After a long moment, Song Qinghuan asked, “What do you want to do?”
The warmth of ordinary life is what comforts the heart the most.I inherit the wishes of the “food cultivators.” They wish for all beings to be free of hunger, free of worry, free of pain and illusions. To relieve the suffering of the living, to cultivate the flavor of life—this is my path of cultivation.
As for finding you, I have passed through countless worlds and know that this vision cannot be achieved by one person alone. Teaching and guiding you will allow the food cultivators’ wishes to reach a little closer to completion.
So… do you wish to learn the culinary arts from the food cultivators?]**
Song Qinghuan could imagine what kind of people they must be—bound together by faith, like the army-green figures rushing forward on the frontlines.
“I’ve severed the tendons in both my hands.” She lifted her hands to show them. Her fingers were not delicate; the knuckles were somewhat large, and her hands bore countless cuts, marks from years of knife practice since childhood.
Those scars weren’t the main issue. The real obstacle was the two gruesome scars across her wrists—they had taken away her ability to hold a knife properly. She could no longer perform delicate culinary work.
Song Qinghuan was born into a family of imperial chefs. Her grandfather, Song Mingde, had two sons: the eldest, Song Jichang, and the second, her father, Song Ji’an.
Her eldest uncle had three sons—Song Jianguo, Song Jianmin, and Song Jian’an. In earlier years, the eldest uncle remained in their hometown of Zhenjiang. The family once ran a tavern, which had since become a state-run restaurant, where her uncle served as head chef.
Her father, however, chose the military path. It was there he met her mother, Tang Anyue, and they married beneath a statue of a great leader.
Then, when she was thirteen, her parents were killed, and she became a child of martyrs.
Back in her hometown, Song Qinghuan continued her practice. She remembered that her father named her “Qinghuan” to spare her grandfather some grief. Her father’s cooking skills surpassed her uncle’s, and her grandfather had hoped he would stay and take over the family kitchen.
But father and grandfather disagreed. Her father left home to join the army.
Not long after she was born, she was sent back to her hometown. Her eldest cousin was ten years older than her, the second eight, the third six.
By the age of five, she often watched her cousins learning to cook under her grandfather’s watchful eye. She wanted to join them. Her grandmother tried to pull her away, but she resisted, standing firm even under her grandfather’s stern gaze.
At five, she could do little, but as her grandfather guided her cousins, she memorized the different knife techniques and how to handle various ingredients. There was also the morning market—she would rise early to go with her grandfather to select ingredients, learning to judge freshness by sight, smell, and touch.
Following her grandfather, she sometimes saw the usually stern man smile at her, saying she had greater natural talent than her cousins—a born chef.
She thought she had forgotten all of it, yet every memory returned vividly when triggered.
Then she remembered the magical porridge from earlier that day. It had exceeded everything she knew, as if crafted by the brush of a deity.
[You only need to say whether you are willing, or not willing.]
Song Qinghuan clenched her hands. Her fingers twitched slightly from excitement. Finally, she said, “I’m willing.”
[Welcome to the Chef God System.]
Before she could recall more, the system spoke. Her vision darkened, and when she opened her eyes again, a bright streak of light crossed the space around her. In it, countless human silhouettes appeared. The people and surroundings were different, yet each figure was performing the same act—cooking.
Some faces were carefree, some blissful, some weary, yet all were enveloped in the fragrant haze of food. The light from their motions converged, growing brighter. Song Qinghuan squinted from the intensity. When she opened her eyes again, she was standing in a spacious kitchen. One figure was already present.
“Come in.” A stern voice commanded, and she finally stepped forward.
Everything before her exceeded comprehension. Roads she had struggled along in the past now seemed broadened by invisible hands. Countless culinary predecessors awaited her on this path.
Her hand clenched nervously into a fist. On one side of the kitchen sat baskets of potatoes and radishes.
She had seen these since childhood. When she first wielded a knife at eight, she practiced cutting these very vegetables to build foundational skills.
But after severing her tendons, she had never touched a knife again.
“Why are you just standing there? Get to work.”
As she stepped closer, she saw the figure: a middle-aged woman in neat black clothing, but with a weary, spiritless expression.
“Teacher,” Song Qinghuan called.
The woman didn’t move. Song Qinghuan washed some potatoes, peeling off their skin, then approached the cutting board. She gazed at the nearby knife for a long moment, then lifted it into her hand.
In the past, whenever she tried, a dull, powerless pain shot through her wrists. But this time, there was nothing—her hands felt whole, as if healed.
Though incredible, it was true.
Eager, she grabbed a peeled potato and began slicing it with a straight cut. It felt unfamiliar, yet exhilarating. Her pale, composed face flushed slightly.
One potato after another, until the basket was nearly empty, the woman finally moved. She appeared beside Song Qinghuan. A knife materialized in her hand, identical to Song Qinghuan’s, and a matching number of potatoes lay in the basin.
Under Song Qinghuan’s gaze, the woman worked. Her knife moved as if an extension of her arm; the round potatoes became perfectly uniform slices, then even, thin julienne strips.
Her movements were crisp, precise, and fluid.
Though using the same technique, the difference was obvious: Song Qinghuan’s cuts looked rough, uneven. The other’s slices were flawless.
For the first time in years, she realized how much she had fallen behind.
Taking a deep breath, she let her excitement subside and focused on the cutting board.
The potatoes she had prepared reappeared before her.
The woman in black said, “Continue.”
Song Qinghuan lifted her knife again. Time passed, she didn’t notice how long she chopped. The basket of potatoes seemed endless. Frustration and doubt surfaced—but vanished the moment she gripped her knife once more.