"At Xinxu Garden, somehow there's been a little runt running around in a red trench coat. Tsk, tsk—one look and you can tell it's expensive."
"If you don't want to die, don't touch him. He belongs to the Head Chef of that place."
Life in Alley 23 wasn't always quiet. There were always people watching the young Ke Ming like prey.
A cook held a special status here.
Before the first thread of morning sunlight even managed to crawl out of the thick clouds, the cooks of Alley 23 would already be awake—hunting down the highest-quality "ingredients" for their customers.
Unfortunately, even though he was only five or six, Ke Ming still got kicked out by the Head Chef to "go deal with ingredients."
In the Head Chef's words:
"Why bust my ass when I've got cheap labor?"
So every morning, among the pack of cooks prowling the streets for passersby to turn into meat, there was always a one-meter-thirty little shorty in the mix.
The only blessing was that the Head Chef's reputation really was useful—at least in the nearby streets, no one dared to make a move on Ke Ming.
A tender-skinned child like him wasn't common around here.
The traces of a comfortable life in the City's Nest didn't vanish just because you'd spent a few months in the Backstreets.
Pale skin, a babyish face, height that stood out among kids born and raised in the Alley—everything about Ke Ming screamed not from here.
Walking down the street, he could always feel figures flicker in the shadows—eyes full of ill intent.
A child doing this kind of work… no matter how you framed it, it was still too much.
Hunting "ingredients" at dawn wasn't easy. Most cooks chose stable supply lines—buying raw materials from professional slaughter-gangs was a perfectly reasonable solution.
But the most exquisite dishes often demanded premium ingredients and rare seasonings.
The restaurant the Head Chef ran had a loud reputation across the whole alley. Xinxu Garden, boasting that every dish lets you taste emotion, was naturally a customer favorite.
And because of that, every night after closing—and every early morning—Ke Ming was out searching for suitable targets.
If the "ingredients" were high quality and found quickly, he got to crawl into bed sooner. If he came back empty-handed… then he could only steal a shallow nap in the deep hours of the back alleys.
It wasn't just Ke Ming. The Head Chef—whose standards for ingredient quality bordered on obsessive—followed his own rules with iron discipline.
That was why Xinxu Garden could stay open year-round without rest days, and still maintain a sky-high reputation.
It wasn't only the cooks of the alley who revered him—some big shots from the Nest would also, for the sake of food, find ways to "have a relationship" with the Head Chef.
…
Bang.
"Hello, may I—"
"Brat! How many times do I have to tell you—be polite to customers! Use honorifics!"
"Okay… y-you… Hello, sir/ma'am. May I ask… are you interested in letting your mother become an unbelievably delicious delicacy?"
"Madman! Get away from me!"
"Then do you happen to need—"
"Get out! Get out right now!"
Ke Ming was shoved out the door by a woman dressed in flashy, expensive clothes. Luckily, his shoes were thick—when the crooked metal door slammed and he stumbled down, it didn't hurt his feet.
"Tsk."
The Head Chef clicked his tongue. His tall silhouette surfaced from the darkness.
"Not qualified as an ingredient… but if I process it a bit, it'll do."
With force that could have smashed that metal door, his fist drove straight through the woman's body—slamming into her abdomen.
It didn't look like a "punch" so much as someone opening a cupboard to check what's inside—calm, casual, almost leisurely.
The strength was perfectly measured: his fist tore through skin and muscle and opened a gaping hole in her belly, but didn't punch all the way through.
Ignoring her screams completely, the Head Chef smoothly yanked her organs out in one messy bundle. With his pinky, he hooked the tail end of her intestines and tied a dead knot.
"Ingredients that provide fear," he said. "Remember that, brat."
Ke Ming nodded, walked up, grabbed her by the hair, and dragged the ingredient back toward Xinxu Garden.
"The next one is our original target."
The Head Chef looked back.
An elderly woman—aged, but still sharp and spirited—stood frowning, both hands gripping a greatsword held across her chest.
"An ingredient of anger… not bad seasoning."
His right foot tapped the ground. He spun around his left as a pivot, then kicked off hard and raised his butcher's cleaver—bringing it straight down at her.
The sound of metal snapping echoed through the alley. The greatsword was cleaved cleanly into two pieces. In the crisis, the woman twisted aside—barely evading a fatal strike.
The Head Chef settled back into place, staring at her face, now twisted and ugly with rage, and laughed.
"Let's get rid of the head," he said. "Too ugly."
Blood erupted from the headless body.
The head hit the ground with a wet thunk, rolled a few circles, wobbled—and stopped.
The fury on the woman's face had frozen in place.
The Head Chef walked up, grabbed the corpse by the collar, and slung it over his shoulder.
…
A cook, naturally, had to treat customers with meticulous care.
The guest Ke Ming received this time was a young man wearing a black suit, a formal hat, and carrying a briefcase.
"One bowl of rice, please."
"J-just… rice?"
"I'm not used to your local specialties."
The man adjusted his glasses and smiled mildly.
"Head Chef… this gentleman only wants a bowl of rice?"
"Give it to him. Stop dawdling."
The Head Chef kept working the ingredients without even looking up.
"H-Hello… here is your… white rice."
"Thank you."
The man nodded politely, accepted the bowl with both hands, and chose a table in the corner to sit down.
Ke Ming thought the man's outfit looked strangely familiar, but he couldn't remember where he'd seen it.
A friend of his father's? Or some leftover impression from his previous life?
British gentlemen all dress like this, don't they…
"Brat. Stop spacing out."
The Head Chef patted Ke Ming's back and yanked his thoughts back into reality.
"Serve the dishes. Move."
"Yes, Head Chef."
-------
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