Nian Bing didn't move, he simply placed the tenderloin flat on the cooking table in front of him, lowered his head, and stared at the pink flesh as though lost in thought.
Xiao Tian's movements remained unhurried, yet every single gesture looked harmonious. He gently stirred the flour clockwise in the bowl, and gradually, the flour consolidated into a dough. Miraculously, there wasn't even the slightest trace of flour clinging to Xiao Tian's hands—a feat that ordinary chefs would struggle to achieve.
