He looked around his modest stall. His ingredients were simple, mortal-grade.
But they were all he had. He would start there.
He decided on congee. It was the most fundamental of dishes, a blank canvas.
But he would make it with a specific, focused intent: Purity.
He selected his best white rice, washed it until the water ran clear.
He used water from the deep well at the back of his stall, known for its sweet, clean taste.
He lit the fire, not with the frantic need to serve customers, but with a slow, deliberate focus.
He placed the wok on the flame, feeling that strange, warm pulse again as the iron heated.
As the rice and water began to simmer, he didn't just stir.
He focused his entire being on the concept of purity.
He visualized the steam carrying away impurities, the grains breaking down into their simplest, most essential form.
He poured his will into the swirl of the ladle, imagining it not just mixing, but refining.
The process was exhausting in a way that pulling a thousand noodles never was.
It was a mental and spiritual drain. Sweat beaded on his forehead, not from the heat, but from the concentration.
After what felt like an age, the congee was ready.
It was perfectly smooth, pearlescent white, emitting a gentle, clean steam.
It looked… ordinary. But to Lin Fan's senses, now hyper-aware, it felt different. It felt still. Complete.
His stomach growled, a hollow ache that felt deeper than mere hunger.
It was a craving from his very core, from that "barren field" of his dantian.
He ladled a bowl, sat on his stool behind the counter, and took the first spoonful.
The effect was instantaneous and internal.
It was not a surge of power. It was a settling.
A quiet hum spread from his stomach outwards, a sensation of gentle warmth and profound cleanliness. It was like wiping a dusty slate clean.
For the first time in his life, he felt a faint, definite presence in his lower dantian.
It wasn't a swirling vortex of qi like the cultivators described.
It was a pool, calm and shallow, but undeniably there. And it was his.
He had done it. He had cultivated.
The Gourmet Dao was real. And he had just taken his first, tentative step onto its path.
The triumph was short-lived. A sharp, discordant voice sliced through his revelation.
"Well, well. If it isn't the famous noodle-chef."
Lin Fan looked up. Standing before his stall were three rough-looking men.
The one in front was Wang Ji, the grain merchant's son.
He was broad-shouldered with a permanent sneer, and he was flanked by two of his usual thugs.
"Your debt is due, Lin Fan," Wang Ji said, slapping a ledger onto the counter. "Fifty silver taels. My father's patience has run out."
Lin Fan's heart sank. The two taels from Leng Xuan were a drop in the ocean. He had nothing.
"Wang Ji, I need more time. Business has been—"
"Spare me your excuses," Wang Ji interrupted, his eyes glinting with malice. "I heard you had some trouble with cultivators earlier. Maybe they broke your spirit. But that doesn't pay my father's bills."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a menacing growl.
"I'm not leaving empty-handed. If you don't have the money, I'll take that old wok and those knives as collateral. They look like decent iron. Should just about cover it."
He reached for the black-iron wok.
A cold, sharp clarity filled Lin Fan. This was no longer about debt.
This was about his foundation. They were not just taking his tools; they were trying to take his nascent path.
"Don't touch that," Lin Fan said, his voice low and steady.
Wang Ji laughed, a harsh, ugly sound.
"Or what? You'll throw more soup at me?"
His hand closed around the wok's handle.
In that moment, Lin Fan didn't think of broths or flavors.
He thought of the cleaver. He thought of the sharp, definitive nature of a cut. The intent of Severing.
His hand shot out and closed around the handle of his favorite kitchen knife.
It wasn't the heavy cleaver, but a lighter, razor-sharp blade used for precise work.
As his fingers touched the worn wood, the warm pulse from before flared into a focused heat.
Wang Ji yelped and snatched his hand back from the wok, shaking it as if burned.
"You little—!"
He never finished. Lin Fan didn't swing the knife at the man.
He didn't even look at him. His gaze was fixed on the empty space between them, on the connection of threat and avarice he felt reaching for his wok.
With a short, precise motion, he sliced the knife downward through that empty air.
There was no visible blade of energy. No sound.
But Wang Ji and his two thugs suddenly stumbled backward, their aggressive postures completely broken.
They looked confused, as if they had forgotten why they were there.
The menacing aura around them had been cleanly cut, severed at its root.
Wang Ji blinked, staring at Lin Fan, then at the wok, then back at his own hand.
The greed in his eyes had been replaced by a blank disorientation.
"I… we…" he stammered.
"Tell your father I will have his money soon," Lin Fan said, his voice echoing with a new, unshakable authority. "Now, get out."
Without another word, the three men turned and shuffled away, their bluster utterly deflated.
Lin Fan stood alone, his heart pounding, the kitchen knife still warm in his hand.
He looked at the symbol carved into the wok, then down at his own body, where a small, calm pool of energy now resided.
The storm wasn't just coming. It was already here.
And he had just learned how to wield the rain.