The confrontation with Wang Ji left Lin Fan buzzing, not with fear, but with a terrifying, exhilarating clarity.
The knife in his hand hadn't just scared off bullies; it had cut their intention.
The Gourmet Dao wasn't merely about defense or disruption.
It could be an active, precise instrument.
He looked at the simple congee cooling in its bowl.
The "Purity" he had cultivated there felt like a foundation, a clean workspace.
What he had done with the knife was an application, a specific technique.
He was learning a language he never knew existed, and every word was a flavor, every sentence a recipe.
His grandfather's stories, once comforting fables, were now a lifeline.
He had to find more. The old man had been meticulous, a keeper of records even for a simple noodle stall.
There had to be something else, a hidden piece of the puzzle.
He closed the stall early, the "Closed" sign feeling more significant than ever.
He barred the door and turned his attention to the single, small room at the back, his grandfather's bedroom, now his.
It was spartan: a wooden bed, a worn chest for clothes, and a small, rickety desk.
He had avoided going through his grandfather's things, the grief too fresh.
Now, it was a necessity. He started with the desk.
Ledgers, recipes for noodles and broths, notes on suppliers.
Nothing out of the ordinary. He opened the chest.
Patched robes, a few keepsakes. His hands brushed against the bottom, and his fingers met something rough and fibrous.
Beneath the folded clothes was a roll of what looked like aged bamboo matting, tied with a frayed hempen cord.
His breath hitched. He'd seen this before.
His grandfather would sometimes unroll it on the floor on cold nights, claiming it was an old family "sitting mat."
But Lin Fan had always been told never to play on it, to treat it with respect.
He lifted it out. It was heavier than it looked.
He carried it to the center of the room and untied the cord.
As it unrolled, he saw it wasn't a mat at all. It was a scroll.
The "bamboo" was a thick, parchment-like paper, tough and yellowed with age.
And on it, painted in faded inks that were more brown than black, was not writing, but a diagram.
At its center was a perfect circle, and within it, the same symbol from his wok: ☲ — The Unfired Cauldron.
Radiating out from it were lines, not like a cultivator's meridian chart, but like the branches of a tree or the veins in a leaf.
And along these lines were not acupoints, but words.
Single, potent concepts written in an ancient, elegant script.
Purity. The branch was short, the character small, near the center.
He had just stumbled upon that one himself.
Severing. A slightly longer branch, the character sharp and angular.
His hand instinctively went to the knife at his belt.
His eyes traveled further out, his heart thumping against his ribs.
Vigor. Fortification. Clarity.
And further still, towards the edges of the scroll, the concepts grew more complex, more powerful, and more terrifying.
Satiety of the Soul. Appetite of the Void. Banquet of a Thousand Dragons.
This was no mere diagram. This was a map.
A culinary meridian chart. The Gourmet Dao's path of advancement.
But how did it work? He traced the line from "The Unfired Cauldron" to "Purity."
It was a direct connection. He had made a dish with the intent of Purity and had felt a connection form within him.
Was that it? Did he have to "cook" his way along these paths, mastering each concept to unlock the next?
His eyes fell on a branch leading from "Purity" to a concept called Five-Flavor Equilibrium.
It was the next logical step. Purity was a clean slate; Equilibrium was the perfect balance upon which all complex flavors were built.
A wave of dizziness washed over him. The scope of it was immense.
This was a lifetime's work. No, generations of work.
A soft knock at the stall's front door broke his trance.
He hurriedly rolled up the scroll, his instincts screaming to hide it.
He shoved it back into the chest and covered it with clothes before unbarring the door.
Old Man Shen from down the street stood there, wringing his hands, his face pale.
"Lin Fan! Thank the heavens you're here. It's my grandson, Xiao Hei. He's... he won't wake up. The fever came on so fast. We've tried everything..."