"Brother Lin..." Zhiwei whined, his voice carrying over the rushing wind, his golden eyes wide with heartbreak. "Why does Brother Wangchen get the juicy melon? And why is his portion roughly three times the size of my walnuts? Is my holy light not sufficient? Did I not perform adequately in the colosseum?"
"You get walnuts because you need the protein to maintain your sword-flight, you oversized golden retriever," Ji’an called back, unmoved by his pouting. "The melon is mostly water weight. It’s a tactical distribution of nutrients."
It was a blatant, unapologetic lie. It was just her favoritism, and everyone in the airspace knew it.
High above on his ice platform, Xie Wangchen didn’t say a word.
He didn’t need to.
The Ice Demon slowly, deliberately took another bite of his chilled Frost-Melon. As he chewed, he looked down at the pouting Holy Son. A dark, incredibly smug, arrogant, and victorious smirk spread across Wangchen’s flawless face. His ruby eyes glinted with absolute superiority.
’Look upon the fruits of my devotion, Holy Son,’ Wangchen’s gaze silently, ruthlessly broadcast. ’You receive the dry scraps of pity, while I receive the chilled, premium harvest of her affection. Know your place in the hierarchy.’
Zhiwei let out a wounded, dramatic sigh, slumping onto the hilt of his broadsword and miserably munching on his walnuts.
The distribution of snacks did not go unnoticed by the rest of the Vanguard Retinue.
Flying in a staggered formation behind the palm-leaf yacht, the remaining male prodigies were suffering the dual torments of severe sunburn and intense, mouth-watering hunger.
Lu Jianheng, the Sword Lord, swallowed hard, his throat parched. He could smell the sweet plum glaze of Zechuan’s jerky. He could hear the crisp, refreshing crunch of Wangchen’s melon. His stomach let out a loud, undignified growl.
’I could ask for a ration,’ Jianheng’s internal monologue reasoned, his pride warring violently with his dehydration. ’He is the Tour Leader. It is his duty to provision his subordinates.’
But then, Jianheng remembered the colosseum, accusing Ji’an of being a flower-thief, chasing her across the arena with lethal intent, only to be humiliated by her absolute, monstrous strength.
His face flushed a brilliant, humiliated purple that had nothing to do with the sun. His orthodox pride, the rigid, unyielding spine of the Sword Peak, refused to let him beg the cook for a snack.
He tightened his jaw, staring fixedly at the horizon, choosing to suffer in absolute, parched silence.
To his right, Wen Shiru, the calculating Fox, was executing rapid calculation.
’If I offer him three hundred premium spirit-stones, would he part with a chilled grape?’ Shiru calculated, adjusting his sliding spectacles on his sweaty nose as he rode his golden palanquin. ’No. The cook operates entirely outside the boundaries of conventional commerce. He cannot be bought. To ask would be to surrender negotiating leverage. I must endure.’
Hu Yanlie, the Beast Lord, simply scowled, his feral pride unwilling to accept charity from a tiny chef who had humiliated him, while the Crimson Blade try-hards quietly wept in the background, too terrified of the Red Menace to even make eye contact.
Ji’an, lounging comfortably on her yacht, was perfectly aware of the heavy, envious, starving glares burning into the back of her head.
She didn’t care.
’You all spent the last three days trying to stab me, arrest me, or blow me up,’ Ji’an’s inner goblin hummed happily, popping another piece of fried dough into her mouth. ’You can suffer the consequences of your own actions. Welcome to the no-snack zone!’
She turned her attention away from the starving peacocks and focused on the pale, sickly green light emanating from the horizon.
They were approaching the eastern basin. The arid heat of the Scorched Plateaus was beginning to shift. The air was growing thick, heavy, and strangely humid.
In the distance, massive, jagged obsidian cliffs rose into the sky, funneling down into deep, sprawling valleys choked with a thick, swirling, unnatural violet and green fog.
"The Miasma Valleys," Elder Viper hissed from his position hovering next to her palm leaf, his slitted yellow eyes gleaming with pride. "The ancestral home of the Azure Dragon Sect. The air itself is a weapon. The soil breathes death."
While the other disciples behind them visibly paled, drawing their Qi inward to form protective, atmospheric filters around their lungs, Ji’an leaned forward, her silver-flecked eyes wide with intense, unadulterated fascination.
"Tell me about the soil composition, Elder," Ji’an requested, ignoring the danger. "If the miasma is heavy, it must settle in the lowlands. Does the ambient toxicity increase the acidity of the groundwater? I’ve been theorizing that a high-acid, venom-infused soil could theoretically yield root vegetables with an incredibly sharp, natural citrus-like bite."
Elder Viper blinked, his scaly brow furrowing. For four hundred years, visitors to his sect had asked about antidotes, antidotes, and survival rates.
No one had ever asked him about the agricultural yield of his death-traps.
"The groundwater is highly corrosive, yes," Elder Viper replied slowly, intrigued. "The roots of the Screaming Mandrake absorb the venom. To consume it raw is to invite a thousand needles into your throat."
"But what if you don’t consume it raw?" Ji’an pressed, her culinary gears spinning at light-speed. "What if you slice it thin, blanch it in a neutralizing alkaline broth, maybe a bone stock infused with white lotus... and then quick-pickle it in rice vinegar? Does the venom compound break down? Could that ’thousand needles’ sensation be mellowed into a high-tier, savory, numbing spice profile? Like a natural Szechuan peppercorn on steroids?"
Elder Viper stopped flying for a fraction of a second, his staff nearly dipping out of the sky.
He stared at the teenager in red.
His entire life had been dedicated to utilizing toxins to end lives.
The concept of utilizing a highly lethal neurotoxin to intentionally, carefully stimulate the palate for a culinary experience was a paradigm shift so profound it practically gave him a stroke.
"You..." Elder Viper hissed, a dark, wicked, incredibly excited smile spreading across his gaunt, reptilian face. "You wish to weaponize the miasma... for flavor?"
"Elder, flavor itself is a weapon," Ji’an grinned, tapping the side of her head. "If you can make a man weep with joy from a single bite of pickled mandrake, you can control his soul. Now, tell me about your local fungi. Do you have any bioluminescent, parasitic mushrooms that grow on the corpses of venomous beasts?"
"Indeed we do," Elder Viper cackled, a raspy, terrifying sound that sent shivers down the spines of the trailing disciples. "The Corpse-Spore Truffle. It induces violent hallucinations and liquefies the stomach lining."
"Excellent!" Ji’an beamed. "If we slow-roast it over low heat for twelve hours to denature the hallucinogens, I bet it has an unparalleled, earthy, umami depth. We could shave it over a wild boar risotto!"
"A brilliant hypothesis!" Elder Viper agreed enthusiastically, steering his staff closer to her palm leaf, completely abandoning his terrifying, aloof persona. "We must test this immediately! I have a private conservatory of highly lethal Nightshade varietals. Have you ever considered using ice to shatter the venom glands before boiling?"
"No, but I have a guy who can provide the ice on demand!" Ji’an pointed a thumb up at Wangchen, who looked incredibly proud to be included in her cooking plans.
For the next two hours, the airspace was filled with the deeply unsettling, highly enthusiastic banter of two absolute mad scientists geeking out over poisonous botany.
The rest of the Vanguard Retinue listened in absolute horror.
"They are discussing the most efficient way to boil a Death-Cap Lotus," Lu Jianheng whispered to Wen Shiru, his face pale. "The cook is actively trying to incorporate our deaths into a tasting menu."
"We are being led by a psychopath," Shiru agreed, adjusting his glasses nervously. "He has charmed the poison master. We have zero leverage."
"I’m hungry," Gu Zhiwei whimpered quietly in the background, entirely lost in the conversation.
***
As the sun began to dip below the jagged obsidian peaks of the western horizon, painting the sky in violent shades of bruised purple and blood red, the Vanguard Tour finally reached their designated stopping point for the night.
They could not fly directly into the Azure Dragon Sect in the dark; the aerial arrays were too dense and too lethal to navigate without broad daylight.
Elder Viper raised his glowing green staff, signaling the descent.