The eviction notice was crooked.
That bothered me more than the red ink.
It hung there on the Golden Wok's front window like it was embarrassed to be seen. The tape was peeling at one corner. The wind from passing cars made it flap softly against the glass.
Thirty days.
I stood there holding a grocery bag with exactly six dollars' worth of vegetables inside and stared at the words like they might rearrange themselves into something kinder.
They did not.
My name is Kai Jin.
And the Golden Wok was supposed to be my inheritance.
Instead, it was dying on my watch.
Behind me, Mott Street was quiet in that tired way Chinatown gets after midnight. Neon signs buzzed. A delivery truck idled somewhere far down the block. Half the storefronts around us were dark — papered windows, For Lease signs, promises of "Modern Asian Fusion" coming soon.
The Golden Wok had survived forty-three years.
It was not surviving me.
My phone buzzed.
Any luck? my sister texted.
I stared at it for a full ten seconds before typing back.
No.
She did not reply.
That was worse.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The smell hit immediately.
Not garlic. Not ginger.
Rot.
Old oil and something sour underneath it. Something neglected.
I dropped the grocery bag on the counter and looked around the kitchen. Stainless steel counters dulled by years of steam. The old wok hanging above the stove. The small wooden altar in the corner with my grandfather's faded photo and a stick of incense that had burned down to ash.
"Sorry," I muttered to the picture.
For what, I was not sure.
I opened the walk-in cooler.
One slab of pork belly sat on a metal tray. Its fat was losing that clean ivory color, edges graying. A container of rice that had stiffened overnight. Nothing else.
"Perfect," I said. "Last meal before execution."
I carried the pork to the cutting board.
The knife felt heavier than usual.
I set the blade against the fat cap.
The lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
I froze.
The refrigerator hum deepened, like it was trying harder than it should. The air felt thicker. Colder.
A faint scraping noise drifted in from the alley behind the restaurant.
Metal dragging against brick.
Probably a stray cat.
Probably.
I pressed the knife down.
And a blue screen blinked into existence directly in front of my face.
[System Initiated.]
[Identifying User... Kai Jin.]
[Lineage Confirmed: Dragon Chef.]
[Welcome to the Celestial Kitchen System.]
I blinked.
Then blinked again.
The text remained.
"I need sleep," I said flatly.
I waved my hand through it.
The screen adjusted around my fingers like it had weight.
Not a hallucination then.
Great.
[Tutorial Quest Available: The First Ember.]
[Objective: Cook A Dish That Embodies "Home."]
[Available Ingredients: Pork Belly (Deteriorating), Stale Rice, Tap Water.]
[Spiritual Essence: None Detected.]
"Yeah, that tracks," I muttered.
[Evaluation: Current Ingredients Unimpressive.]
[Suggestion: A True Dragon Chef Finds Value Where Others See Waste.]
[Search For A Hidden Ingredient.]
I stared at the kitchen.
There was nothing hidden here. Just grime and debt.
I almost ignored it.
Almost.
Instead, I turned slowly toward the altar in the corner.
My grandfather's photo watched me like he was waiting to see if I would screw this up too.
Next to the incense ash sat a single dried goji berry. Shriveled. Forgotten.
I picked it up.
It was warm.
Not room temperature.
Warm.
The system flickered.
[Hidden Ingredient Acquired: Ancestor's Tear Goji Berry.]
[Minor Spiritual Essence Detected.]
[Recipe Unlocked: Ember-Braised Pork Belly.]
My hands moved before I fully decided to let them.
Oil heated in the wok. The pork hit metal with a sharp hiss. The scent changed immediately — from sour to caramelizing fat.
The rot smell faded.
Steam rose.
The goji berry dissolved into the sauce like it had been waiting for this.
I did not think.
I just cooked.
When I plated it, the dish glowed faintly. Not bright. Just enough to feel wrong in the best way.
The system chimed softly.
[Dish Completed: Ember-Braised Pork Belly.]
[Rank: Barely Acceptable.]
[Buff Unlocked: Hearth Warmth (Temporary).]
[Effect: Minor Spiritual Resistance.]
"Barely?" I snapped. "That was solid."
[Correction: It Was Adequate.]
Before I could argue with invisible judgment, the back door slammed inward.
Wood cracked.
The smell returned.
Stronger.
Not kitchen rot.
Alley rot.
Garbage bags soaked through. Sour milk. Wet cardboard. Old shrimp shells and bleach water that never quite did its job.
Something dragged itself across the alley pavement.
A shape slid under the broken doorway.
It was wrong.
Sludge and bone fragments. Plastic twisted into something like ribs. A cracked takeout container fused where a shoulder should be.
Its head tilted.
Two hollow cavities opened.
It inhaled.
The glow from the pork brightened slightly.
The thing shuddered in excitement.
The system flashed red.
[Alert: Hunger Spirit — Fledgling.]
[Origin: Waste Accumulation + Localized Despair.]
[Threat Level: Low.]
[Recommendation: Survive.]
"That's it?" I demanded. "Just survive?"
The creature lunged.
I grabbed the plate.
And took a bite.
Heat spread instantly down my spine. Not spicy heat. Warmth. Like stepping into the kitchen when Dad used to have all burners going at once.
The Hunger Spirit shrieked.
Not loud.
Thin.
Like forks scraping porcelain.
It recoiled slightly.
The wok behind me flared gold.
The cleaver vibrated against its hook.
I grabbed it.
The spirit lunged again.
This time when it touched my arm, it burned instead of freezing me.
It jerked back.
"Yeah," I muttered. "Try that again."
It rushed me.
I swung.
The blade cut through the sludge — and this time it did not pass cleanly. Golden light sparked where metal met rot.
The creature spasmed.
Collapsed.
Its form shrank, unraveling into threads of black that evaporated into the air.
The golden shimmer from the pork rose and pulled the remaining fragments inward like a slow inhale.
Silence fell.
Only the hum of the refrigerator remained.
I stood there, breathing hard.
The back door hung crooked on one hinge.
The kitchen was intact.
Mostly.
The system chimed.
[Hunger Spirit Neutralized.]
[Experience Gained.]
[Host Level Increased: 1 → 2.]
[Golden Wok Integrity: 6% → 9%.]
[Reward: 2 Spirit Points.]
[Item Acquired: Lesser Spirit Core.]
[New Passive Unlocked: Ingredient Detection (Minor).]
I stared at the floating text.
"Integrity?" I asked.
[Golden Wok Status: No Longer Actively Dying.]
Something in my chest tightened unexpectedly.
No longer actively dying.
Not thriving.
Not safe.
But not dead.
I looked around the kitchen.
At the altar.
At the broken door.
At the plate of glowing pork in my hand.
The system flickered once more.
[Observation: This Was The Easy One.]
I swallowed.
"Of course it was."
Outside, somewhere in the alley, something else shifted.
Something bigger.
And this time—
It did not retreat.