Raising the Villain in Wrong Way

"I don’t care about pain," Ji’an stated flatly, the image of Wangchen and Zhiwei holding hands providing all the motivation she would ever need. "I only care about results. And my aesthetic."

"Spoken like a true, vain, arrogant little monster," Jiu Zui laughed loudly, taking a long drink. "Alright. Get some sleep, Ji’an. Because at first light, I am going to put you through absolute hell."

An hour later, the Drunken Sovereign had returned to his hammock, resuming his earth-shaking snores.

Lin Ji’an lay on a surprisingly comfortable bed in a small, cozy wooden cabin located just behind the kitchen.

Jiu Zui had apparently built it decades ago, though it had remained empty until tonight.

She stared up at the wooden ceiling, listening to the wind howl around the isolated peak.

It had been the longest, most chaotic week of her life.

She had survived an entrance exam, infiltrated an elite sect, dodged death flags, battled ghosts, slapped a Demon Lord, and somehow managed to get promoted to a generation above her peers.

She was a Martial Uncle. She had a legendary Master. She had a customised, overpowered cultivation manual waiting for her in the morning.

But as her eyes grew heavy, drifting toward sleep, her thoughts didn’t linger on her new power or her elevated status.

Her hand drifted to her left wrist, her fingers gently brushing against the cold, smooth beads of the Frost-Soul Barrier.

She remembered the way Xie Wangchen had looked at her in the plaza. The desperate relief, the undeniable, overwhelming devotion.

The way he had stood behind her, an unshakable pillar of ice, ready to freeze the world if it dared to threaten her.

Ji’an closed her eyes, a soft, incredibly genuine smile touching her lips in the darkness of the cabin.

"You better sweep those floor tiles well, Wangchen," Ji’an murmured sleepily into her pillow, the lingering traces of her BL-induced panic fading into a warm, comforting sense of security. "Because tomorrow... I’m going to make you that crispy pork belly."

High above the rest of the sect, secluded on the wild, overgrown mountain of the Drunken Sovereign, Lin Ji’an finally fell asleep.

She didn’t dream of ghosts or demons.

She dreamt of a quiet kitchen, the smell of braising meat, and a boy in white robes who was always, always waiting for her by the stove.

The first phase of her survival was complete, and the era of the Spirit Chef was about to begin.

***

Dawn broke over the Drunken Peak not with the elegant, silent grace of a rising sun, but with the violent, aggressive sizzling of hot oil in a cast-iron wok.

Lin Ji’an was in her element. She wore her pristine white Inner Sect robes, but she had aggressively tied her familiar, soot-stained gray apron over them, a sartorial rebellion against the stuffy traditions of her new status.

On the massive stone hearth, a slab of premium, spirit-infused pork belly was undergoing a miraculous transformation.

Ji’an had scored the skin perfectly, rubbed it with coarse spirit-salt and five-spice powder, and was now slow-roasting it to achieve that coveted, glass-like crunch.

The rich, fatty aroma of the meat, combined with a sweet and sticky soy-honey glaze reduction bubbling in a smaller pot, was potent enough to wake the dead.

Or, in this case, a chronically hungover Sovereign.

A loud thud echoed from the courtyard, followed by the shuffling of boots.

Jiu Zui, the Drunken Sovereign, stumbled into the kitchen, his hair a wild bird’s nest, rubbing his amethyst eyes.

"Kid," Jiu Zui groaned, collapsing onto a wooden stool and staring at the pork belly with absolute, ravenous devotion. "If this is what mornings are going to be like from now on, I should have taken an apprentice a century ago. Give me a plate before I gnaw on the table."

Ji’an expertly sliced the pork belly. The knife crunched through the crispy golden skin, revealing the tender, melt-in-your-mouth layers of fat and meat beneath.

She plated it over a bed of steamed spirit-rice, drizzled the thick, savory glaze over the top, and slid it across the table.

Jiu Zui didn’t speak for five minutes. He simply inhaled the food, actual tears of joy prickling the corners of his eyes.

Ji’an packed a second, identical portion into an insulated, jade-carved spatial lunchbox. She wiped her hands on a towel and untied her apron.

"Alright, Master," Ji’an announced, clipping her new, glowing jade token to her belt. "The kitchen is stocked, your hangover is cured, and I’ve prepared a thermos of honey-ginger tea. I’m heading out for the morning."

Jiu Zui paused mid-bite, his chopsticks hovering in the air. He looked up, a protective, slightly suspicious glint in his eye. "Heading out? Where to? You just got here, kid. You’re the new Martial Uncle. You should be sitting on the peak, letting the juniors climb the mountain to pay their respects and bring you tribute."

"I don’t want tribute, I want to deliver a promise," Ji’an said simply, adjusting her collar. "I’m going to the Eternal Cloud Peak."

Pfffft!

Jiu Zui violently spat a mouthful of premium spirit-rice across the room. He shot up from his stool, knocking it over backward with a loud clatter.

"The Eternal Cloud Peak?!" Jiu Zui roared, his amethyst eyes bulging. The laid-back, drunken master vanished, instantly replaced by a fiercely possessive, deeply offended patriarch. "Are you out of your mind?! I just saved you from that frozen wasteland yesterday!"

He marched across the kitchen, waving his chopsticks wildly in the air.

"Are you not satisfied with your own Master?!" Jiu Zui demanded, pointing an accusatory finger at Ji’an. "Are my cooking materials not good enough? Is my mountain too messy?! Are you telling me that after one night, you already want to go look for that pretty face?!"

Ji’an blinked, entirely dumbstruck. "Pretty face?"

"Don’t play coy with me, kid!" Jiu Zui huffed, pacing the floorboards. "Qin Changxu! That miserable, emotionally stunted icicle! Are you also a sucker for that pretty face, disciple?"