I'm Just an Innkeeper, Why Are You All Kneeling?

The sun rose over the Imperial Capital in a blaze of brilliant gold, burning away the morning mist surrounding the Grand Culinary Pavilion. Inside the massive, open-air arena, thousands of eager spectators filled the tiered balconies. The air vibrated with the roar of the crowd, the sizzle of roaring hearths, and the aromatic clash of hundreds of high-grade spices.

Down on the main arena floor, over two hundred competing chefs stood at their individual marble workstations. High above them sat five stern, purple-robed judges from the Imperial Ministry of Rites and Hospitality.

”Welcome, competitors, to the First Culinary Trial!” the head judge’s voice boomed across the arena, amplified by sound-expanding formations. ”For this preliminary round, the rule is absolute simplicity. Every contestant must construct a dish utilizing a single, mandatory base ingredient provided by the organizers: standard wheat noodles!”

The judge gestured, and imperial attendants rushed out, placing a wooden box containing fresh, unseasoned wheat noodles on every marble station.

”You may incorporate your own secondary ingredients,” the judge continued loudly. ”However, you will be evaluated on four distinct criteria: taste, technique, ingredient compatibility, and the ability to produce consistent, high-velocity output! Furthermore, as a strict rule of the preliminary solo trial, no assistants or staff are permitted on the arena floor. The head chef must perform every single task unassisted!”

A wave of whispers rippled through the arena floor.

At the station to Lin Fan’s left, a chef from a famous capital sect scoffed arrogantly, tossing his head. ”Basic wheat noodles? How crude! I shall simmer mine in a three-hundred-year-old spirit-python broth, infused with six rare snow-lotus petals and seared using my own high-tier alchemy flames!”

To his right, another renowned chef was already carving a flying dragon out of a giant white turnip, planning to suspend his noodles from its stone-carved claws.

Lin Fan stood alone at Station Forty-Four, staring down at his box of plain wheat noodles with a calm, practical smile. Up in the spectator stands, Sect Master Lu, Xiao Yu, and the rest of his staff watched anxiously, but on the cooking floor, it was just Lin Fan and his tools. He wiped his marble counter with a clean cloth, adjusted his white apron, and pulled out his trusty cast-iron wok.

”Alright,” Lin Fan muttered to himself, adjusting the controls on his portable spirit-stone hearth to a steady medium heat. ”Time to show them what one-man line cooking looks like.”

While rival chefs summoned roaring, multi-colored martial flames and threw whole mountains of glowing spirit herbs into their pots, Lin Fan’s approach was disarmingly quiet, swift, and methodical.

He didn’t carve turnip dragons. He didn’t summon fire-dragons.

Instead, Lin Fan focused entirely on the fundamentals of comfort food. Working with practiced efficiency, he sliced fresh wild pork belly into clean, uniform strips, searing them in his hot wok with a touch of sesame oil, smashed ginger, and fresh scallions until the fat rendered into a golden, fragrant glaze. For the broth, he used a clean, slow-simmered bone broth seasoned with his proprietary aged soy sauce, balancing the rich savory depth with a splash of fresh mountain spring water.

He dropped the wheat noodles into boiling water for precisely eighty seconds—pulling them out at the exact time they achieved perfect elasticity. Operating entirely on his own, he effortlessly plated five clean porcelain bowls, poured the steaming, crystal-clear broth over the top, arranged the seared pork slices neatly on top, and scattered a pinch of fresh, finely diced scallions over the broth.

It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t glow with blinding rainbow light. But the moment the steam drifted upward, a clean, intoxicatingly savory aroma washed over the surrounding stations.

”Time is up!” the head judge barked. ”Present your dishes!”

The judges began their evaluation. The sect chef’s python-broth noodles received high praise for their flashy presentation and intense spiritual density, earning an impressive technical score of eighty-eight. Other capital chefs received high marks for complex, multi-layered sauces that scorched the tongue with heat.

Finally, the imperial attendants brought forward Lin Fan’s five modest porcelain bowls.

The head judge looked down at the simple bowl of noodle soup, raising a skeptical eyebrow. ”Station Forty-Four... Lin’s Inn of Qingshui Town. No dragon carvings? No rare spirit-herbs? Just clear broth, pork, and scallions?”

”Simplicity allows the quality of the core ingredients to shine, honored judge,” Lin Fan replied with a polite, easygoing bow.

The five judges picked up their wooden chopsticks. They scooped up a portion of the noodles, gathered a slice of pork, and took a sip of the clear broth.

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Absolute, dead silence descended upon the head judging table.

The head judge’s eyes slowly opened wide. The broth hit his palate with a pristine, velvety richness that was neither greasy nor heavy, washing over his tastebuds with an incredibly clean, savory warmth. The noodles retained a firm, satisfying bounce, and the seared pork melted effortlessly, releasing its rich juices into the soup. It wasn’t an overwhelming explosion of spiritual energy; it was a dish that made a person feel instantly at home, soothing every tired vein in the body.

The head judge finished his entire bowl in four bites. He set his chopsticks down, stared at the empty bowl, and looked up at Lin Fan with genuine astonishment.

”Attendant...” the head judge rasped, his voice trembling slightly. ”Bring me a second bowl.”

The crowd in the balconies gasped. An imperial judge asking for a second portion during a preliminary trial was almost unheard of!

A second judge leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the empty dish. ”Shopkeeper Lin... this pork. Did you perform an ancient spiritual preservation ritual on this meat? How is it so tender without losing its structural flavor?”

”No spiritual rituals, judge,” Lin Fan answered with a warm, honest smile. ”It was simply fresh, properly prepared with ginger, and cooked with care at the right temperature.”

After a short deliberation, the judges announced the scores for Station Forty-Four:

[Taste Score: 92/100]

Lin Fan didn’t sweep the board with a perfect score, nor did he humiliate every master chef in the realm. His presentation score pulled his total down, placing him firmly in the top ten percent rather than at the absolute top. But his taste score sent a shockwave through the arena floor.

At Station One, Shen Yuelan of the Jade Phoenix Pavilion stood before her own workstation. She had just earned a stellar total score of 96/100 for a technically flawless dish of gossamer-thin noodles floating in a fragrant, crystal-clear spirit-herb elixir.

She turned her head, looking across the arena at Lin Fan. For the first time, the distant, critical superiority in her eyes was gone, replaced by a quiet, intense respect.

During the post-trial intermission, while spectators were filing out of the balconies, Shen Yuelan walked over to Lin Fan’s station.

”Your broth,” Shen Yuelan said, stepping up to the marble counter with her hands folded neatly behind her back. ”How did you achieve such a full, rounded flavor profile without relying on high-tier spirit herbs to mask the broth’s base water?”

Lin Fan wiped down his wok with a dry cloth, chuckling softly. ”It’s simple, Chef Shen. Most capital chefs try to impress people by drowning the food in fifty different heavy seasonings so the customer thinks, ’Wow, look at all these expensive spices!’ But when a person finishes a meal, I don’t want them to just remember the salt or the pepper. I want them to remember the whole experience—the warmth, the comfort, and the satisfaction.”

Shen Yuelan frowned slightly, her analytical mind contemplating his words. ”A noble sentiment. But in high-level culinary competitions precision and spiritual density are what elevate a dish to art. Comfort is for domestic kitchens.”

”Comfort is what keeps customers coming back every single day, Chef Shen,” Lin Fan countered with a soft grin. ”Art is great, but repeat business pays the rent.”

Shen Yuelan shook her head, though a small, respectful smile touched her lips. ”We shall see which philosophy holds up in the main rounds, Shopkeeper Lin.”

With the preliminary trial concluded for the morning, Lin Fan and Sect Master Lu decided to utilize the three-hour afternoon break to visit the capital’s central ingredient market. They needed to restock their fresh vegetables and scout local vendors for the upcoming Hospitality Trial.

The market was a vast, sprawling maze of wooden stalls and stone shops, filled with the loud shouting of merchants and the rich smells of spices.

As they walked down the central aisle, Sect Master Lu suddenly stopped in front of a large wholesale apothecary stall. He leaned over a wicker basket filled with gnarled, dark-red dried roots, his brow furrowing into a deep frown.

”This is strange...” Lu muttered, picking up a piece of the dark-red root and sniffing it carefully. ”Shopkeeper, look at this. This is Night-Blood Root.”

Lin Fan tilted his head, looking at the basket. ”Night-Blood Root? Is it a spice?”

”No,” Lu shook his head, his expression grave. ”It is a low-tier medicinal herb usually used in tiny, precise doses by physicians to treat severe blood stagnation. But look at this market stall... there are dozens of barrels filled to the brim with it!”

Lin Fan stepped up to the stall merchant, a plump man who was counting copper coins. ”Excuse me, boss. Is this dark-red root popular in capital cooking?”

The merchant looked up, laughing heartily. ”Cooking? Heavens no, master! Nobody cooks with Night-Blood Root; it tastes bitter as gall! But over the last two months, wealthy banquet organizers, private cultivation clinics, and noble estates have been buying it up in massive quantities! I can barely keep my shelves stocked!”

Lu’s brow furrowed deeper. ”Excessive consumption of Night-Blood Root causes severe meridian numbness and confusion! Why would anyone buy barrels of it?”

The merchant shrugged casually, waving his hand. ”Huge orders, excellent spirit-stone prices. I don’t ask questions, friend. If someone pays cash, I sell.”

A nearby porter who was loading wooden crates onto a handcart chimed in, leaning over. ”If you’re looking for more, don’t bother asking here. The big shipments don’t even stay in the market. They get delivered after dark directly to the old warehouse district near the abandoned imperial canal.”

Lin Fan stroked his chin thoughtfully. ”An old warehouse near the canal...”

In Lin Fan’s mind, he was simply evaluating market supply chains. If a strange ingredient was flooding the city, he wanted to make sure no rival chef tried to secretly slip it into competition dishes to alter flavor profiles or cause digestive issues for guests.

Behind them, Crimson stood motionless in the shadow of an awning.

While Lin Fan was thinking about food safety, Crimson’s dark ears twitched. He picked up the faint, unmistakable scent lingering on the dried red roots. It was an acrid, metallic undertone—the exact same lingering chemical trace he had picked up on the missing-person notice board back in the alleyway, where mothers were weeping for their lost children.

Crimson’s eyes narrowed into two razor-sharp slits, but he kept his mouth shut, remaining silently at his master’s shoulder.