The "Dining Hall of the Outer Peaks" was not a hall. It was a cavernous, soot-stained barn that smelled of burnt grain and old sweat. While the "Geniuses" Ye Feng had seen at the gate were led toward jade pavilions to meditate on the heavens, he and Fatty Wei were handed stained aprons and heavy iron cleavers.
"Welcome to the bottom," the Head Chef spat. He was a man whose skin looked like cured leather, his eyes yellowed by years of coal smoke. "Here, you don't cultivate the Dao. You cultivate the stove. If the disciples go hungry, you go into the pig trough. Understood?"
Ye Feng didn't complain. He took the apron. It felt heavier than the silk robes of the seniors, and that suited him.
"Brother Feng," Fatty Wei whispered, his voice trembling as he looked at a pile of 'Spirit Potatoes'—tubers the size of boulders and hard as granite. "We're in the dirt. We're actually in the dirt. My father's gold was supposed to buy me a seat in the Alchemist Hall, not a front-row ticket to a potato massacre!"
"Quiet, Fatty," Ye Feng said. He picked up a Spirit Potato. It was cold, vibrating with a low-level, chaotic energy that would break a normal man's wrist if they tried to peel it.
He gripped the knife.
He intended to peel it slowly. He intended to be the "Normal Farmer" his grandmother asked him to be. But as he looked at the stone-like skin of the vegetable, something in his blood—that coiled, golden instinct—bored of the restraint.
He didn't swing. He just let his grip tighten.
Crack.
The potato didn't just peel; it shattered into perfect, uniform cubes. But the force didn't stop there. The wooden prep table beneath his hands splintered, a long fissure snaking across the floor until it hit the far wall.
The Head Chef turned, his eyes narrowing. "What was that?"
Ye Feng stood still, his heart hammering against the Iron Pendant. He looked at the ruined table, then at his hands. He hadn't meant to do that. For a split second, a flicker of something dark and hungry had flared in his chest—a desire to see how much more he could break.
He hated that feeling.
"The wood was rotten," Ye Feng said, his voice a fraction too tight.
"Rotten?" The Chef walked over, looking at the clean, jagged split in the heavy oak. He looked at Ye Feng, then back at the wood. He didn't name the power. He didn't call it a technique. He just pointed to the back of the kitchen. "Go to the woodpile. If you like breaking things, break the Black-Ash logs. They don't rot."
Ye Feng walked to the back, relieved to be away from the eyes of the others. In the corner of the wood-yard, sitting on a stump and nursing a jug of cloudy wine, was an old man. His clothes were rags, and his beard was a nest of gray tangles.
This was the man the kitchen called Old Man Gu.
Gu didn't look at Ye Feng. He just stared at the sky. "You have too much fire in your hearth, boy. You keep damping the flames, but the smoke is going to choke you."
Ye Feng paused, a Black-Ash log in his hand. "I don't know what you mean."
"I mean," Gu said, finally turning his bleary, bloodshot eyes toward him, "that a man who spends all his energy trying not to be a monster usually ends up becoming one anyway. You're so afraid of cracking the world that you're forgetting to live in it."
Ye Feng didn't answer. He set the log down. He thought of the bully Zhao. He thought of the way the floor had just split.
He raised his hand and struck the log with his palm. He didn't use a "Pulse Spark." He didn't use "Sovereign Pressure." He just hit it.
The log turned to dust.
Old Man Gu took a long, slow pull from his jug. "Impressive. You managed to destroy the wood without even touching it. But look at your feet."
Ye Feng looked down. The stone tiles beneath his boots had turned to powder. He had saved the log from the impact by accidentally venting the force into the ground.
"You're a mess," Gu chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. "A beautiful, golden mess. Now, quit staring at the dirt. There's a shipment of 'Ghost-Fire' peppers coming in. If you don't prep them right, they'll burn the tongues off the Inner Disciples. And if they get angry, they'll come here to play. You don't want to play with them, do you?"
"No," Ye Feng said, his eyes darkening. "I just want to cook."
"Then cook," Gu said, closing his eyes. "But remember: a knife is only sharp because of the stone that resists it. Stop fighting yourself, and start using the stone."