The scent was not just a smell; it was a biological imperative.
To a normal person, the air in the Cooking Hall was simply a heavy mix of yeast, flour, and roasted soybeans. But to Yoriichi, whose mortal vessel was currently being ravaged by the extreme metabolic demands of Total Concentration Breathing, it was the scent of absolute survival. His cells were vibrating, burning through caloric reserves at a terrifying rate, creating a void in his stomach that threatened to cannibalize his own muscle tissue.
He moved.
He didn't walk; he flowed. Activating the Transparent World, Yoriichi saw the heat signatures and muscular contractions of the kitchen staff through the thick steam. He slipped past a sous-chef chopping vegetables, timing his footsteps perfectly with the man's respiratory rhythm. He ducked under a tray of cabbage, moving like a phantom through the chaotic, noisy kitchen.
He reached the cooling racks in the back corner, concealed behind a towering stack of grain sacks.
There lay the objective: a massive bamboo steamer filled with two dozen large, fluffy steamed buns, and a heavy wooden bucket of fresh, warm soy milk.
Yoriichi didn't hesitate.
He grabbed a bun. It was still steaming hot. He bit into it, his jaw working with machine-like efficiency. Total Concentration Breathing didn't just consume oxygen; it hyper-accelerated digestion. As the dense carbohydrates hit his stomach, his system instantly broke them down, converting the food into raw, burning heat.
The violent shivering in his limbs stopped. The cold sweat on his back evaporated into a faint steam.
One bun. Five. Ten. Twenty.
He lifted the heavy wooden bucket of soy milk to his lips, drinking deeply. The warm, nutrient-dense liquid soothed his parched throat, filling the agonizing void in his gut.
In less than five minutes, the massive steamer was empty. The bucket was drained.
Yoriichi let out a soft, measured exhale, using a linen cloth to wipe a streak of soy milk from his lip. The ravenous, predatory starvation faded, instantly replaced by a roaring, vibrant heat in his muscles. His limbs felt heavy with renewed vitality.
'My caloric deficit is temporarily resolved,' Yoriichi noted internally, analyzing his stabilized heart rate. 'However, I have consumed an irregular volume of resources.'
He turned to slip back toward the exit.
Suddenly, the ambient worldly energy in the kitchen stagnated.
It wasn't the heat of the ovens. It was a heavy, suffocating pressure that instantly thickened the air. A massive shadow fell over the cooling racks, blocking out the light from the hanging oil lanterns.
Yoriichi stopped his advance. He slowly looked up.
Standing before him was a mountain of a man. He wore a grease-stained white apron that strained against a chest as wide as a barrel. His arms were thick with muscle, scarred from years of battling hot oil and heavy woks.
Green Dou Qi flickered faintly around the man's body, hardening the air around him like an invisible, heavy armor.
This was a 1-Star Dou Shi.
The Head Chef of the Xiao Clan, Chef Zhang. A man who had served the main family for ten years, utilizing his cultivation not for warfare, but to maintain the immense physical stamina required to feed an army of martial artists.
Chef Zhang stared down at the completely empty bamboo steamer. Then at the drained bucket. Then at the red-haired youth standing calmly before him.
The Chef's face rapidly cycled through utter confusion, disbelief, and finally, a rising, panicked anger. The veins in his thick neck bulged.
"You..." Zhang growled, the single word vibrating with the heavy resonance of Dou Qi.
The immediate area fell deathly silent. The nearby chopping and sizzling halted as a few kitchen staff noticed the towering Head Chef cornering someone behind the grain sacks.
Chef Zhang took a heavy step forward, his Dou Shi aura passively pressing down upon the space. To a normal Dou Zhi Qi disciple, this pressure would have forced them to their knees in sheer terror.
Yoriichi stood his ground perfectly. His posture remained flawless, his knees locked, completely unbothered by the spiritual weight. He simply looked up at the towering man with deep, tranquil crimson eyes.
"Young Master Ning..." Chef Zhang hissed, forcibly restraining the urge to shout, his large hands clenching into trembling fists. He was a Dou Shi, but he was still a servant. He could not strike the First Elder's grandson without forfeiting his own life, but the sheer logistical disaster before him was overriding his restraint.
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