The rain had stopped by the time Lin Fan reached their shabby house in the living streets of the East Quarters. The pungent mixture of rot, old food, and garbage assaulted his nostrils as he entered the living streets. Puddles of muddy water reflected the dim evening light, while moisture hung heavy in the air.

  If not for the name given by the city mayor, people would have openly called it what it was: slums.

  Well, he couldn't defend it as they lived like people in slums did. Small houses stood stuffed so close that one's wall seemed to merge with another's. Their fights, love-making and everything would be broadcast to the neighbors. So everything that happened in a house, or even cooked at one home, would be discovered by people in the entire street.

  The narrow alleyway leading to their door felt claustrophobic, with laundry lines crisscrossing overhead like spider webs. The damp air clung to Lin Fan's skin, carrying the mingled scents of cheap incense, boiling rice, and unwashed bodies. Somewhere nearby, a baby wailed while a couple argued in harsh whispers.

  Lin Fan pushed open the creaking wooden door to their home.

  "Fan'er, you are early today." His mother looked up from the only bed in their house. Her voice came weaker than before, and he realized the medicine, light-infused-tonic had nearly reached the bottom of the bottle.

  "Yes, mother." Lin Fan set down his things. "I'm searching for father's things. Where did you leave them after we moved into this house?" They had to change houses last year as the previous one got seized by collector Zhao. This house belonged to master Ma, a rich person in the eyes of the East Quarter Streets.

  "Why do you need them?" She shifted weakly. "I kept them in the attic."

  Yes, this house had an attic. A small space where Xiaolian would rush whenever he scolded her for doing stupid stuff.

  "Thanks, mother." Lin Fan gently adjusted her blanket. Her frail body looked so thin that someone might miss it under the blanket. "I will be out for some time, so ask Xiaolian to feed you. I have brought some pork-belly, enough for you two. And if that brat Kaoi came, feed him as well."

  Kaoi was Xiaolan's orphan friend, and half the time he lived with them. He grew up on streets, but that eight-year brat had a stubborn nature and he refused to join the bullies and crime-dwellers of the Eastern Quarters.

  The narrow wooden ladder to the attic creaked under Lin Fan's weight. A rush of anticipation warmed his chest as he climbed toward his father's legacy. The space was tight with sloped ceiling, barely enough room for him to kneel. Muted evening light filtered through a single small window, casting long shadows across the floor.

  “Father’s treasures,” he whispered, moving aside forgotten items. A broken clay stool. Xiaolian’s old tunics bundled together. The chipped teapot his mother got as a wedding gift.

  In the far corner sat a wooden box that caught his eye immediately. Unlike everything else, it bore no dust, its surface clean and polished. His mother must have kept sending Xiaolian to clean it, her small way of keeping his father's memory alive.

  Lin Fan's fingers tingled with unexpected warmth as he touched the box.

  It was heavier than expected. It was made from dark cherry wood with precise carvings along its edges. The carvings were practical kitchen tools like ladles, chopsticks, and stirring spoons, all rendered in miniature with great care.

  Lin Fan traced a carved cleaver with his fingertip, remembering how his father could dice ginger so fine it seemed to vanish into a broth, leaving only its essence behind.

  Lin Fan settled on the floor, the box across his lap, feeling oddly like he was reuniting with an old friend. The carvings weren't just decoration. His father had once explained that different tools extracted different qualities from the same ingredients. The memories surfaced so clearly they made Lin Fan's throat tighten.

  He lifted the lid slowly. The rich scent of preserved herbs bloomed upward: cinnamon, star anise, dried citrus, and something deeper, more exotic that Lin Fan couldn't identify. Inside lay stacks of yellowed papers covered in his father's precise, economical handwriting. Below these, a small leather-bound journal with a worn spine. Nestled around these were cloth pouches in various sizes, each tied with different colored twine.

  Lin Fan selected a pouch bound with golden thread. It felt unusually warm in his palm, almost alive. He loosened the knot carefully, revealing a golden-orange petal that retained impossible freshness, its surface veined with tiny channels that seemed to pulse with inner light. The Sunpetal herb.

  He didn't recall inspecting it this closely.

  "How are you still alive?" Lin Fan whispered. The petal should have turned brown and brittle months ago, its essence long since faded. Yet it remained as vibrant as the day it was harvested, radiating subtle warmth against his skin.

  Setting the herb aside carefully, he opened the journal. The pages contained recipes, but unlike any cookbook he had seen before. Beside ordinary ingredients and cooking instructions were strange circular diagrams, directional symbols, and notes about "energy flows" and "essence extraction."

  Near the back, he found an entry titled "Heart-Warming Broth" with a marginal note that read: "For when the spirit needs more than the body can provide."

  Lin Fan took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his father's legacy. He noticed a small, folded note tucked at the bottom of the journal.

  "Only use this if you are in desperate need."

  His father's precise handwriting brought a lump to his throat. Lin Fan traced the letters with a trembling finger, the familiar script stirring emotions deep within his heart.

  The recipe seemed simple: pork bones, ginger, scallions.

  Yet, the preparation methods differed from everything his father had taught him. Some diagrams showed finger positions while cooking, and notes explained how to focus and control breath through the lower dantian.

  Most striking was a passage about "channeling essence through the meridian junction between heart and lungs."

  "Father was a cultivator?" Lin Fan breathed. "Or something like one?"

  A loud thud from below snapped him back to reality. The distinctive patter of small feet and childish laughter told him Xiaolian had returned. Lin Fan quickly gathered the journal, the Sunpetal pouch, and several other promising items before descending the ladder.

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  "Big brother!" Xiaolian's face brightened the dim room despite smears of mud across her cheeks. "You came home early! Are we having a feast?"

  Behind her lingered Kaoi, thin as a reed with watchful eyes that never quite settled on Lin Fan directly. The orphan boy stood half-hidden in the doorway, ready to bolt at the first sign of rejection.

  "Wash that mud off first, little toad," Lin Fan said, tucking the journal securely inside his robe. "There's pork belly for both of you. Make sure mother eats her portion before you two devour everything."

  "You're not staying?" Disappointment clouded Xiaolian's face.

  "I need to try something at the stall," Lin Fan said, gathering a few basic ingredients from their meager stores. "Something important."

  "More important than dinner?" Xiaolian pouted, her hair swayed with her tiny head.

  Lin Fan ruffled her hair. "If it works, maybe important enough to buy us many dinners."

  Night had claimed the city by the time Lin Fan returned to Sunrise Servings. The street lay deserted, most residents retreated into their homes for evening meals or whatever comforts they could afford. He lit the stall's single lantern, its glow creating a small island of warm light amid the surrounding darkness.

  Outside, water puddles mirrored the warm lantern light, casting a gentle glow across the street. The reflections shimmered, creating a serene scene in the quiet night.

  With steady hands, Lin Fan placed his father's journal and the ingredients on the counter with careful precision. The open journal showed the Heart-Warming Broth recipe, the symbols now appearing to shimmer subtly in the lantern light. Lin Fan wondered how he had never noticed before that they weren't ordinary cooking notes.

  He washed his hands in cool water, dried them on a clean cloth, and began. Water went into his best pot, the one with the fewest dents, followed by pork bones his father's notes said must be cracked to "release marrow essence." He added three precise slices of ginger cut at the angles specified in the diagram.

  Lin Fan found himself naturally matching his breathing to the gentle bubbling of the broth, just as the journal described. "Harmonize your intent with the water's movement," his father had written. "The vessel becomes an extension of your dantian."

  Lin Fan had no formal cultivation knowledge. Who in the Lower East Quarter could afford such teaching? But he'd watched cultivators in the market, noted how they carried themselves, how their breathing remained controlled even when lifting heavy loads. He tried to emulate that steady rhythm now, focusing on a spot just below his navel where the journal indicated the dantian resided.

  At first, nothing happened beyond the normal sounds of cooking. Then, gradually, he sensed something new stirring within his core. Not stomach hunger or muscle fatigue, but a distinct warmth that pulsed with gentle regularity.

  It felt like a small coal had ignited inside him, radiating pleasant heat that spread through his chest.

  Suddenly, the ring shimmered, and a glowing energy rushed out of it, entering his navel. The sensation was warm and tingling, like a gentle current flowing through him.

  "Qi," he whispered, afraid speaking too loudly might break this tenuous connection.

  "So my father really gave me this ring for something crucial." He rubbed the silver ring in his hand. It felt more distinct now, almost alive against his skin.

  Following his father's instructions exactly, Lin Fan reached for the Sunpetal herb without looking, his fingers finding the pouch unerringly.

  The journal had been specific: "Let your awareness guide your hands, not your eyes." He crushed a single petal between thumb and forefinger, releasing a burst of sweet citrus scent before dropping it into the simmering broth.

  The liquid responded with a sharp hiss, much louder than such a small addition should cause. Dense, fragrant steam coiled upward, wrapping around Lin Fan's wrists and arms like living vines seeking connection.

  Memories rushed through Lin Fan's mind. His father standing at this very counter, hands hovering over a pot while customers weren't watching, eyes half-closed as golden light shimmered beneath his fingertips. Lin Fan had dismissed it as steam catching the sunlight, a trick of vision. Now he understood it had been real, deliberate.

  "Show me the way, Father," Lin Fan murmured, holding his hands above the broth just as he remembered his father doing. He focused on channeling the warm energy from his core up through his chest, along his arms, and into his palms.

  Another stream of energy rushed out of the ring, and mixed with his own.

  The sensation intensified, flowing like a gentle current through pathways he'd never known existed in his body. When he opened his eyes, the broth beneath his hands was simmering with unusual vigor. Tiny motes of gold light swirled through the liquid like fireflies trapped in amber.

  Lin Fan's focus faltered in surprise, causing the golden particles to dim briefly. He steadied his breath, following the journal's guidance to refocus. The golden light grew stronger, now more stable.

  He completed the recipe with careful precision. Three scallion sections cut on the diagonal. A precise three-grain pinch of salt. Three drops of rice wine aged at least two years. With each addition, the broth's color deepened to rich amber, its aroma growing increasingly complex until it filled the small stall completely.

  His father's notes specified a final ritual: three clockwise stirs followed by one counterclockwise motion to "seal the essence flow." When Lin Fan completed this step, something extraordinary occurred.

  The world around him seemed to pause. Sound faded away. The air grew perfectly still. Then, hovering before his eyes, glowing blue characters appeared as if written in pure light:

  System: Ancestral Culinary Legacy Detected.

  Class Granted: Alchemist Cook (Bronze Tier)

  Cultivation Initiation.

  Qi Refinement Realm Layer One reached.

  Lin Fan stumbled backward, nearly toppling his stool. The characters hung in the air for several heartbeats before dissolving like sugar in hot tea. A substantial new warmth settled in his chest, more tangible than before, as if a permanent change had occurred within his body.

  "What in heavens..." Before he could complete the thought, new text materialized:

  System: First Quest: Cook 5 Spirit-Infused Dishes Within 3 Days

  Reward: Basic Ingredient Identification Skill

  Lin Fan stared at the space where the characters had appeared. Stories of the "System" were commonplace in cultivation tales, but those were for chosen disciples of mighty sects, for young masters with powerful lineages. Not for street cooks with mountain-sized debts and dying mothers.

  Yet here it was, appearing to him. Lin Fan. Son of a failed cultivator who had hidden his abilities behind humble cooking techniques.

  The completed broth simmered gently, golden motes spinning lazily through the amber liquid. Lin Fan dipped a tasting spoon and brought it to his lips. The flavor bloomed across his tongue in distinct stages: first savory richness from the bones, then bright ginger heat, followed by scallion freshness.

  But beneath these familiar notes came something entirely new.

  A sensation of warm sunshine spreading through his body. The taste of mountain air at dawn. A feeling of renewed vigor flowing into his limbs, his mind sharpening like a freshly honed blade. His fatigue vanished instantly.

  This wasn't just soup. It was distilled vitality.

  "So this is what you were doing," Lin Fan whispered, setting down his spoon with shaking hands. "Not just cooking, but cultivation through food. Father you were a genius, and I wonder what realm you reached." He rubbed his naval. "Layer One Refinement Realm."

  Lin Fan stared at the gently bubbling pot. The path ahead seemed both frightening and exhilarating in its scale. Five spirit-infused dishes in three days seemed impossible for someone who'd just discovered this ability.

  But Collector Zhao wasn't going to extend his deadline, and his mother's medicine wouldn't replenish itself.

  He rolled up his sleeves with new determination and opened his father's journal again. He scanned for other recipes. If his father had practiced culinary cultivation in secret, more techniques must be recorded here. More knowledge waited to be unlocked.

  As he turned the pages with purpose, another message flashed briefly:

  System:

  Hidden Skill Discovered: Lesser Light Infusion.

  Artifact Detected: Ring of Storage.

  Lin Fan looked at his hands. Light Infusion. That explained the golden particles in the broth, the warmth that had flowed from his palms. His father's notes now made sense, references to "drawing down heaven's light" and "sealing radiance within common ingredients."

  Outside, the night deepened over Luminous Jade City. Inside the humble stall, lit by a single lantern, Lin Fan began the journey his father had left unfinished. Mother's medicine, Xiaolian's future, their crushing debt – he now had a tool to fight against it all.

  The path of the Alchemist Cook had begun.