Inside Shen Mo’s tent, it was a completely different world from the frozen wasteland outside.
At the center of the tent, a red copper hot pot bubbled with plumes of thick white steam.
The rich aroma of simmering bone broth, mingled with the scent of an unfamiliar spice, filled the entire space.
The soup rolled and gurgled, clear white broth on one side and crimson chili oil on the other, sharply divided in the pot.
Paper-thin slices of lamb bobbed in the boiling broth, quickly curling as they cooked.
Shen Mo wore no armor, only a dark patterned brocade robe draped with a thick, tailored fur cloak.
He sat on a broad wooden chair layered with bear fur, holding long chopsticks as he unhurriedly dipped raw, crimson slices of meat into the boiling pot.
His movements were calm and measured, as though arriving in this strange, frozen world had done nothing to ruin his appetite.
around the tent was minimalist.
On one side stood a weapon rack holding standard arms, topped by an ancient long blade with an archaic design.
On the other side was a wooden desk spread with a military map marked with obscure symbols that no ordinary person could decipher.
The meat turned an appetizing gray-white after a few dabs in the broth.
Shen Mo picked a piece up with his chopsticks, but instead of eating it right away, he raised his eyes toward the tent entrance.
His gaze seemed capable of piercing the thick felt curtain to behold the guest being led inside.
His face was somewhat blurred behind the rising steam, but his eyes were as serene as a cold, ancient well, sharp enough to penetrate anything.
In the middle of this freezing ice and snow, Shen Mo looked like a host awaiting a guest in his own private courtyard rather than a military commander stranded in dangerous territory.
The heat of the hot pot softened his silhouette, blurring the cruel laws inherent to this land.
A maid silently lifted the curtain.
A bitter gust of white frost swept in with a dusting of snow, only to be instantly swallowed by the cozy warmth inside.
Will kept his head low as he followed the black-armored soldier inside.
The next second, he was enveloped by a rich, savory aroma that left him dazed for a moment.
He stopped in his tracks, not daring to step any further, and repeated the sentence he had rehearsed countless times on the way here: “I am Will, a Night’s Watch ranger from Castle Black.” His voice sounded dry from tension.
Shen Mo’s gaze fell upon him—calm yet heavy, as if measuring the worth of an insignificant object.
However, Shen Mo showed none of the surprise, hostility, or curiosity Will had anticipated regarding his status as a ranger of the Night’s Watch.
He merely offered a faint nod, as though he had known all along, or simply didn’t care.
This cold reception only made Will feel even more uneasy.
Shen Mo then made a simple gesture.
A maid in a plain velvet dress, who had been standing in the shadows of the corner, stepped forward without a sound.
She placed a set of porcelain bowls, chopsticks, and spoons matching the tent’s decor on the rug before Will, directly across the hot pot.
“Sit.” Shen Mo’s voice was smooth and indisputable.
“A visitor is a guest.
Eat first.” Both the master of this tent and the man in the black armor who had brought him here spoke his language.
Will froze, staring hesitatingly at the delicate chopsticks, then at the boiling hot pot.
Finally, following instructions, he awkwardly pulled out a chair and sat down.
He tried to copy the man across from him, reaching for the pair of slender wooden sticks, but his fingers were so stiff they refused to cooperate.
The chopsticks crossed awkwardly in his hand.
No matter how he adjusted his grip, he couldn’t hold anything securely.
He tried several times to pick up a slice of meat floating in the spicy red broth, but it either slipped out of his grip or he jabbed the sticks straight into the soup, splashing small drops of hot oil on himself in an embarrassing display.
He could even feel the maid standing beside him holding the wine flask—though she remained still as a statue—hiding a subtle, imperceptible smirk in her eyes.
Mockery, of course.
It was like watching a monkey in a circus performing a clumsy trick.
Will’s cheeks flushed red, and fine beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
In the warmth of this tent, this sudden humiliation was harder to bear than the freezing wind outside.
Shen Mo sat across from him, silently watching his awkward struggle with an unreadable expression.
After a moment, he said mildly to the maid, “Bring him a dining dagger.” The soft-featured girl raised her sleeve to hide her smile, discarding her formal etiquette entirely.
She held a set of knife and fork with one hand, set them in front of Will, and moved the oily, broth-soaked chopsticks to the side.
Having done all this, she retreated behind Shen Mo and stood quietly once more.
Will blushed as he picked up the knife and fork.
The cool touch of the metal finally gave his panicked fingers something familiar to grasp.
He clumsily pinned a hot slice of meat with the fork, used the knife to maneuver it, and finally managed to put food into his mouth.
In an instant, an explosive, fierce spiciness burst like fire on his tongue, violently assaulting his taste buds.
Will gasped loudly, his eyes turning red in an instant.
The intense heat rushed straight to his head, yet it was immediately followed by an extraordinarily deep, mouthwatering aroma that made it impossible to stop.
He grimaced as he chewed, fine beads of sweat dripping from his forehead.
Every bite was a mix of agony and sheer indulgence—a strange, painful yet delightful experience.
Whatever little manners and caution Will had left were thrown to the wind.
The taste of this hot pot was nothing short of a divine gift to him.
The blend of rich meat flavor and explosive heat warmed his frozen body from the inside out.
Forgetting himself, he used his fork to scoop out several slices of meat and unfamiliar meatballs from the bubbling red broth, nearly piling them high on his plate.
Then, to free up his hands to deal with his delicious loot, he casually laid the metal dining knife—still dripping with red oil—across the rim of the boiling copper pot.
He devoured the food, completely immersed in the feast.
Soon, the plate was cleared.
Still driven by his surging appetite, he reached out without thinking to grab the knife resting on the edge of the pot, ready to dive back into battle.
“Argh!” The moment his fingers gripped the handle, a sharp, searing pain shot through his fingertips.
The metal knife had been sitting on the edge of the boiling pot for so long that it was burning hot.
Hissing in pain, Will yanked his hand back, letting the knife drop onto the table with a loud clang.
He squeezed his reddened fingers and instinctively shoved them into his mouth.
Only after doing so did he realize how terribly he had lost his composure, forgetting even such basic common sense.
Silence settled over the tent, broken only by the oblivious bubbling of the hot pot.
“Bring him another set of cutlery,” Shen Mo’s calm voice sounded from behind the rising steam, seemingly unbothered by his guest’s display.