Lin Fan's first thought was that he was no doctor.
His second was the memory of Leng Xuan's exhausted eyes, the way his broth had brought a flicker of balance to her.
The way his congee had created a pool of pure energy within him.
Food as medicine. It was the most ancient concept of all.
"Take me to him," Lin Fan said.
In the cramped, warm room of Old Man Shen's house, the boy, no more than six, lay shivering on a pallet.
His skin was burning to the touch, his breathing shallow.
A village healer was there, shaking her head.
"The fever is too deep. It's in his blood. There's nothing more I can do."
The boy's mother wept silently by his side.
Lin Fan looked at the child, at the raging internal fire consuming him.
This wasn't a cultivator's imbalance; this was a mortal sickness.
But the principle... the principle was the same.
He needed to introduce a counter-balance.
He needed to cool the fever, to soothe the inflammation.
He needed to cook.
"I can try something," Lin Fan said, his voice cutting through the despair. "But I need to use my own kitchen."
Without waiting for permission, he ran back to his stall.
His mind was racing, scanning through a lifetime of recipes.
Not for taste, but for effect. He thought of the diagram.
Five-Flavor Equilibrium.
He wasn't ready for that, but he understood its precursor: Harmony.
He gathered ingredients, his movements swift and sure.
Pearls of Job's Tears barley, known for clearing heat.
Lotus seeds to calm the spirit.
A small piece of dried Solomon's Seal root from his grandfather's small stash of medicinal herbs.
And critically, a single, precious piece of rock sugar, not for sweetness, but for its centering, harmonizing property.
He lit the fire under the black-iron wok. The familiar pulse greeted him, stronger now, resonating with the pool of Purity in his dantian.
This time, his intent was not abstract. It was desperate, focused, and vividly clear: Cooling Harmony.
He visualized the fever as a chaotic, red blaze.
He saw the broth as a gentle, blue-white mist, seeping into the boy, dousing the flames without shock, restoring balance.
He poured this intent into every stir, every bubble that rose and burst.
The wok seemed to hum in response, the symbol on its handle warm against his palm.
When the congee was done, a pale, slightly sweet-smelling gruel, it seemed to glow with a soft, internal light. Or was that his imagination?
He carried the bowl back to Old Man Shen's house.
"Spoon this into him. Slowly. Every drop."
They did. The mother lifted the boy's head, trembling as she fed him the first spoonful. Then another.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, a soft sigh escaped the boy's lips.
The terrible tension in his small body seemed to ease. The violent shivering lessened.
After a few more spoonfuls, a healthy sweat broke out on his forehead, and his breathing deepened into the rhythm of natural sleep.
The burning heat was receding, replaced by a normal warmth.
The healer stared, her mouth agape. Old Man Shen clutched Lin Fan's arm, tears streaming down his wrinkled face.
"You saved him... How... how can we ever repay you?"
Lin Fan looked at the empty bowl. He felt drained, more exhausted than after a day of pulling noodles.
But within his dantian, the calm pool of Purity had shifted.
It was still there, but now it seemed to have a current, a gentle flow.
He had practiced Harmony, and his own energy had harmonized in response.
He had advanced, infinitesimally, but undeniably.
"Repay me by letting him rest," Lin Fan said softly. "And by bringing him by the stall next week. I'll make him something to rebuild his strength."
As he walked back to his empty stall in the deepening twilight, the weight of the scroll in the chest felt immense.
He wasn't just a cook anymore. He was a doctor, a guardian, a cultivator on a forgotten path.
The Gourmet Dao was not just about power. It was about nourishment.
And in a world obsessed with taking, with breaking through realms and seizing treasures, the one who could truly nourish might just be the most powerful of them all.
He had found his map. Now, he had to walk the path.
And he knew, with a certainty that chilled his bones, that others would soon be looking for the source of the strange, harmonious energies emanating from a simple noodle stall in Maple Creek.