You got your marriage certificate and then abandoned me? I'll feed the richest woman in the wor

"hiss--"

Xiao Liu's gasping for air was particularly clear in the cold underground server room.

He stared intently at the six enormous curved screens.

The red market share curve resembles a blood-red sword piercing the sky.

It ruthlessly severed all the support points of Europe's century-old catering supply chain.

It surged to the very top of the screen with overwhelming force.

The server emitted a high-frequency beeping sound, indicating it was overwhelmed.

Cold air blew into his school uniform collar through the air conditioner vent.

It raised a fine layer of goosebumps.

Xiao Liu swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down with difficulty.

His voice trembled as he stared at the massive red map on the screen.

"Brother Yuan isn't cooking, he's clearly using a spatula to brainwash the European financial world!"

The image appears to have been cleaved open by a rusty, heavy axe.

In an instant, it covered half the distance of the Earth.

Paris, France, on the banks of the Seine.

Inside a luxurious castle with a history of four hundred years.

Outside the window, the drizzling autumn rain pattered against the huge stained-glass window.

A cold breeze slipped in through the gaps in the heavy curtains.

The oak in the fireplace crackled and popped, but it couldn't dispel the bone-chilling cold in the air.

Duke Louis slumped to the ground.

Beneath him was a handmade Persian carpet worth millions of euros.

He was wearing an expensive silk robe with the collar wide open.

His chest heaved violently, like a leaky, old accordion.

That face, covered in age spots, was deathly pale, as if it were covered with a thick layer of plaster.

Duke Louis's eyes were bloodshot and terrifying.

He didn't look at the family business liquidation report that had just been delivered to the table.

They also ignored how Xingchen Venture Capital took over all seventy of his high-end farms and cold chain logistics overnight.

His gaze was fixed on the tablet computer in his hand.

The tablet screen was lit up.

A video is playing on a loop above.

A short video that was slowed down tenfold and analyzed frame by frame by netizens on foreign websites.

In the picture.

Chen Yuan was wearing a simple white shirt with an old, faded apron tied around his waist.

He held the black iron pot in one hand.

My wrist twitched slightly.

boom!

A dark blue flame suddenly shot up, licking the bottom of the pot.

The iron pot drew a perfect afterimage in mid-air.

The rice grains in the pot looked like living golden sprites.

Each grain of rice is evenly coated with a layer of crystal-clear egg liquid.

Under the catalysis of high temperature, the rice grains jump and tumble in mid-air.

Not a single grain stuck together, not a single grain fell off.

The amber luster shimmered under the kitchen ceiling light, exuding a captivating magic.

"Gulp."

Duke Louis let out a loud swallowing sound.

Dusty saliva dripped down his withered lips.

A drop of water fell onto an expensive silk nightgown, leaving a glaring stain.

He was hungry.

It felt like a thousand spiky rats were scratching at my stomach.

The acid kept refluxing upwards, burning his esophagus.

But when faced with those exquisite French dishes on the long dining table...

Just one glance at it makes his stomach churn uncontrollably.

Those things that he once revered as sacred objects.

Now it's not even worth as much as a stone.

All he wanted was that bowl of fried rice.

That bowl of golden fried rice, coated with the most ordinary scallions, exudes the most exquisite warmth and flavor of everyday life.

The pure aroma of carbohydrates and oils colliding at high temperatures seemed to have already entered his nostrils through the screen.

It held his soul captive.

"Useless! A bunch of useless trash!"

Duke Louis abruptly raised his head and roared at the group of people standing around the table.

His voice was hoarse and split, like that of a dying wolf.

Twelve men dressed in snow-white chef's uniforms stood in a row, trembling with fear.

They all wore embroidered badges for three Michelin stars on their chests.

It was a top chef that Duke Louis had spent a fortune to bring in overnight from all over Europe.

On the long mahogany dining table were twelve luxurious porcelain plates with pure gold rims.

Each plate contained a serving of golden fried rice.

In order to replicate the dish Chen Yuan made in the video.

They have been here for two whole days and two nights.

"Your Majesty the Duke..."

The French chef, standing at the front, wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, his voice trembling.

"We really did our best."

"The rice used is the finest Canarolo rice from Italy, and each grain undergoes molecular remodeling in a constant temperature and high pressure chamber."

Another Italian chef quickly stepped forward and pointed to his dish on his plate.

"The eggs are selected from the first eggs laid by purebred Alpine snow chickens from the Alps."

"We even forgot about butter and used the purest fat extracted from Iberian black pigs for stir-frying..."

"Shut up!"

Duke Louis grabbed the sterling silver candlestick that was beside him.

It slammed down hard at the feet of the Italian chef.

Clang!

The candlestick bounced twice on the bluestone floor, leaving a clear white mark.

The chefs trembled with fear and backed away.

"You bunch of idiots, you think you can call something a gourmet meal just by piling up expensive garbage?"

The Duke scrambled to his feet off the carpet.

Her legs were as weak as noodles, and she could only stand by holding onto the edge of the dining table.

He walked unsteadily to the first plate of fried rice.

He picked up a silver spoon, scooped up a mouthful, and put it in his mouth.

The teeth have just closed.

The strong, pungent smell of truffle oil mixed with the raw, undercooked taste of the rice.

It hits straight in the forehead.

"Pooh!"

The Duke spat the rice in his mouth directly onto the carpet.

His chest heaved violently as he swept the pure gold-rimmed plate to the ground.

Whoosh!

The plate shattered, and golden rice grains splattered all over the floor.

"What is this? It's greasy! Disgusting! It's like eating a lump of plastic covered in mud!"

He walked down the dining table like a mad beast.

Take a bite, then spit it out.

Smash a plate.

"The heat is wrong! The rice grains aren't breathing!"

"You can't even control the thickness of that eggshell layer!"

"This doesn't even have one ten-thousandth of the aroma that the Chinese man in the video made!"

The crisp sound of porcelain shattering echoed repeatedly throughout the ancient castle.

Twelve plates of expensive replica fried rice.

The Duke threw them all to the ground like trash.

The ground was in mess.

The twelve Michelin-starred chefs bowed their heads, not daring to even breathe loudly.

They looked at the rice grains scattered all over the ground.

The pride that once belonged to Western cuisine has long been shattered.

They watched that video countless times.

That man named Chen Yuan has such control over fire that it defies the laws of physics.

That technique of incorporating subtle energy into the tossing of the wok and utilizing aerodynamics to ensure that each grain of rice is heated evenly.

Even if they study for another hundred years, they will only learn a jack-of-all-trades and master-of-all-trades.

Duke Louis smashed the last plate.

He braced his hands on the empty dining table, panting heavily.

All the strength in my body seemed to have been completely drained at that moment.

The scene from the Grand Theatre in Paris a few days ago flashed uncontrollably through his mind.

then.

He was dressed in an elegant tailcoat and sat in the VIP section at the very front.

He was holding a glass of red wine.

He pointed at the large cabbage on Chen Yuan's cutting board and laughed loudly.

"Chinese food is nothing more than roadside stall food with heavy oil and salt; it doesn't deserve to be called culinary art at all."

That statement was filled with extreme arrogance.

This moment feels like a thousand resounding slaps in the face.

He slapped himself repeatedly on his withered old face.

The blows made his eardrums ring and his dignity was utterly shattered.

arrogant?

In front of that black iron pot that the man was casually tossing around.

Their entire Western culinary heritage is what truly defines a roadside stall.

The stomach cramps came crashing down on me again.

Duke Louis's legs gave way, and he slid down the table leg to the floor, which was covered with broken porcelain shards.

A shard of glass pierced his robe and broke the skin on his calf.

Spots of blood seeped out.

But he could no longer feel the pain.

He only felt hungry.

An extreme hunger that emanates from the depths of the soul and cannot be satisfied by any Western food.

His hands trembled as he reached for the ice bucket beside him.

I grabbed a jar of the most luxuriously packaged premium white sturgeon caviar from the Caspian Sea.

This substance, revered as "soft gold" by Western aristocrats, is priceless, with each gram being worth a fortune.

He looked at the shiny black fish roe in the jar.

I felt a strong, acidic feeling rising in my stomach.

It smells fishy and foul.

A nauseating, fishy stench.

Duke Louis, his eyes red, suddenly exerted force with his arm.

The old tycoon slammed a plate of top-quality caviar against the wall, then collapsed to the floor, wailing, "I shouldn't have offended him! I'd give up the last half of my fortune just to eat a single bite of his homemade rice!"