The scent was not just a smell; it was a siren song pulling at the most primal instincts of survival.
To a normal person, the air in the Cooking Hall was simply a mix of yeast, flour, and soybeans. But to Yoriichi Tsugikuni, whose body was currently being ravaged by the metabolic demands of Total Concentration Breathing, it smelled like salvation. His cells were screaming, vibrating with a hunger that felt less like an appetite and more like a void threatening to collapse his chest.
He moved.
He didn't walk; he flowed. Using the Transparent World, Yoriichi saw the heat signatures and muscle movements of the chefs through the steam. He slipped past a sous-chef chopping onions, timing his movement perfectly with the man's blink. He ducked under a tray of cabbage carried by a servant, moving like a phantom in the chaotic kitchen.
He reached the cooling rack in the back corner, concealed behind a stack of grain sacks.
There lay the prize: a bamboo basket filled with two dozens large, fluffy steamed buns (mantou) and a wooden bucket of fresh, warm soy milk.
Yoriichi didn't hesitate. His stomach gave a low, thunderous growl—a sound so deep it vibrated his ribs. He barely managed to suppress it by tightening his abdominal muscles into a knot of iron.
He grabbed a bun. It was still hot, soft as a cloud. He bit into it.
The sweetness of the dough exploded in his mouth. He didn't chew so much as inhale, his jaw working with machine-like efficiency. Total Concentration Breathing didn't just consume oxygen; it accelerated digestion. As the food hit his stomach, his digestive system, supercharged by the breathing technique, instantly broke it down.
Burn.
He could feel the carbohydrates turning into raw heat. The shivers in his limbs stopped. The cold sweat on his back evaporated.
One bun. Two buns. Five. Ten. Twenty.
He lifted the heavy wooden bucket of soy milk to his lips. He drank deeply, the warm, nutty liquid soothing his parched throat and filling the empty void in his gut. The liquid felt like molten life pouring into a dry riverbed.
In less than five minutes, the basket was empty. The bucket was drained.
Yoriichi let out a soft, steam-filled exhale, wiping a streak of soy milk from his lip. His stomach, previously concave and clinging to his spine, was now distended, a small round potbelly pushing against his sash. It looked comical on his thin frame, like a snake that had swallowed a large egg.
The ravenous, predatory hunger faded, replaced by a warm, sluggish feeling of satiety. His limbs felt heavy, but strong again.
"I have sinned against the kitchen," Yoriichi thought, looking at the devastation he had caused. "But survival took precedence. I must leave before—"
He turned to slip back toward the exit.
The air suddenly grew heavy.
It wasn't the heat of the ovens. It was a pressure—thick, suffocating, and terrifyingly tangible. It felt as if gravity in the room had suddenly doubled.
A shadow fell over him, blocking out the light from the hanging lanterns.
Yoriichi froze. His instincts screamed DANGER. He slowly looked up.
Standing before him was a mountain of a man. He wore a grease-stained white apron that strained against a chest as wide as a barrel. His arms, crossed over his chest, were thick with muscle and scarred from years of battling hot oil and heavy woks.
But it was his aura that froze the blood in Yoriichi's veins.
Green Dou Qi flickered faintly around the man's body, hardening the air around him like an invisible armor. This wasn't a Disciple. This wasn't even a Practitioner.
This was a 1-Star Dou Shi (Dou Master).
The Head Chef of the Xiao Clan, Chef Zhang. A man who had served the clan for ten years, converting his rewards into cultivation resources not to fight, but to maintain the stamina needed to feed an army of disciples. He was known for two things: his supreme culinary skills and his absolute, violent hatred of waste.
Chef Zhang stared down at the empty basket. Then at the empty bucket. Then at Yoriichi's distended stomach.
His face turned a shade of purple that rivaled an eggplant. The veins in his neck bulged like ropes.
"You..."
The single word came out like a low growl from a spirit beast, vibrating the floorboards beneath Yoriichi's feet.
Yoriichi opened his mouth to explain, to apologize, but the pressure slammed into him like a physical wall.
"SHUT UP!"
The shout was amplified by Dou Qi. It rattled the pots on the shelves. A stack of ceramic bowls nearby shattered from the sonic vibration alone. The entire kitchen went deathly silent. Every knife stopped chopping. Every wok stopped tossing. Even the fire in the stoves seemed to dim in fear.
Chef Zhang took a step forward, looming over Yoriichi like a collapsing tower.
"Do you have any idea what you have done?!" The Chef roared, his spit flying. "That was the breakfast for the Third Team of junior disciples! They have been training since dawn! They are starving! And you... you gutless, gluttonous trash... you ate it all?!"
Yoriichi stood his ground, though his knees buckled slightly under the sheer weight of the Dou Shi's aura. He didn't look away. He didn't cower. He circulated his breathing rapidly, using the internal pressure to keep his heart from failing under the external suppression.
"You think because you are a Young Master, you can just take?" Chef Zhang sneered, his voice dripping with venom. "You think the world owes you a full belly while others work? You selfish, spoiled brat."
The words cut deeper than the pressure. Selfish.
Yoriichi's fists clenched at his sides. In his past life, he had given everything. He had lived in a shack. He had worn rags. He had never taken more than he needed. But here? In this moment? The Chef was right. He had stolen the food of hardworking children to feed himself.
"Can you even pay for it?" Chef Zhang demanded, poking Yoriichi hard in the chest with a finger like a sausage. Each poke felt like being stabbed with a wooden stake. "Can you? No! You squandered your allowance on women! You are broke! You are a leech on this clan!"
Yoriichi remained silent. He accepted the verbal lashing because he knew he deserved it. He was a warrior, and a warrior accepts the consequences of his actions.
"Why?" Chef Zhang asked, his voice dropping to a frustrated, trembling whisper that was somehow louder than the shouting. "Why didn't you just die in that arena? If you had died, at least you wouldn't be here stealing food from those who actually have a future."
The kitchen was silent.
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