The rain had stopped, leaving the courtyard bright and washed; the pines threw off droplets that glittered like borrowed stars. Li Wei moved through the morning rituals with the kind of quiet focus he'd been cultivating—breath steady, ledger folded in his sleeve, the Obsidian Heart a private warmth beneath his ribs. The triad and the multi-bond exchange had left soft aftershocks in the circle: new trust, new routines, and, as every careful teacher knows, new complications.
He found Lianxi in the kitchen, not at the pot but leaning against the prep table, arms folded, chewing a small piece of candied ginger with the kind of silence that was not hungry but pensive. Normally she greeted him with a fiery grin; today her eyes narrowed as he approached, and the smile came later, thin and quick.
"Long morning," he offered, hoping to disarm the quiet.
She shrugged. "Long enough." Her voice was steady but contained something like a question that had not yet learned words. "You've been busy," she said. "Feasts, lectures, triads. You keep building rooms. I like the stew and the method. But the rooms are getting crowded, Li Wei. I—" She stopped, chewed ginger, then let the sentence fall unfinished. "Why do you spend time with them?" she asked finally, blunt as a cleaver.
He blinked—surprise, then the recognition of a feeling that had probably been gathering behind those folded arms for days. Jealousy was small and human; it could be honest and not poisonous. He set the kettle down and gestured to a stool. "Come sit," he said. "Tell me what you feel."
They moved into the herb garden's small sitting nook where the steam from the kitchen still warmed the air. Lianxi sat, hands twisted in the edge of her apron. When she finally spoke, her words were not accusation but a map of fear.
"I cook for you. I notice the lines beneath your eyes. I make broth that steadies. And then I see you teaching, and touching hands with Mei Ling, massaging Yun Shuang's shoulders, and with Ruo Yan you talk of diagrams until dawn. I'm proud, but I'm also—" She inhaled as if to steady a temper. "I'm also afraid of being a convenience. Of being the pot that feeds while others are made into—" She searched for a word and failed. "More invested."
The system's small blue rectangle at the corner of his vision blinked once, neutral.
[NOTIFICATION]
Host: Li Wei
Event: Interpersonal Tension — Jealousy Detected (Lianxi).
Hint: Address openly; schedule individualized aftercare and mediation. Reward: +30 Qi upon successful resolution.
Li Wei listened. He had learned that listening itself could be a kind of craft—small, exact, the way a chef seasons a broth. He could feel the very human angle of the pain: to give and not be seen as whole; to be useful but not chosen. He thought of the triad's governance, of Hua Lin's admonitions about emotional entanglement, and of the ledger that had become their collective guardrail. None of it erased feelings.
"You are not a convenience," he said simply. "You are a person I rely on. That matters to me." He said the words without performance. "But I also understand why you would worry. My circle is expanding intentionally, but maybe I have not been intentional enough about you."
Lianxi's jaw loosened a fraction. "Then show me," she said, and it was less a demand than a plea.
He offered tea, warm and unsweetened—the sort that asks for clarity rather than comforting indulgence. They sipped in silence for a few measured breaths. He explained, plainly, how he kept records, how aftercare was individualized, how everyone in the circle had input on schedules and consent, and how he had asked Master Han and Hua Lin to bear witness to governance rather than letting things live by rumor. He showed her the ledger entries that recorded their shared meals—times, ingredients, notes on effect—small things that treated the chef's work as cultivation in itself.
Lianxi read the lines and then looked up. "That helps," she admitted. "But it still feels like a list. I want an assurance that isn't only ink."
"So do I," Li Wei said. "I'll give you one. Not a promise made of words alone, but of time and a ritual that recognizes what you are. If you want—if you agree—we'll make a chef's covenant." He described what he meant: agreed nights when she would cook and he would sit with only her and the work—no other partners, no witnesses. A small, private practice that honored her contribution and allowed their bond to be tended without the weight of the entire circle. He offered to put that covenant into the ledger and to schedule regular check-ins so the feeling would be monitored.
Lianxi's eyes went bright, not with jealousy now but with the thawing of it. "A covenant," she repeated. "I'll be honest—being the support is part of who I am. But being seen as something more than a tool…that matters."
They negotiated details not with grand romance but with the same practicality she used at the stove: time, signals, aftercare suited to one who worked with hands and heat. Li Wei promised to default to presence: if she asked for undivided attention for their nights, he would honor it; in return she promised to speak if resentment gathered. They both agreed to document the practice in the ledger and to add a scheduled 24- and 72-hour emotional check to the circle's rota.
When they rose it felt like having cut a slice of bread and shared it—a mundane, sustaining ritual. Lianxi's shoulders were looser. The system chimed a gentle note as if to record the human negotiation.
[NOTIFICATION]
Resolution: Chef Covenant Drafted & Signed (Preliminary). Reward: +30 Qi. Advisory: Add individual aftercare plan to central ledger.
Later, Li Wei met Mei Ling and Yun Shuang by the herb racks. He told them, with the dryness of someone who appreciated practical politics, that Lianxi felt uneasy and that they had agreed on a private ritual. Mei Ling's face folded into a soft, supportive expression; Yun Shuang grunted approval like a stamp. Ruo Yan, when he informed her, adjusted some marginalia on a scroll and said, "Good. Rules keep the heart from mutiny."
That evening they sat together—Lianxi serving a small bowl in the quiet—and for the first time since she'd joined the circle, Li Wei ate only from what she prepared; Mei Ling and the others were timely in their apologies and in their care, giving the two of them a seam of privacy. It was not secrecy so much as respect by agreement.
Yet governance needed more than private covenants. Later that night Li Wei recorded the covenant in the ledger, signed both their names, and added the aftercare script they had agreed on—warm broth, a short conversation about what the cook had felt that day, a fifteen-minute window where neither would schedule extraneous training. He duplicated the page and filed one copy with Hua Lin as a neutral witness.
Before sleep he reviewed the day's small balances. Jealousy had been real and messy; the resolution was not grand but steady. He had learned again that trust required both ritual and honesty—rooms with doors that were unlocked by agreement, and rules to guard those doors. The Perverted Dao might multiply power through intimacy, the system had taught him, but the only way to keep that multiplication humane was to give everyone a say in the math.
The blue rectangle dimmed, content. Lianxi's head had rested on her arm as she dozed for a moment by the kitchen hearth, and Li Wei found himself thinking, not of conquest or score, but of stew and the small warmth of being seen.
Outside the pines were quiet. Inside, with a ledger and a signed covenant, a cook's jealousy had been transformed into a practiced claim on time and attention—an agreement that kept both person and power intact.
End of chapter 24