"We don’t want it, we require it," Zhao corrected haughtily, reaching a hand out toward the bento box. "Give it here, cook."

SMACK!

Ji’an didn’t even draw her spatula.

She simply flicked her wrist.

The movement was so fast, so entirely devoid of telegraphed Qi, that Zhao didn’t even have time to blink. The back of Ji’an’s hand connected with Zhao’s outstretched wrist.

The newly compressed, hyper-dense kinetic energy of the Dao of the Iron Wok transferred flawlessly.

It sounded like a firecracker going off.

Zhao shrieked, a high-pitched, agonizing wail tearing from his throat. His entire body was lifted off the wooden planks of the bridge by the sheer, absurd physical force of the backhand.

He spun through the air a full three hundred and sixty degrees before crashing violently onto his back, skidding ten feet across the wooden planks, clutching his rapidly swelling, deeply bruised wrist.

The four cronies froze in absolute horror.

They looked at their leader, who was currently weeping on the ground.

Then they looked at the slender, sixteen-year-old cook who hadn’t even dropped her smile, and who was holding a bento box as if it were a delicate flower.

"Listen to me, you entitled, pathetic little leeches," Ji’an said, her voice echoing with the terrifying, absolute authority of a Head Chef commanding a failing kitchen.

She took a slow step forward. The remaining four disciples stumbled backward, their hands trembling on their swords.

"My food is not a vending machine for your mediocrity," Ji’an sneered, her dark eyes flashing with cold, hard disdain. "I cook for my friends. I cook for my family. And I cook for people who respect the ingredients. You? You are trash. And I do not feed trash."

She didn’t stop walking. She casually stepped right over the groaning, weeping form of Senior Brother Zhao.

"The next time you demand a meal from me," Ji’an whispered, her voice carrying over her shoulder as she walked away, "I will feed you your own swords. Now, clean up this mess before you embarrass the sect any further."

The four cronies didn’t dare breathe, let alone draw their weapons. They scrambled to collect their weeping leader, dragging him off the bridge as if fleeing a demon.

Ji’an didn’t look back. She adjusted her grip on the bento box, completely unbothered by the encounter. Her newly compressed internal meridians felt absolutely fantastic.

’Jiu Zui was right,’ Ji’an thought, a smug, deeply satisfied smile playing on her lips. ’The Dao of the Iron Wok is overpowered. I didn’t even use ten percent of my strength, and he flew like a frisbee.’

Her mood significantly improved by the brief application of physical violence, Ji’an continued her march toward the Eternal Cloud Peak.

She was ready to face the Ice Demon. She was ready to apologize, deliver the dumplings, and smooth over the awkwardness.

But as the towering, frosted gates of Wangchen’s peak came into view, the smug smile slowly faded from Ji’an’s face, replaced by a sudden, chilling knot of anxiety in her stomach.

The air around the Eternal Cloud Peak was usually crisp and cold.

Today, it was absolutely, unnaturally silent. The gates were frozen completely shut with a layer of thick, impenetrable black ice.

The ambient temperature was so low that the very air seemed to crackle and splinter with every step she took.

’He’s not just angry,’ Ji’an realized, staring up at the terrifying, isolated fortress of the yandere protagonist. ’He has completely sealed the mountain and locked himself in.’

Ji’an swallowed hard, clutching the bento box to her chest.

"Alright, Little Puddle," Ji’an whispered to the frozen gates, pulling her gray apron tighter around her waist. "You want to play the brooding, isolated ice king? Fine. But you’re going to have to do it on a full stomach."

She raised her hand as she channeled her newly condensed Yang Qi and prepared to knock all the teeth out of these bastards’ filthy mouths.

Since they didn’t know how to use their mouth properly, there is no need to keep them, right?

***

Lin Ji’an stood before the towering, frosted gates of the Eternal Cloud Peak, her newly acquired, ultra-dense internal Qi humming beneath her skin.

She had the intricately carved jade bento box tucked securely under her left arm, and her right hand was resting lightly on the hilt of her Black Iron Spatula.

She was ready for war.

She was fully prepared to face a localized, apocalyptic blizzard.

She had braced herself for the reality that Xie Wangchen, the volatile Ice Demon of the Celestial Sword Sect, had likely sealed the mountain in a fit of yandere rage following her cowardly retreat from the bathing chamber a week ago.

She expected shattered cobblestones, howling winds, and an atmosphere so suffocatingly hostile it would freeze her eyelashes to her cheeks.

Ji’an took a deep, fortifying breath, channeling her Harmonious Five-Grain Qi to act as a thermal shield.

She reached out, placing her hand against the heavy, ice-rime-covered iron of the gate, entirely prepared to use physical force to shatter the seal, and pushed the gate.

The heavy iron gate swung open with a gentle, polite little creak.

Ji’an stumbled forward, nearly dropping the bento box as her anticipated resistance completely failed to materialize. She caught her balance, blinking in profound confusion as she stepped into the outer courtyard.

There was no blizzard or shattered training dummies.

The sky above the Eternal Cloud Peak was a brilliant, crystal-clear azure, and the ambient temperature, while crisp, was entirely normal for a high-altitude mountain.

In fact, the courtyard was bustling with quiet, mundane activity.

A pair of junior disciples clad in thick, fur-lined winter robes was casually sweeping a light dusting of snow off the pristine pathways.

Ji’an stood there, clutching her bento box, feeling incredibly foolish.

’What the MSG?’ she thought, her brow furrowing. ’Where is the apocalyptic rage? Where is the suffocating aura of betrayal?’

Lin Ji’an marched up to the two junior disciples in sight.