In her previous life, Lin Ji’an was a chef who lived for the perfect balance of salt, fat, and heat. She was a woman who could be happy with a bowl of perfectly executed noodles even if the world was ending.
Looking down at Xie Wangchen, she didn’t see a villain.
She saw a boy whose bones were sticking out, whose skin was sallow from malnutrition, and who was likely being fed the leftovers of the leftovers.
A plan began to form, one that involved less "unspeakable acts" and much more "spiritually infused protein."
"If I’m going to survive, I need to drop that blackening ter," she mused. "And the fastest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Especially if that man is currently a starving, traumatized orphan."
She hopped down from the tree, landing with a soft thud on the grass. She smoothed out her expensive silk robes, the dark blue of a high-ranking young master, and adjusted the jade pendant at her waist.
The servants in the garden imdiately froze. They looked at her with eyes full of terror, bowing their heads so low they nearly touched their knees.
"Third Young Master!" they chorused, their voices trembling.
Ji’an ignored them, her eyes fixed on the boy by the well. Xie Wangchen hadn’t looked up.
He continued to haul the heavy bucket, his knuckles white, his expression a mask of frozen apathy. He was like a beautiful, broken doll, waiting for the world to finish its work on him.
Ji’an walked toward him. With every step, she felt the "Villain’s Aura," even at this young age, a cold, sharp edge that felt like a blade pressed against her skin.
When she was five feet away, he finally stopped. He dropped the rope and turned, bowing his head. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move.
But Ji’an could see the way his fingers twitched toward the small, rusted gardening tool tucked into his belt.
He was already prepared to kill her.
"You," Ji’an said, using her most arrogant "spoiled young master" tone. "Follow ."
Xie Wangchen’s shoulders stiffened. The air around him seed to drop a few degrees. He finally lifted his head, and Ji’an was struck by his eyes.
They weren’t the eyes of a child; they were dark, bottomless pits of resentnt, frad by long, thick lashes that gave him that "feminine charm" the book had described.
"This slave obeys," he rasped. His voice was dry, like sandpaper on stone.
Ji’an turned on her heel and began walking toward the private kitchens of the Third Son’s courtyard, a place where the regular mansion staff were forbidden to enter.
As she walked, she could hear his light, uneven footsteps behind her. She knew what he was thinking. He was thinking this was the beginning of his nightmare. He was thinking of the bronze dagger.
[Warning: Blackening Value is rising! 66%... 67%...]
"Keep rising, you little brat," Ji’an thought, her lips curling into a wry smile. "Wait until you see what I’m actually going to force you to do."
They entered the private kitchen. It was stocked with the finest ingredients: spiritual grains, dried ats from high-level beasts, and jars of preserved mountain herbs.
The original Lin Ji’an had demanded these things but never used them, preferring to have the imperial chefs send her greasy, over-the-top delicacies.
Ji’an walked to the center of the room and pointed to a stool.
"Sit," she commanded.
Xie Wangchen remained standing, his gaze fixed on the floor. "This slave does not dare."
"I said sit!" Ji’an barked, slamming her hand on the wooden table.
The boy flinched, then slowly, tentatively, perched on the edge of the stool. He looked like a deer caught in a trap, his entire body coiled for a desperate, violent escape.
Ji’an didn’t look at him again. Instead, she grabbed a heavy iron wok. She stoked the fire in the hearth with a practiced flick of her wrist, her movents fluid and confident.
She ignored the System’s frantic warnings about the "Unspeakable Incident" tiline.
She took a slab of cured spirit-boar bacon and sliced it into thin, translucent strips. Then, she gathered a handful of wild scallions, so fernted soy paste, and a bowl of leftover stead rice that had been cooling in a jade container.
The sound of the knife hitting the cutting board was a rapid, rhythmic tak-tak-tak-tak.
Xie Wangchen’s head slowly lifted. His eyes, previously filled with murderous intent, were now clouded with confusion. He watched as the "wicked" Third Young Master tossed the bacon into the hot wok.
The sll hit the room instantly, smoky, salty, and intoxicatingly rich.
Ji’an added the rice, breaking it apart with a wooden paddle, ensuring every grain was coated in the rendered fat of the spirit-boar.
She threw in the scallions, the bright green contrasting against the golden rice, and finally, a splash of wine and soy paste that sent a plu of savory steam into the air.
She plated the mountain of fried rice into a simple ceramic bowl and set it down in front of the future Final Boss.
"Eat," she said, her voice dropping the arrogant act for a mont.
Xie Wangchen stared at the bowl. He stared at the steam rising from the rice. His throat moved in a visible swallow.
"Young Master...?"
"If you don’t eat it, I’ll have you whipped for wasting my ingredients," Ji’an lied smoothly, crossing her arms over her bound chest. "And don’t leave a single grain. If I find one piece of rice left, I’ll make you haul water until dawn."
Xie Wangchen picked up the wooden spoon. His hands were shaking. He took a small, hesitant bite.
His eyes widened.
It wasn’t just food. The spiritual energy in the boar at, unlocked by Ji’an’s precise heat control, began to flow through his parched ridians like a warm spring.
It was the first ti in months he had felt warm. It was the first ti in his life soone had given him sothing that wasn’t a threat, a bribe, or a piece of trash.
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