The inquisitor, sprawled on the floorboards, did not bark an order or invoke the imperial seal. He simply inhaled, drawing in the steam of braised pork like an anchor. His stomach, now a roaring chasm, demanded satisfaction. The warm air carried star anise and rich fat, pressing past his defenses. Humiliation warred with an animalistic craving so intense it made his divine senses reel. He was a Heavenly Inquisitor, judge of mortals and purger of sin, reduced to a groveling dog by a kitchen boy’s cooking. Mei Lingshuang, leaning casually against the doorframe, her frost-rimmed saber now a silent, watchful shadow, flicked her wrist. A small, three-legged stool skittered across the floor and nudged Cixing’s side. Beside it, a shallow bamboo basket filled with pearly white bulbs appeared. A sharp, crude knife, its blade nicked from countless uses, lay atop them. The fallen judge pushed himself upright on aching wrists, silver plate clattering against the pine. He stared at the cloves, then at the knife, then at Yumo’s relaxed brow. The youth held no trace of malice, which cut deeper than an executioner's writ. “Peel them here, guest,” Yumo said, pointing to a low, scarred bench where three outer students were slicing scallions. “Just make sure to get all the skin off. We don’t want any bitter bits in the sauce.” Heat crept up the inquisitor's collar. He settled onto the three-legged perch, thighs cramped against his ribcage. Calluses forged on golden halberds scraped clumsily over dry papery husks. The skin tore, slick juice squirted, and the clove squirted from his numb grip to roll beneath the low table. A loud splash came from the basin on the counter. Ao Wanchen flicked a fin, sending cold droplets straight across the inquisitor's brow. “Clumsy oaf,” the dragon's dry rumble echoed between the man's ears. “Can’t even master an allium. And your court claims dominion over the seven spheres? The upper tier has truly rotted through.” The inquisitor swallowed his rebuke as the sweet vinegar and soy sauce bubbled louder. He fished the runaway clove from the dust, his knuckles trembling. The iron paring knife felt awkward in palms molded for spear hafts. Steel bit too deep, and a dark drop of blood welled on his thumb. “Press here,” a gentle voice murmured. A three-tailed fox with amber eyes sat on its haunches beside his stool. Slender paws gripped an unpeeled segment. “You hold it firm, like this, then a quick slice, not too deep, and the skin comes right off.” The beast cracked the root end with a sharp thumbnail, stripping the sheath in a single stroke. The inquisitor watched, then repeated the movement on his own bulb. The dried husk slid free in one piece, dropping onto the woven tray. He reached for the next, steadying his breath to match the rhythm of the blade. When the basket held only clean ivory cloves, Yumo set down a wide earthenware bowl. “Good labor earns its keep,” the cook said. Glazed squares of pork belly rested in ginger-dark gravy over braised greens and steamed white grains, crowned with a handful of the freshly minced cloves. The inquisitor stared into the steam. He had lived on distilled dew and light for centuries, scorning gross matter as filth. He lifted the chipped porcelain spoon. Crisp skin gave way to unctuous fat and sweet rice wine. The knot in his chest loosened; heat spread down his throat and thawed his stiff limbs. Water slipped down his cheek, dripping unheeded into his collar. No spirit pill or blood oath had ever warmed his belly like this simple bowl. Around him, the kitchen hummed. Across the flagstones, Elder Zhan Kui scraped soot from an iron cauldron with rhythmic strokes of pumice. Near the hearth, an ox-headed spirit diced carrots beside two disciples sorting dried shiitake caps. At the large iron tub, Mei Lingshuang ladled rice into wooden trenchers for a badger beastman and a slender crane sprite. Ao Wanchen blew three bubbles that popped against the ceramic lip. “Look at him,” the fish sneered into the room's silence. “A single spoonful of lard and he forgets five centuries of doctrine. Shen Yumo, toss in dried shrimp before my scales turn grey.” The man scraped the bottom of his bowl, chasing the last bead of grease. The cold void in his lower dantian felt quiet, filled not by compressed qi, but by simple, heavy grain. Setting the bowl on the table, he looked up at Yumo, who was rolling dough on a flour-dusted slab. “Cook,” the inquisitor whispered, the sound raspy. Then his back went rigid. The missing jade talisman. The late hour. The report left unwritten. The paring knife clattered against the flagstones. “The Grand High Court,” he muttered, breath catching against his teeth. “They do not tolerate missed signals. A delayed missive means treachery.” The white winter light across the kitchen window curdled into dull crimson. Chopsticks halted over wooden bowls. Above the frosted ridges of the outer peak, a low thrum rattled the drying racks and shivered through the soup bowls. War drums of the upper realm beat their descent.

Peeling Garlic for Salvation