The main dish of the old cook is a pot of thick soup.
The soup is viscous, gray-black, constantly bubbling with tiny bubbles that burst and dissipate, and the ingredients in the pot are hard to identify, appearing and disappearing.
The old cook scoops up a ladle of the chaotic colored soup, slowly brings it to his mouth, tastes it leisurely, and swallows it contentedly.
Seeing Gongsun Yan not eating, he smiles and reminds him.
Gongsun Yan has been observing Ning Zhuo and others, hesitating to pick up his chopsticks.
The main dishes of the others seem quite palatable, but the food in his bowl is a lump of dark, viscous, and exudes a extraordinarily complex, strange smell.
If the smell were to be described, it's akin to the dregs of thousand-year-old medicine mixed with aged soil, fermented animal blood, with hints of fishy and burnt aromas!
Gongsun Yan holds his breath, resists the discomfort in his stomach, steels himself and picks up a small piece, puts it in his mouth.
