Heart I: Ghost Village

Mingyao sat on the bed in a meditative posture, attempting to consolidate her energy and break through to the next tier of Qi Refining. Yet every time she tried, her energy leaked away to some unknown destination. It was as if there were a crack somewhere within her body, silently draining the carefully gathered Qi.

She sat back down and tried again. A third time.

Tier Five Qi Refining refused to budge.

"What am I doing wrong?" Mingyao sighed, her focus breaking as her senses were drawn to the noise outside.

Beyond the inn's walls rose a chaotic medley of sound—drums pounding, voices singing, and all manner of music, if it could even be called that. The noise blended together into something bordering on incomprehensible.

She tried to drown it out, forcing her thoughts back to her predicament.

"And here I thought I would have broken through by now. Was he lying to me?"

Mingyao opened her eyes. At that moment, a tantalizing aroma reached her nose, pulling her from the bed and guiding her toward the dining area of the inn.

"Miss, the food is ready."

Mingyao quickly took a seat at the table of food and dug in as if her life depended on it. An array of dishes spread before her—pork, duck, beef, and fish, alongside grains of various kinds, all accompanied by generous servings of rice. Everything had been meticulously prepared, from the tenderness of the meats to the fluffiness of the rice and the freshness of the vegetables.

Her chopsticks worked nonstop, darting from bowl to bowl as she sampled each dish. A jar of wine had been set beside her as an accompaniment to the meal. Mingyao enjoyed every bite, savoring the flavors as she ate.

The chef watched quietly as she devoured the food, clearly enjoying herself. After all, the inn had only this young lady as its guest.

Soon enough, the table was cleared.

"Did you enjoy your meal, young miss?"

"Indeed. You are a very skilled chef, Mr. Du."

"I'm glad you liked it," Mr. Du said, his eyes glimmering for a brief moment before drifting to a strange lamp in the corner.

Mingyao stood and began helping Mr. Du clear the table.

"Mr. Du… Mr. Du."

The dazed man snapped back from his reverie as the sounds from outside intensified.

"Miss, do you enjoy my meals?"

"Of course. They are very delicious. I never knew food could be this good."

Mr. Du nodded, humming thoughtfully.

"Then would you like to learn how to make such a meal?" He asked, his eyes fixed on a dark corner of the inn where a weak flame burned within a lamp.

Mingyao paused, confused by the sudden request.

"You wish to teach me how to make spirit food?"

"Yes."

"But I thought you couldn't. You refused me before."

Mr. Du slowly turned his face toward Mingyao.

"It wasn't the right time."

"And it is now?"

"Yes."

Mingyao studied the aged man before her, who appeared to be in his mid to late forties.

"Okay. If you are offering, how could I refuse to learn such an incredible skill?"

"That's good." Mr. Du turned his gaze toward the lamp burning in the corner near the entrance to the dining area, close to the kitchen. "First, can you pick that up?" he said, pointing toward the flame.

Mingyao followed the direction of his finger. Her eyes landed on the lamp, its dark purple fire dancing unsteadily, as if it might go out at any moment.

Mr. Du turned and headed toward the kitchen. Mingyao picked up the strangely made lamp, carefully holding the dancing purple flame, and followed him inside.

"Before I can teach you how to make spirit food, I wish to know the soul of your food."

"The soul of my food…? What does that mean?"

"I mean," he said, "why do you want to cook? Why do you enjoy the culinary arts?"

Mingyao stood there for a moment, trying to make sense of the question. Is he asking why I love food? The answer wasn't particularly deep—or at least, that was what she told herself. But did she really need to answer it at all? Doing so would mean revealing more of herself to Mr. Du than she was comfortable with.

Yet her mind drifted back to the first meal she had eaten at this inn.

It had only been three days since she first stepped inside, but the food she had eaten during that time was beyond anything she had ever experienced. As a spirit, she didn't truly need to eat, and yet…

Mingyao drew in a quiet breath, reining in her worries. She decided to be candid—well, not completely, but just enough.

"It's because of my mother," Mingyao said simply.

"Your mother?"

"Indeed. She enjoyed meals, and so do I. Maybe I inherited this love from her… hahaha." A nervous chuckle escaped her lips.

Mingyao looked at Mr. Du, hoping that her answer would be enough. Yet his expression suggested he was waiting for more to be revealed.

Mingyao sighed wistfully before continuing. "I was born into one of the most prestigious yet dangerous families in the whole of the Qin Kingdom. Because of that, it was hard to receive even a shred of warmth from my parents or siblings. I was only allowed to train in the arts from poetry to martial arts, from calligraphy to music all in preparation for a role I had no choice in."

Mr. Du listened intently as Mingyao spoke.

"My father rarely spared me a glance, but my mother did her best to give me what she could. She woke early with me and stayed up late, teaching me everything I needed. After all, I was competing with the children of my father's other women, all of whom wished to gain the title of heir. It was a harsh world, one where you had to be ready for schemes and intrigue that could bring you down at any moment. My mother didn't have the luxury of being gentle. She could only love me with the harshness the world allowed."

She paused, her voice growing quieter.

"Then one day, I was poisoned. One of the meals I ate was laced with toxins meant to kill me, but by sheer luck, I survived. After that, my mother declared that everyone who prepared my food was incompetent. She began cooking every meal herself—and eating every meal with me."

A faint smile touched Mingyao's lips.

"What began as a tragedy became a moment of warmth. During those meals, my mother wasn't a strict teacher—she was just my mother. I started to look forward to eating more and more, even though her cooking was… quite unique." She let out a soft breath. "She always found ways to surprise me with her innovations."

Her voice wavered slightly.

"I fell in love with food because it was the warmest connection I had with her, right up until her passing. Now, I don't dare eat at home. So whenever I'm outside, I make sure to sample every dish I can get my hands on."

Mingyao's eyes grew watery as soft tears trickled down her cheeks. She wiped them away quickly.

"I suppose the soul of my food comes from the bond between my mother and myself."

"I see," Mr. Du said simply.

Mingyao quickly regained her composure. "If I have answered your question, can we begin?"

"Indeed. You may be wondering why I asked you about the soul that feeds your food," Mr. Du said. "That is because one must possess a soul to know how to make a good meal. Your answer has pleased me, and I am willing to take you as my disciple."

Immediately, Mingyao bowed deeply, paying her respects to Mr. Du as her culinary master.

"…This disciple greets Master..."

Mr Du nod slightly, his hands clasped behind his back before he spoke.

"When it comes to cooking, there is much to be done," Mr. Du continued. "For example, one must have fresh and quality ingredients, proper seasoning, know how to handle tools, perform proper preparations, and understand how to control heat."

Mingyao straightened, a serious expression settling over her face as she listened intently, taking in every word.

"There isn't much time to teach you everything, but I will make do with what we have. First, we will begin with ingredient selection."

"Ingredient selection?" Mingyao asked.

"Indeed. Your ingredients must be of the highest quality, for they determine the quality of the meal. Of course, one can still make a terrible meal with good ingredients, but you cannot make a good meal with terrible ones."

Mingyao simply nodded as Mr. Du spoke.

"Okay, here is a group of ingredients. Some are of good quality, and some are not."

Mingyao looked at the vegetables in front of her. To her eyes, they all seemed the same.

As if sensing her confusion, Mr. Du began, "Don't just rely on your eyes. You must use all your senses—plus your food soul. Only when all your senses are in harmony with your food soul will you be able not only to choose ingredients correctly but also to know how to cook them properly."

Mingyao felt a flicker of uncertainty but did not question him. She began with her sense of smell, hoping it might reveal the bad ingredients. Rot was the easiest flaw to detect. Almost immediately, she identified two that didn't smell right.

"Good start," Mr. Du said simply. "But there is still more."

Mingyao scrambled to find the others, but none of the remaining ingredients smelled bad. She decided to use touch, tracing their forms to feel for mold, deformities, or signs of poor health. Through this method, she was able to eliminate another one.

"There is still more," Mr. Du said simply.

Mingyao hurried, trying to figure out her next move. All that remained was to use her ears and tongue. She focused on the sound the ingredients made when handled, feeling a bit silly—but to her surprise, she was able to sense something.

Now only two tomatoes remained. Both looked perfectly fresh, yet Mr. Du insisted that one was rotten. Mingyao couldn't tell which was healthy and which was bad.

"You cannot slice or taste them," Mr. Du instructed. "You must use your food soul—your heart—to find the quality ingredient."

Mingyao felt utterly confused. How could she sense the difference without using any of her normal methods?

"Think of your desire for the most perfect meal," Mr. Du said, "and let your soul lead you to the perfect ingredient."

Mingyao tried to grasp the vagueness of Mr. Du's words, attempting to understand how to proceed. But they pointed to nothing concrete—only intuition. She looked at the two tomatoes, smelled them, touched them—they felt identical in every way. Frustrated, she closed her eyes and tried to sense the energy within them.

At first, there was no difference. The distinction was spiritual in nature; actual rotting was impossible. What mattered was the degradation of the purity of the ingredient's spirit.

She continued. At first, she spilled her energy without care, hoping for some sign—but nothing happened. Then an idea struck her: she was supposed to use her food soul. Perhaps she needed only the will to choose the best ingredient and let her intuition do the rest.

Unsure if it would work, she tried anyway. Strengthening her resolve, she affirmed her intention to select the right ingredient, muttering something like a mantra to fortify her will. Slowly but surely, she began to feel a subtle pull toward one of the tomatoes.

It was strange—illusory properties seemed to radiate from it, properties she couldn't quite place. Yet somehow, her body instinctively knew it was the superior ingredient. Intuition, guided by her food soul, had pointed the way.

Mr. Du, seeing and sensing her success, smiled sheepishly. "Congratulations. I see you have developed a chef's intuition. It will be very important going forward, for it is the expression of your food soul's will."

He then moved to a pot simmering gently on low heat and brought back a bowl of thick, fragrant soup.

"Take a sip of this," Mr. Du said, simply presenting the bowl to Mingyao.

Mingyao blew softly on the hot surface before taking a sip. The explosion of flavor was magical, filling her with an incredibly warm and rich sensation.

"Now that you have tasted the soup, I want you to make the same soup from scratch."

"What?" Mingyao exclaimed, still blissful from the magical taste. She had never actually made a dish herself. Of course, she had been in the kitchen once or twice, but she had never been the one cooking.

"Master, you haven't taught me anything—from knife skills to ingredient preparation. I don't even know how to light a spirit fire. How am I supposed to do anything when I can't use any fire? Regular fire won't work…" She paused, frustration creeping in. "The only thing you've taught me is how to choose fresh, quality ingredients. Nothing else."

"You have all the tools you need now that you have developed a chef's intuition. I can't spoon-feed you everything, right?" Mr. Du's eyes flicked toward the lamp with the purple flame. "But you do have a point…"

He walked over to the lamp and picked up a tongue of flame with his bare hands, letting it hover above his palm, barely touching anything.

"Here. Use this to learn how to ignite and control a spirit flame."

"What's this…" Mingyao asked, eyes widening at the small, flickering purple flame.

"It's a ghost flame—a type of spirit flame. It can be as hot or as cold as you wish. Once you understand how this flame works and operates, you won't need to worry about how to cook."

"But… I have a Yin-aligned body. If I try to refine or master any Yang techniques, my—"

"There's no need for that. The ghost flame is a spirit flame that embodies both Yin and Yang, so anyone can control it. You only need to understand and comprehend its nature."

Mingyao didn't know what to say. She simply took the tongue of fire, letting it dance across her palm in a beautiful, ethereal purple light.

"Your first task," Mr. Du said, "is to learn how to control the ghost flame."

Mingyao nodded, her mind already focused. She returned to her room, determined to refine and master this beautiful, mystical fire.

--------------------------

Mingyao sat cross-legged on her bed, staring at the ghostly flame hovering above her palms. She had no idea how she was supposed to learn to control it. Refining techniques and the like were completely new to her. She had tried pouring her spirit energy into the fire, but each time, the flame would shake violently before spitting the energy back at her. It was as if the flame were semi-sentient, aware of her intent.

She felt stuck, standing at a crossroads, unsure how to proceed—until an idea struck her.

Why did Mr. Du insist that I use all my senses while picking ingredients? she wondered. Perhaps there was an underlying lesson. Using all the senses wasn't just important for choosing ingredients—it applied to every step that followed. Cooking, refining, even controlling a spirit flame: observing with your eyes, listening with your ears, feeling with your hands, sensing with your soul… all of it mattered.

"Sense." The word slipped from her lips as if clinging to something. Her mind raced, trying to grasp a thought. It drifted back to the book her aunt had given her before she landed in the Nether. One of the steps in Qi Refining spoke of developing something that could be called a divine sense. Could that be what I'm missing to control this tongue of fire?

She stared at the dancing purple flame as the idea solidified. She was only a Tier 4 Qi Refining cultivator, yet she needed access to Divine Sense to refine the flame on her palm. She couldn't remember which tier unlocked such a sense, but it was certainly not Tier 5 or Tier 6.

She sighed and let her body relax on the bed.

Is there no other way?

The words reverberated in the quiet room. Then, another thought came to her.

What if I replicate the situation with picking the ingredients?

If she could use her food soul to command the flames as a chef, perhaps—just perhaps—the flame would accept her. She wasn't a chef… not yet. But she was now a disciple. Maybe it wasn't so far-fetched after all.

She decided to give it a try. Sitting in a meditative posture, she cradled the flame in her hands like a child, letting it dance gently between her palms. She tried to enter the same state as before, summoning something from deep within—a force she could not explain—charging it with her will: the desire to be a chef, and with it, the drive to master the control of fire for a perfect meal.

At first, nothing happened. But instead of giving up, her resolve hardened, her will growing exponentially. Then Mingyao felt something cold seep into her skin. Opening her eyes, she saw the flame flickering faintly, a tinge of blue creeping into its purple glow—something that had never been there before.

Suddenly, a wave of sadness and regret washed over her. The flame responded in kind, its color shifting from violet to a deep, glowing blue. The temperature around it plummeted; it no longer felt like a tongue of fire, but like a sphere of bitter cold, as frigid as ice.

Mingyao was confused by the sudden intrusion of foreign emotions.

"Was this an expression from the fire?"

Her first thought was that, having formed a connection with it, the flame was sharing its feelings with her. But she quickly refuted that idea. This felt… different.

"This feels like grief and regret."

The flame, which had been inching toward her as if drawn by something unseen, suddenly shot forward and plunged straight into Mingyao's forehead, dissolving into an unknown place within her.

There was no time to react.

Her body temperature plummeted instantly, warmth draining away as if she were naked beneath a winter storm. Violent shivers wracked her body, and the world around her seemed to slow, every sensation stretching and distorting as the cold took hold.

She immediately tried to circulate her energy, hoping to slow the creeping cold that was devouring her from the inside out. But it was no use. She could barely hang on as her body began to shut down under the freezing chill. Everything felt as though it was stopping. Her eyelids grew heavier and heavier.

As her eyes slowly closed, the image of a girl—one unfamiliar to Mingyao—formed in her fading vision.

"I am sorry, Feng'er…"

The words slipped from her lips just as Mr. Du entered the room, a jug of wine in hand and a cheerful expression on his face. His smile froze, twisting into something complicated as he took in the scene before him.

The words still hung in the air.

--------

Mr. Du had finally managed to significantly slow the spreading cold, making Mingyao's condition bearable.

"What happened? Why is my body so cold?" Mingyao asked, looking at Mr. Du and hoping for an explanation. The predicament had occurred right after she acquired the ghost flame, so she was certain it was the source of the problem. If that were the case, she prayed that Mr. Du had a solution.

Mr. Du, who looked somewhat exhausted from expending his spiritual energy, let out a sigh.

"You are truly talented," he said simply. "I had hoped you would take a little more time to obtain the spirit flame—preferably after the sacrifice—but alas…"

"What do you mean?"

"I am sorry," Mr. Du said softly. "After I am gone, the problem will be solved."

"After you are gone? What do you mean? Where are you going?" Mingyao asked, alarm creeping into her voice.

Mr. Du smiled bitterly before answering.

"My time is almost up. The sacrificial ceremony is nearly complete. Don't worry—once I am gone, the lingering attachments, grief, regret, and resentment will naturally fade. Then your body will be able to accommodate the ghost fire without consequence."

"Mr—"

"Feng'er," Mr. Du suddenly interrupted her.

"What?"

"Feng'er… that was the name of my daughter," Mr. Du said simply.

"That means…?"

"Yes. The creeping cold is born from my lingering dark emotions. Ghost fire feeds on emotions, which makes it both the best—and the worst—tool for cooking."

"Then the reason I called out her name was because…"

"My resentment leaked onto you."

"…I see."

"You remind me a lot of her."

"Wh— I… I'm sorry for your loss," Mingyao said quietly.

"Don't be." He paused. "Would you like… to learn about her?" He took out the jar of wine he had brought and poured enough to fill two bowls.

"I would love to."

"My Feng'er was quite the child," Mr. Du said as he took a sip of wine. "Very mischievous and free-spirited, yet loving all the same. She was a joy—one that begged to be cherished. Spoiled by her father, mother, and brothers…"

His voice faltered as the memories surfaced.

"She… she…" Mr. Du lost the words he wanted to say. He lifted the bowl of wine and drained it in one go. With the liquor loosening his thoughts, the words he had kept locked away finally spilled out.

"Your spoiled laughter once filled my sleeves,Sweets stolen, tears wiped by my hand.I thought such days would never thin—The moon rises, and I am the one who aches."

Mingyao could feel the bittersweet emotion lingering in the poem.

"Mr. Du… are you a poet?"

"Indeed," he replied, taking another sip of wine from the jar before handing a bowl to Mingyao as well. "She is the reason I wanted to become a chef."

He continued, "Before all this, I was born into a minor scholarly family. I passed the imperial examinations and was given a position as a court official. Slowly and steadily, I gained my footing. But alas, that path narrowed my view."

"Narrowed your view?"

Mr. Du took another sip of wine before continuing.

"I wished to give my daughter the best. As the saying goes, toughen your sons and spoil your daughters. I did everything I could to care for her, giving her the best the world I knew could afford. She was a curious child, so I tried my best to satisfy that curiosity. But alas, the ways of the lady she was expected to become never suited her."

He exhaled softly.

"I didn't care. I simply let her be herself."

Mr. Du's gaze lowered.

"Then one day, she told me she had found someone she loved—someone she wished to share her life with."

He paused, the silence heavy.

"At first, I was excited. I agonized over who I might marry my beautiful daughter to. I looked among noble families, among those of refined elegance. Yet when I learned who she had fallen for…" His jaw tightened. "I couldn't hide my anger or my contempt."

"I don't dislike those from the lower class. After all, I was once a poor scholar myself," Mr. Du continued. "But the problem was that she didn't fall for a scholar. She fell for a cook. She wanted to marry a man simply because he knew how to cook."

He let out a bitter laugh.

"I couldn't understand the absurdity of her choice. Her only criterion was that he could cook. Chefs were everywhere—even in the palace, I had seen countless ones. I couldn't help but disapprove of their union."

His fingers tightened around the wine bowl.

"I did everything I could to oppose them. I prevented their meetings, tried to convince the man that the difference in their status made such a union impossible. At first, it worked. But then they began meeting again."

His voice grew lower.

"I offered him money. Prestige. He refused it all. Finally, I resorted to threats, hoping to scare him away—and it worked. He decided to leave the city. I thought I had won."

Mr. Du's breath trembled.

"Only to learn that he was running away with my daughter."

Silence lingered before he continued.

"When I learned the truth, my anger could no longer be contained. I… did something I regret deeply. I ordered his death and demanded my daughter be brought back. I thought that was the only way to keep them apart."

His voice cracked.

"But when the time came, my daughter took the blade meant for him."

"That… was how she died."

Mr. Du closed his eyes.

"I could never forgive myself after that. My wife, my two sons, and I grieved the loss of our Feng'er—but my grief was heavier, poisoned by guilt. In the end, I retired from my position and abandoned my former life. I turned to cooking, wishing to understand why my daughter's heart had ached so deeply for a cook."

"That," he said quietly, "is how I became one myself."

Mingyao was left speechless by the story. She knew everyone carried a tale, but she had never expected Mr. Du's to be this heavy.

"Mr…"

Suddenly, a panicked, guttural scream erupted from outside, jolting both Mr. Du and Mingyao. So far, all she had seen in the village was the strange celebration that had been going on for days. Now, chaos had overtaken the streets. She could hear villagers running in panic, their cries of distress replacing the festive noise from before.

Mr. Du and Mingyao hurried out of the inn to get a better view of the scene.

Outside, people were fleeing from a particular direction. Mingyao felt an eerie presence emanating from the same source. There was a coldness that instinctively told her to run—but instead of fleeing, she found herself drawn toward it. There was a pull she could not explain, compelling her forward despite the danger.

Then, in the midst of the chaos, Mingyao thought she saw something. Her curiosity instantly turned to fear as she bolted toward it.

The sudden surge of fear awakened the cold energy in full force. Pain lanced through her body, yet she pushed forward. No… this can't be real… rang in her mind.

And then she saw her face.

It was her sister, Zhao Qingmei, surrounded by an ominous aura. Mingyao tried to move closer, but her body refused to obey. Pandemonium raged all around, the chaos clashing with the freezing energy in her veins. Then, suddenly, the air stilled. A presence descended.

An aged man appeared, his bulky frame exuding a fierce aura. He seemed to materialize from nowhere. His gaze swept the area, then settled on Zhao Qingmei. In an instant, he lifted her, and just as suddenly, disappeared.

"It's the Shura. He's chosen his next sacrifice…" Mr. Du said, relief washing over his face. "I am saved."

Mingyao stared at him, stunned. But before she could speak—or even process what had just happened—her body gave out.