My words have become law; I truly have no desire to display my divine power before others.

Old Man Huai stood there, his smile unchanged.

He paused for a moment, then turned to the counter and called out in that direction, "Bear paw, braised, make it according to this customer's request."

Behind the counter, the gray-blue parrot tilted its head, looked at Lü Yang with one red eye, then opened its beak and made a high-pitched, thin sound: "Bear paw, braised, caramelized with rock sugar, simmered for three hours, served with fresh mushrooms."

After the parrot finished speaking, it flapped its wings, jumped onto the shelf behind the counter, and preened its feathers with its beak.

Then, something happened that left Lü Yang dumbfounded.

The kitchen door curtain was lifted.

A fragrant aroma wafted out from behind the curtain—a delicate scent, a blend of meaty and mushroomy notes.

The fragrance grew stronger and stronger, drifting through the main hall, past the screen, past the fish tank, and into Lü Yang's nose.

His stomach let out a disapproving growl.

He quickly covered his stomach, but the scream had already been heard.

His face flushed, but he gritted his teeth and didn't look away.

The kitchen curtain was lifted again.

A tray floated out from inside, drifting steadily and slowly, until it landed gently on the table in front of Lü Yang.

On the tray was a clay pot, its lid tightly closed, yet the aroma wafted out from the gaps in the lid.

Next to the tray were a pair of ebony chopsticks, a white porcelain spoon, a small dish of vinegar, and a small dish of garlic chili sauce.

Old Man Huai walked over and personally lifted the lid of the casserole.

A burst of hot steam rose up, white and thick, covering Lü Yang's face.

He squinted, waiting for the heat to dissipate, and then looked down.

A bear paw lay in the casserole, complete, large and thick, with a dark brown skin that gleamed with an oily sheen.

The broth had thickened and clung to the palm like a layer of amber.

The five fingers in the palm were all there, each one distinct, even the nails were intact and glossy.

Surrounding it were several fresh mushrooms, not dried and soaked, but freshly picked from the mountain, still covered in dew, with round caps, clear folds, and a few glistening water droplets hanging on them.

Lü Yang's mouth opened and he couldn't close it.

He gently poked the bear paw with his chopsticks. The skin broke, revealing the flesh inside, which was clearly visible. But the chopsticks easily separated it.

This was indeed cooked for three hours.

He scooped up a little soup with a spoon, brought it to his lips, and took a sip.

Sweet, salty, and umami flavors intertwine on the tongue, each distinct yet blending together seamlessly.

The caramelized sugar, made from rock sugar, doesn't have the soy sauce flavor of dark soy sauce; it's clear and bright, like amber.

He put down his spoon, looked at the bear paw, and then at Huai Weng.

Old Huai was still bent over, a smile on his face, but there was no pride in that smile, only cautiousness, as if he was afraid of not doing something well enough.

Lu Yang's face flushed again.

It's like trying to find fault but failing, and instead being outmaneuvered.

He took a deep breath and refused to admit defeat.

He snorted and slammed his chopsticks on the table.

"Your bear paw is just so-so. I'm not eating it. Let's get something else."

Old Man Huai bent down again, his face still bearing that cautious smile: "What would you like to eat, sir?"

Lu Yang thought for a moment and then mentioned a dish he had eaten in Jingyang Prefecture that even the chef at that grand restaurant couldn't make.

"Squirrel-shaped mandarin fish. Use live mandarin fish, kill it fresh, debone it, score it, coat it in batter, and fry it three times. The first fry sets its shape, the second fry it until cooked, and the third fry it until crispy. The sauce should be sweet and sour, not too sweet, not too sour, and the ratio of sugar to vinegar should be just right."

After the fish is fried, arrange it on a plate, pour the sauce over it, and you should be able to hear a sizzling sound, like a squirrel chirping. Do you have that?

He thought that Old Man Huai would definitely be in a difficult position this time.

Squirrel-shaped mandarin fish is a delicacy for humans; how could it possibly be made in a ghost market?

But he was wrong.

Without even hesitation, Old Man Huai turned to the counter: "Squirrel-shaped mandarin fish, alive, freshly killed, fried three times, with sweet and sour sauce, and you should be able to hear the squirrels squirming."

The kitchen curtain was lifted again.

A whiff of cooking oil wafted out, mingled with the sweet and sour aroma of sweet and sour sauce.

Before a cup of tea could be brewed, a white plate floated out of the kitchen and landed steadily on the table.

A fish lies on the plate, golden and crispy, with its head and tail curled up and its tail spread out, like a squirrel perched on a tree branch.

The cuts on the fish exploded open, each piece standing upright like squirrel fur.

Lü Yang stared at the fish without saying a word.

He picked up his chopsticks and poked at the fish with the cuts on its body. With a crisp "crack," a few fish scales—no, batter—broken off, revealing the tender white fish meat inside.

He inserted his chopsticks under the fish's belly, gently pried it open, and the whole fish flipped over.

The bottom of the plate was completely clean, without any oil.

The biggest mistake when making sweet and sour sauce is using too much oil. Too much oil will prevent the sauce from sticking to the surface and make it greasy. There isn't a single drop of excess oil on the bottom of this plate.

He put down his chopsticks and fell silent.

Old Man Huai asked cautiously, "Sir, are you satisfied?"

However, he was secretly very pleased with himself. He had a strange subordinate who had been a royal chef before his death, someone who had cooked for the emperor.

These people are being picky, but does that mean even the emperor can be picky?

These requirements were the simplest things for him.

Lu Yang glanced at him, opened his mouth as if to say "I'm not satisfied," but couldn't bring himself to say it.

He recalled the squirrel-shaped mandarin fish he had eaten in Jingyang Prefecture before. The fish was dead, the meat was tough, and the sauce was sweet. It was cloying after just a couple of bites.

He thought it was a good thing back then, but now he knows what a good thing really is.

He wanted to find fault, but the other person cooked the food better than any other restaurant he had ever eaten at.

What is he picking a fight with?

At this moment, Ye Qingfeng suddenly spoke.

"Shopkeeper, give me a bowl of beef noodles." His voice was calm, as if everything was under control. "No scallions."

Old Man Huai was stunned.

Is it really that simple?

His mind raced—beef noodles, no scallions.

Isn't this a business opportunity delivered right to our doorstep?

He nodded quickly, turned towards the counter, and said much faster than before, "One bowl of beef noodles, no scallions!"

The kitchen door curtain was lifted.

Steam rose from inside, carrying the aroma of beef broth.

The smell alone makes you want to take a sip.

It was at this moment that Ye Qingfeng spoke again.

"How about we play a game?"

Although Huai Weng didn't know what the other party was trying to tell him, he was now afraid that he might have done something wrong and offended the other party.

Naturally, he readily agreed.

"If our esteemed guest wishes to play, this old man will naturally agree."

Ye Qingfeng smiled, a strange look in his eyes.

"Tell me, will you put scallions in the noodles when you serve them later?"

"After all, I've killed so many monsters here; you must hate me a lot!"