The crystalline scanner flickered crimson across the grease-slick counter. The officer's tone dropped into a cold cadence. “Bao Zhilan. Imperial registers mark you as proprietor of this stall. The sensor detects unauthorized internal channel tampering. Bio-treason, third degree. Confess.” Zhilan withdrew her fingers from a jar of pickled void-kelp, setting her palm flat on the cutting board. “Confess what, investigator? That my wok puts your gray sludge to shame? Or that your cyber-dojo cadets lack the spine for real seasoning?” Kuang stepped closer, armor joints whining. “Do not stall, vendor. I hold reports detailing high-tier mecha students, including squad leader Gu, displaying severe deviance. Unheard-of core breakthroughs trailing behind pledges of fanatical subservience to an alley kiosk.” He tapped the crystal terminal. “The readouts confirm their astral pathways are rearranging along anomalous vectors. A direct breach of Imperial security.” Zong Jinxi, still kneeling amidst the discarded wrappers, clutching his dirty rag, whimpered softly. “Master’s food is divine, Inquisitor. It reveals the true path!” Kuang spared Jinxi a glance that could freeze a supernova. “Another casualty,” Kuang muttered. He reached for Zhilan, alloy restraints springing from his wrist gauntlet with an audible click. “The stall is seized for slagging, and you are remanded to the penal barge.” But before his fingers could brush her, a low growl erupted from beneath the counter. Chashao, the six-legged Void-Glutton piglet, shot out like a greasy, bristly missile. Its three sets of jaws snapped shut with astonishing force around Kuang Yisheng’s right cybernetic leg. The high-pitched shriek of tortured servo-motors filled the alley. Kuang, caught off guard, stumbled. His meticulously maintained, state-mandated Qi-paste ration, a compact nutrient block, flew from his belt pouch. It skittered across the tiles and ruptured, smearing a chalky, odorless paste into the floor grime. “Chashao!” Zhilan chided, though a hint of amusement flickered in her eyes. “Bad pig. Don’t bite the furniture.” Kuang stared at his damaged leg, then at the splattered Qi-paste. Gears ground behind Kuang's knee plating. “This vermin mauled Imperial brass.” “He’s an emotional support animal,” Zhilan said, completely deadpan. “He dislikes heavy boots near the lard barrel. And he hates seeing nutrient ration wasted.” She nudged the congealing grey heap with her boot heel. “Three days of basic combat fuel, ruined.” Kuang, regaining his composure, straightened. “The attack will be added to your charges. As for the Qi-paste, it is the purest form of nutrient, devoid of all unnecessary sensory distractions. Designed for optimal cultivation, not… hedonism.” He looked at her, his voice chilling. “You seek to corrupt the very foundation of our civilization with your… gourmet poisons.” Zhilan leaned over the wok rim with a thin smirk. “Gourmet poisons? Your tongue is as numb as your synthetic knee. Have you ever swallowed anything beyond processed starch bars? Do you even recognize genuine seasoning?” He watched her, silent, unreadable. “Taste is a non-essential biological error,” Kuang said. “A vulnerability.” “A weakness?” Zhilan scoffed. “Or the key to unlocking true power?” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a seductive whisper. “I can show you. I can show you what your Qi-paste-dulled senses have denied you your entire life.” She reached into a cooler, pulling out a slab of glistening, dark-fleshed meat. “Stellar-boar flank, steeped in fermented mash and ground star-anise. A dynasty preparation.” Kuang’s gaze flickered to the meat. He saw the faint, iridescent sheen on its surface, the complex marbling. His optical visor flagged the protein profile as untamed biomatter, yet his scan failed to classify the aromatic enzymes. Zhilan didn’t wait for an answer. She fired up a small, portable induction burner, a relic from a forgotten age. Cast iron clattered over the induction coil, smoke curling off the sheen of rendered fat. The flank met the surface with a concussive hiss. Pungent caramel and scorched ginger bloomed upward, biting through the alley's ozone exhaust. Jinxi slumped against the dish tub, groaning. Chashao scratched his six trotters against the duckboard. Kuang stiffened. The scent was… disorienting. It bypassed his cybernetic scent filters, burrowing directly into his ancient, biological olfactory receptors. He found himself unconsciously inhaling deeper. Zhilan worked with practiced ease, turning the ribs, basting them in a rich, dark sauce that thickened and caramelized. In minutes, they were done, glistening and perfect. She placed a single, steaming rib on a chipped porcelain plate and pushed it across the counter towards him. “Try it,” she challenged, her eyes glittering. “If you truly believe it’s poison, then let the Empire execute me on the spot.” Kuang stared at the rib. His analytical mind warred with an unexpected, primordial urge. He picked it up, the bone warm against his gloved fingers. The meat was impossibly tender, falling away at the slightest pressure. He took a bite. The crisp glaze shattered between his molars, releasing a torrent of molten fat, charred scallion, and biting pepper. Kuang’s posture collapsed. His calcified energy channels, starved by a lifetime of synthetic paste, violently uncoiled. A raw burn tore along his spine as the stagnant core pathways broke open and aligned anew. He gripped the sheet metal of the counter, denting the aluminum as his core pressure spiked and stabilized. Then, as suddenly as it began, the agony subsided, replaced by an intoxicating, euphoric surge. Pure, unhindered astral pressure flooded his circulatory circuits, humming with terrifying clarity. The station’s environmental purifiers, the distant boot-falls on the concourse, the metallic tang of coolant—every signal registered with pristine acuity. He opened his eyes. Zhilan was watching him, a predatory glint in her gaze. He looked down at the rib, still clutched in his hand, then back at her. The rigid composure on his face cracked, lips parted as he stared into the depleted bone. He wiped a dark streak of glaze from his lower lip with an armored thumb. “This stall remains under indefinite surveillance.” Without breaking eye contact, he grabbed the second rib from the plate, shoved it into an insulated chest seal, and strode out into the neon haze.

The Inquisitor's Palate