to work! The Third Team still needs to eat! Make a new batch of buns! Move!"
The kitchen exploded back into motion, fear motivating their limbs faster than loyalty ever could.
Chef Zhang walked back to his station. He picked up his heavy cleaver, looking at his reflection in the polished steel.
"Debt before death," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. "Alright, Xiao Ning. I'll wait. Let's see if your resolve is as strong as your appetite."
He brought the cleaver down, chopping through a thick bone with a single, clean strike.