Shuu was widely learned—of course he recognized the two ingredients Shun had brought out.
"With ingredients this rare, only careful cooking can do their flavor justice."
This time, he volunteered. "Let me handle the kitchen today. I'll show you the Food Temple's way of hosting guests."
Shun blinked—pleasantly surprised. He'd planned to cook the two ingredients himself, but the usually low-key, cultivation-focused Shuu-sensei was going to take the ladle in person?
"You're cooking?" Shun asked, uncertain.
Shuu nodded with an easy smile.
Shun's interest flared. He hadn't expected the master who mostly guided their training—rarely leaving his quiet quarters—to step forward with such enthusiasm.
A calm, assured light played across Shuu's face. "I've handled both of these before—long ago. I have some experience. I won't disappoint you."
So, he'd worked with ingredients like these years ago? Interesting. All the better to watch and learn.
Led by Shuu, they headed to a secluded courtyard behind the Food Temple.
It wasn't a tech-stuffed hotel kitchen but more like a rustic farmhouse yard. In the corner stood a stove stacked from bluestone, a pile of firewood at its side.
A broad slab of raw-wood served as the prep bench, lined with traditional tools of different sizes—each polished to a mirror shine. Nearby sat clay jars and earthenware pots, and several bamboo steamers of varying diameters.
Simple, unadorned—and yet it breathed a return-to-essence serenity.
That was the Food Temple: plain to the eye, never ordinary in truth.
Shuu-sensei rolled up his sleeves, revealing lean, well-lined forearms.
He stepped up to the massive cut of Galar Gator meat. He didn't raise the knife at once; instead he brought his hands together and closed his eyes.
Shun and Miyoko knew: this was the prayer before Food Honor—an essential rite.
After a few breaths, Shuu laid both hands upon the meat, feeling for the ingredient's inner grain—its living "lines," as Shun had done before.
Silently, Shun and Miyoko watched. Both had trained in Food Honor; they could feel the air around Shuu shift—his presence sinking, then widening; his breath slowing, then settling; the ripples of intention aligning with the ingredient's pulse.
The courtyard seemed to quiet to the click of embers and the soft rustle of leaves as his aura harmonized with the ingredient.
Only then did Shuu open his eyes.
"Good child," he murmured to the meat, voice warm—grateful. "Lend us your strength."
The knife finally left its sheath.
It didn't flash with aggression; it flowed. Edge met muscle along invisible seams, following tensile lines the naked eye would miss. Each stroke released pressure without spilling excess juice; membranes parted cleanly, tendon lattices unzipped like silk.
In short order, that daunting slab transformed into orderly cuts: prime loin for quick-sear, marrow-rich ribs for slow stew, collagen-laced flanks for a double-broth, and a modest portion of essence-meat for a finishing course.
Shuu salted a bone section and hung it over low smoke—"to wake the aroma, not to mask it." He set rib pieces into an earthen pot with spring water and a few slivers of ginger bark, lidding it for the long simmer on a wood-tamed flame.
Next, the Iridescent Fruit.
He didn't peel or carve immediately. He cupped one gently, inhaled, and smiled. "We'll keep its perfume at the crest—use heat like wind, not fire."
A clay steamer went on the second stove with barely a whisper of heat. Bamboo leaves were rinsed and patted dry; thin sheets of rice dough were rolled, translucent as cicada wings. Shuu pressed the fruit—ever so lightly—to release a ribbon of nectar, catching every drop.
Prep moved like a quiet poem. Miyoko's eyes shone; Shun's Food Honor resonated in chorus, reading the choices and their timing.
When the rib stew found its first bloom, Shuu skimmed the clear fat and whisked it with a splash of bone-marrow broth, then painted a sheen over the sear-cut loins.
A quick kiss of the stone-hot pan—shhhh—and he lifted them just at point of rebound.
The essence-meat he didn't cook at all; he tempered it: salted fog, citrus zest the size of dust motes, and a brush of Iridescent nectar—letting the meat's core warmth "ripen" it like a living cheese.
Finally, he assembled the fruit course: steamed rice-leaf wraps, a fan of seven-hued segments, a single drop of reduced nectar, and a wisp of the gator-bone glaze to bridge land and orchard.
He set the dishes out one by one, without flourish—just rightness.
"Thank you for waiting," Shuu said, palms together in thanks to the ingredients—and to them.
The courtyard filled with a fragrance that was both river-deep and sky-light. Shun and Miyoko traded a glance; their Gourmet Cells thrummed like plucked strings.
Tonight, they would taste Food Honor cooked by a master.
(End of Chapter)
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