Chương 77: An Iron Gate (1/3) [Bonus 3/6]

It was a feast worthy of an imperial warlord, yet beautifully crude—raw and honest in a way that spoke of survival, not ceremony.

A massive slab of mountain ridge-boar sat centered on a chipped ceramic platter, its edges worn smooth by years of use. The skin had been roasted to a blistered, caramelized crisp, the surface crackling faintly as residual heat escaped into the cool air. A dark, sticky glaze of soy, honey, and crushed peppercorns clung to every ridge and blister, catching the flickering brazier light in amber gleams. The scent rolling off it was intoxicating—sweet, pungent, laced with the sharp bite of charred fat and wood smoke.

Beneath the crisp skin lay a thick layer of rendered, translucent fat, glistening like polished jade under lamplight. It quivered slightly with the vibration of the tray being set down. Below that, dark, tender muscle fibers sprawled open where the meat had already begun to surrender under its own weight, pulling apart in slow, fatty threads. The carving knife resting beside it—a small iron blade with a bone handle worn smooth by decades of grip—had barely needed to touch the flesh.

Beside the meat sat a deep clay bowl, its rim chipped in three places, filled to the brim with bone-marrow broth. The liquid was a rich, cloudy white, so thick with dissolved gelatin and collagen that it moved sluggishly when the tray shifted, clinging to the sides of the bowl like liquid silk. Bright green chopped scallions floated on the surface in delicate curls, and a vivid pool of red chili oil shimmered across the top, releasing a sharp, tingling fragrance that cut through the heavier scents of fat and smoke.

Each breath Shi Yan took carried the faint sting of capsaicin mixed with the deep, marrow-rich aroma of bones boiled until they cracked open and bled their essence into the broth.

Thick rolls of steamed, salt-crusted flatbread sat piled in a bamboo basket beside the bowl, still steaming heavily in the cold morning air. Wisps of vapor rose from between the stacked rounds, curling upward like incense smoke. The crusts were dusted with coarse gray sea salt that glittered faintly, and the dough beneath had that perfect, pillowy density—soft enough to tear, firm enough to soak up broth without dissolving.

"T-this is the belly-cut and lower rib, my Lord," the owner babbled nervously, his voice cracking on every other syllable. He wrung his hands together so tightly that his knuckles went bone-white, the thick fingers twisting over each other in desperate, repetitive motions. Sweat beaded along his temples and upper lip despite the cool air, trickling down the sides of his flushed, round face.

His breathing was shallow and rapid, chest heaving beneath the grease-stained apron as if he'd just sprinted up a mountainside.

"The ridge-boar is hunted from the crags near the western quarries," he continued, the words tumbling out in a frantic rush, desperate to prove the worth of his food—to justify his existence in the presence of something he believed could erase him with a thought.

"Its meat is tougher than domestic pigs, but it possesses a deep, earthy warmth. I roasted it over split applewood and smoked it for six hours." His voice trembled on the last word, nearly breaking entirely.

He pointed a shaky finger at the clay bowl, the digit visibly quivering in the smoky air.

"The broth... the broth has been rolling at a continuous boil for two whole days! We crack the heavy femurs so the marrow bleeds directly into the water." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, eyes wide and glassy with barely-contained panic.

"It... it is said to fortify the bones against the winter dampness!"

"It is perfect," Shi Yan said quietly, his voice low and even, carrying none of the weight the owner clearly expected. Then he nodded—a single, deliberate dip of his chin beneath the shadow of the bamboo hat.

He didn't wait for the owner to bow again. He picked up the heavy bamboo chopsticks—smooth, lacquered, worn at the tips from years of use—and the small iron carving knife. The weight of the utensils settled comfortably into his hands, familiar in a way that spoke of muscle memory older than this body. Holding the meat in place with the flat of the chopsticks, he sliced off a thick, glistening piece of the pork belly.

The knife cut through the crisp skin with a faint crackle, then sank into the fat beneath with almost no resistance, parting the flesh cleanly. Rendered fat oozed out along the cut, pooling in the grain of the ceramic platter.

He lifted the piece to his mouth and ate.

The moment his teeth broke through the crunchy, caramelized skin—shattering it with a satisfying snap—and sank into the melting fat beneath, a burst of savory, salty, umami-rich flavor flooded his palate. The fat dissolved instantly against the heat of his tongue, coating his mouth in a rich, silky layer of pure, concentrated taste. The meat itself was tender, almost buttery, soaked through with the deep, smoky sweetness of applewood and honey glaze.

The crushed peppercorns left a faint, tingling heat on his lips, just enough to cut through the richness without overwhelming it.

Shi Yan closed his eyes, exhaling slowly through his nose as the flavors settled over him like a warm blanket.

Ahh... how long had it been since I ate food?

He mocked himself internally, the thought edged with bitter irony. How had he gone without food and replaced it with... some kind of empty energy of [Dao Embers]?

For the first time since transmigrating into this hellish, broken world, he wasn't consuming the bitter copper tang of a blood-array, that foul metallic residue that clung to the back of his throat for hours afterward. He wasn't chewing on dry, flavorless military rations that crumbled into sawdust in his mouth, or forcing [Dao Embers] into his veins like injecting liquid fire just to survive the Sieve leak tearing him apart from the inside.

It was just meat. Rich, perfectly seasoned, human food.

The warmth of it spread through his chest, not the artificial heat of cultivated energy, but the deep, grounding warmth of nourishment—of something real, something that connected him to the body he inhabited, to the earth beneath him, to the simple, undeniable fact of being alive.

But unknown to him, around him, the atmosphere in the stall was suffocatingly tense.

The mortal mercenaries and laborers hadn't dared to leave. Running away from a resting predator was a sure way to trigger its hunting instincts—every child raised in the shadow of cultivators learned that lesson before they learned to walk. Instead, they sat perfectly rigid on their wooden benches, spines locked straight, shoulders drawn tight with barely-restrained terror. Their hands trembled faintly as they gripped their chopsticks, knuckles white with the effort of keeping still.

They stared stiffly at the walls or down into their own bowls, eyes unfocused and glassy, lifting chopsticks to their mouths like broken automatons. Chewing mechanically. Swallowing without tasting. The scrape of wood on ceramic was the only sound they allowed themselves, and even that was muted, cautious, as if the slightest noise might draw the attention of the monster seated in the corner. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

One man, a broad-shouldered laborer with calloused hands and a scar across his jaw, had a piece of flatbread halfway to his mouth. It hung there, suspended, for a full thirty seconds before he finally forced himself to take a bite. His throat worked visibly as he swallowed, the lump traveling down slowly, painfully.

They were all treating him like a sleeping tiger that had wandered into a sheep pen to take a nap. If they stayed quiet, if they didn't move, if they barely breathed—maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't wake up and slaughter them all.

The air itself seemed thicker, heavier, pressing down on their chests with the weight of Shi Yan's false aura. Every breath tasted of smoke and fear.

But of course, Shi Yan ignored them entirely.

Ten minutes later, the massive wooden tray was completely empty. Not a scrap of meat remained, not a drop of broth lingered in the bowl. Even the chili oil had been soaked up by the last piece of flatbread, leaving only faint red stains along the ceramic rim.

Shi Yan set his chopsticks down with deliberate care, placing them perfectly parallel across the empty clay bowl—aligned with the precision of a soldier's rifle on inspection day. He wiped his face with a coarse linen napkin provided by the stall, the rough fabric scraping lightly against his skin as he cleaned away the lingering grease from his lips and fingertips.

Delicious... should I pack more? he thought, his gaze flicking briefly toward the spatial pouch concealed beneath his oiled cloak. The pouch should be able to handle it. And honestly... I just needed that. The flavor... it feels like I've become human again.

The thought settled over him with unexpected weight. Not the weight of regret, but of recognition—a reminder that he was still something other than a walking weapon, still capable of tasting, of wanting something as simple as a hot meal.

He shifted his plates slightly forward, the ceramic scraping faintly against the scarred wood of the table, signaling he was finished.

Yes, I think I need to pack it.

Just thinking that he might be entering that desolate spatial gap—the secret Shattered Realm, a sealed hellscape of Yin miasma and the restless corpses of dead immortals—how could he ignore the taste of real food after experiencing it for the first time in this world? How could he go back to swallowing compressed energy and calling it sustenance?

He looked up from his perfectly clean plate, his dark eyes cutting through the smoky air.

"Uncle."

The portly owner, who had just begun to relax—his shoulders sagging with the first faint traces of relief, his breathing slowing to something almost normal—violently flinched as if struck by invisible lightning. He practically teleported to the edge of Shi Yan's table, his thick legs carrying him across the packed earth floor in a stumbling, frantic rush. He bowed so low his chin nearly brushed the wood, the motion so abrupt that his spine cracked audibly.

His barrel chest heaved, and a fresh sheen of sweat broke out across his forehead, dripping down onto the table surface in fat, glistening droplets.

"Great Venerable! Are you displeased?" he gasped, his voice high and strained, cracking on the last syllable. His yellowed teeth flashed briefly as his mouth worked around the words.

"Do you require water to wash away the grease? I can boil fresh spring water immediately! Or—or perhaps tea? Bitter greens to cleanse the palate?"

"No," Shi Yan said flatly, his tone carrying no inflection whatsoever.

"What else do you have prepared? Show me your menu."

The owner blinked, his wide, fearful eyes darting sideways. He raised a trembling hand, the thick fingers shaking so badly that the motion seemed almost spasmodic, and pointed at a large, soot-stained wooden board hanging by rusted iron chains near the main roasting hearth. The board swayed faintly from the heat rising off the braziers below, creaking softly with each shift.

The characters carved into the wood were crude, jagged, hacked out by an unpracticed hand and painted red with cheap dye that had faded and flaked in places, leaving ghostly outlines where the color had bled into the grain.

Shi Yan scanned the board, his gaze moving methodically over each line. His mind automatically processed the items not as culinary dishes meant to be savored, but as caloric density and field rations—survival logistics, calculated in terms of energy output per unit weight and preservation longevity under adverse conditions.

Hmm... smoked boar strips, heavily salted to prevent rot. Sun-dried river eel. Pickled mountain radishes in vinegar. Hardtack flour cakes baked in ash. Spiced wild duck, roasted dry. Perfect terrestrial combat rations.

Portable. Dense. Stable. Exactly the kind of provisions that could be shoved into a pack and carried through hostile territory for weeks without spoiling.

"Pack it," Shi Yan commanded evenly, his voice low and flat as a blade drawn across stone.

The stall owner hesitated, his hands wringing his grease-stained apron so tightly that the fabric bunched and twisted between his fingers. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, his lips trembling as he forced out the words.

"I apologize for my mortal stupidity, Great Lord, but... pack which one?"

"All of it," Shi Yan replied, his eyes dark and unreadable beneath the shadow of the bamboo hat. The flickering brazier light caught the faint scar at the corner of his mouth, making it seem deeper, sharper.

"Every piece of smoked meat, every salted fish, every hardened cake, and every jar of pickled roots you currently have fully cooked and prepared. Wrap it all for travel."

All the remaining color drained from the stall owner's face, leaving him as pale as a waterlogged corpse pulled from the river. His knees physically buckled, knocking against the edge of the wooden counter with a hollow thunk that echoed faintly through the stall.

He let out a wet, heavy gulp, his throat convulsing visibly, and his entire body began to tremble like a leaf caught in a winter storm—violent, uncontrollable shaking that started in his hands and spread up through his arms, into his shoulders, until even his jaw quivered.

To the owner, and to the terrified mercenaries watching from the corners of their eyes—still frozen in place, still barely breathing—this was not a customer placing a large catering order.

Cultivators did not buy things in bulk from slum merchants. They took. They demanded. They appropriated whatever they wanted and called it tribute, tax, or rightful due. This was a shakedown. This was an arrogant expert confiscating a mortal's entire livelihood as a "tribute," leaving behind nothing but empty racks and the hollow promise that the mortal should be grateful for being allowed to live.

Losing everything on the racks meant the stall would earn zero copper for the next three days—maybe longer. No income meant no fresh supplies. No supplies meant closing the stall. Closing the stall meant starvation for him, for the boy in the back, for whatever family depended on the meager earnings scraped together from feeding laborers and mercenaries in the slums.

The mortals had been used to it. Ever since the great era of despair descended, when the heavens themselves seemed to turn away and the sects became ravenous wolves, every mortal was like... a weed beneath the boot of an immortal. Easily crushed. Easily replaced. Worth less than the dirt they stood on.

Still, the owner had absolutely no choice. He squeezed his eyes shut, his face contorting as he fought back tears of total ruin, and gave a weak, miserable nod. His voice came out as barely more than a whisper, choked and broken.

"Y-yes... Yes, Great Venerable. I will package the tribute at once."

Shi Yan watched the man drag his heavy feet back toward the cooking fires, each step slow and leaden, as if the weight of his crushed future was a physical burden strapped to his back. The owner's shoulders sagged inward, his head bowed low, and the thick line of his spine curved beneath the dirty apron like a man already defeated.

Of course he understands the logic, Shi Yan thought, his expression unchanging. From the old man who sold the bamboo hat to the owner's reaction now—it was always the same. Always this same script of terror and submission.

It was a perfectly logical assumption based on the brutal reality of this world. Cultivators were leeches who extracted wealth and life from the weak through intimidation, through violence, through the simple fact that they could and no one could stop them.

I will just pay him when the goods are secured.

Shi Yan sat in perfect silence, his back still resting lightly against the cool, damp stone wall, continuously monitoring the street beyond through the haze of smoke and steam. His peripheral vision tracked every flicker of movement—the shifting shadows of passersby outside, the faint tremor in the hands of the mercenaries still frozen at their tables, the rhythmic rise and fall of the stall owner's shoulders as he worked with the frantic energy of a man trying to salvage what little dignity remained.

It took ten full minutes. The owner, now assisted by a terrified adolescent boy who had emerged from the back alley—thin, maybe thirteen or fourteen, with hollow cheeks and wary eyes that darted nervously toward Shi Yan every few seconds—worked feverishly using traditional, cheap mortal packaging. His movements were practiced, efficient despite the trembling in his hands, honed by years of repetition.

Because glass and jade were far too expensive for the slums—reserved for the wealthy, for the sects, for those who could afford to store spirit wine and alchemical elixirs in vessels that wouldn't taint the contents—they used what the earth provided.

Massive stacks of roasted duck and salted boar were pulled down from iron hooks hanging above the braziers, the meat still faintly warm from residual heat. Each piece was tightly wrapped in broad, dried lotus leaves—dark green, leathery, and faintly aromatic with the scent of earth and river water. The leaves were folded expertly, corners tucked inward with the precision of origami, and tied shut with coarse hemp twine that bit into the softened lotus fibers.

The knots were pulled tight to lock in the grease, preventing it from seeping out during transport.

The hardtack flour cakes—dense, gray-brown rounds baked in ash until they were hard as river stones—were stacked like clay tiles inside cheap, woven bamboo baskets. The baskets creaked faintly under the weight, the woven strips bending slightly but holding firm. Wisps of ash still clung to the crusts, giving the cakes a faintly gritty texture.

Sliced pickled radishes, their edges stained deep red from chili-infused vinegar, and salted river eels—split open lengthwise, their flesh dark and oily—were crammed into heavy, unglazed terracotta jars. The jars were rough to the touch, their surfaces pitted and uneven, still carrying faint traces of the kiln's heat. The tops were hammered shut with wooden corks carved from cheap pine, then sealed over with melted beeswax that cooled into a golden-yellow cap, hardening to form an airtight barrier against spoilage.