Chapter Forty-Four: The Kindhearted Uncle

“My name is Zhao Ke. What’s your name?”
This thin kitchen hand looked as though he carried misfortune for his spouse, his cheeks sunken so deeply that the flesh seemed to cling to his bones. Yet, there was something inexplicably kind and gentle in his brow and eyes.
“My name is Zhuge Buliang, courtesy name Mingtian. Just call me Mingtian.” Mingtian nodded politely with a smile, instructing the recruits to send the prepared meat up to the rooftop.
“Heh heh heh,” Zhao Ke chuckled. Though his face was rather unseemly—sharp-featured, with a large mole under his nose sprouting a repugnant hair—he gave the impression of being an honest man, much like An Luo. His voice was soft and pleasant, making him easy to listen to.
“Little one, how long have you been a cook?” He chatted away as he worked on the cabbage in his hands.
“Five years,” Mingtian replied, uninterested in small talk as he too handled cabbages.
“Oh, five years? Truly, heroes are born young. Five years of experience and already a kitchen hand. I’m not so lucky. I worked as a recruit chef for twenty years before climbing up to be a kitchen hand.”
A trace of dejection flickered in Zhao Ke’s eyes, as though he resented his talents being wasted, yet dared not voice his grievance.
Mingtian glanced at him, his gaze tightening for a moment.
The world often believes that carving Buddha from tofu or flowers from radishes is the pinnacle of knife skills. In reality, as with fried rice that showcases mastery of heat, the true test of the blade lies in the simplest acts—such as extracting the heart of a cabbage.
This honest-looking kitchen hand, he noticed, possessed extraordinary skill in slicing cabbage.
The knife plunged in, cutting four ways from above, and with the final twist, the cabbage opened like a blossom, leaving behind a pristine heart, upright and plump, with only three or four layers remaining—polished to a pearly sheen!
With just two seconds per cabbage, he extracted the heart perfectly, without so much as a scratch.
In a mere minute, Zhao Ke had produced thirty cabbage hearts, undamaged and neatly piled onto a plate!
What sorcery was this? Two seconds per cabbage heart? Hey! Where’s the GM? Someone’s cheating here!
Mingtian looked at his own work—painstakingly peeling each layer by hand, taking twenty seconds for a single cabbage.
“Ah, my hands aren’t in good form today, I’m being so slow,” Zhao Ke sighed, sounding a bit disappointed.
Come on, two seconds a cabbage and you call that slow? Are you sure you’re not just showing off? Are you some kind of immortal? Godly skills always look like showing off to ordinary people!
Mingtian looked around at the other chefs, and his thoughts shifted.
No matter the era, top chefs never become obsolete. The people here were the finest chefs of their time.
On his left, another kitchen hand was dismantling a mandarin fish, reminding Mingtian of the legendary Butcher Ding carving up an ox.
The knife moved so swiftly it seemed the fish was made of air, meeting no resistance. In less than half a minute, the fish was cut apart, yet remained whole. With a gentle tap of the blade, the fish bloomed like a flower, each piece of meat arranged artfully on the board.
Damn, if this is the knife work at the Yellow Platform, just how skilled must those at the Ground Platform be?
Are you all sure you’re not using superpowers to chop vegetables? Why do I feel like I’m the weakest player here? Maybe I should just quit the group.
“Hey, young man,” Zhao Ke called out again.
Mingtian, already mesmerized by what he’d seen, felt as if his neck was turning to stone. With great effort, he finally managed to creak his head around.

Zhao Ke’s expression turned solemn. “As a newcomer, I must offer you a piece of advice.”
All right, I get it. You’re going to tell me to keep a low profile. I understand, master. I won’t show off again.
Mingtian felt as though his pride had been shattered by these chefs’ overpowering skills.
But Zhao Ke’s words took him by surprise.
“You’d best be wary of Qian Shanduo. The last two newcomers—one was driven to death by dismemberment, the other hanged himself.”
“Eh… what?” Mingtian was stunned, not understanding. “May I ask why you say that?”
Zhao Ke’s face stiffened, his masterful knife slowed, as he began to recount a tale that sent a chill through Mingtian.
Qian Shanduo was a native of Anfeng County, a prodigy chef since childhood. He entered the Imperial Kitchens at twenty-six and, in just eight years, climbed to the rank of Kitchen Steward. At forty, after crafting a dish that amazed a newly enthroned Emperor Qi Ming, he was awarded the Golden Medallion for Culinary Excellence.
After receiving the medallion, Qian Shanduo grew ever more arrogant. He even bribed the head of the Imperial Kitchen. From then on, he would enter the kitchen daily without cooking a thing, treating the other chefs like servants.
“The most infuriating thing is…” At this, Zhao Ke’s eyes filled with tears. “Whenever someone made a dish that pleased the Emperor, Qian Shanduo would steal the credit, claiming it as his own. If he took a dislike to someone, he’d set them up—having another chef ruin a dish, then shifting the blame onto his target.”
It turned out, after Qian Shanduo rose to power, two exceptionally talented newcomers appeared, surpassing his own abilities at the same age.
Jealous, Qian Shanduo took revenge. For one, he hid fish scales from the trash in a dish meant for the Emperor. The Emperor, enraged, ordered the young chef’s execution by slow slicing.
The other, gifted and repeatedly praised by the Emperor, was exploited by Qian Shanduo. Every dish he made, Qian Shanduo claimed as his own, taking all the credit. For mediocre dishes, he’d say they were made by the newcomer, who was repeatedly blamed by superiors. Unable to endure the humiliation, the young chef hanged himself.
Now Mingtian understood.
So this Qian Shanduo was no different from the corrupt officials of modern times.
All successes become his, all failures the fault of his subordinates. If he dislikes someone, he finds something for them to take the fall for.
Despicable, yes, but also a familiar frustration for Chinese people.
Every nation has its own flaws—Americans, for example, are often hypocritical and selfish; the Chinese, prone to arrogance. It’s something ingrained in the bones.
Mingtian looked at Zhao Ke’s hands, callused from years of cutting, the layers thicker than those on the feet of a soccer player—a testament to years of relentless practice.
For a chef, these calluses are more precious than any golden medal; they are the badge of honor.
Noting the resentment in Zhao Ke’s eyes, Mingtian guessed the rest.
He too was likely oppressed by Qian Shanduo.
Although the others nearby were skilled, Zhao Ke’s knife work was on another level, far above his current station—it made no sense that he was still stuck at the Yellow Platform.
“Don’t cry, brother.” Mingtian was not the kind of protagonist with crooked morals; he was flesh and blood, angered by injustice and moved by pity.
He patted Zhao Ke’s shoulder to comfort the poor old man. Zhao Ke sniffled and managed to stop his tears.
“I was once a chef at the Ground Platform. I’ve served in the palace for thirty years—since the founding of Southern Qi. I finally made it to the Ground Platform, only for Qian Shanduo to ruin me. Thirty years—I spent thirty years here.”

As he spoke, Zhao Ke patted Mingtian on the shoulder, giving him heartfelt advice in the tone of an elder.
“Little one, I see you have potential. In another couple of years, I’ll retire and return to the countryside. Take this as a warning: in the Imperial Kitchen, keep a low profile. Otherwise, you won’t even know how you died. All I want is to spend my remaining years with my wife back home. I hope you can make a name for yourself here.”
Hey, old man, I know it ruins the mood, but could you not talk about going home? That’s a death flag if I ever heard one!
“Thank you, I will.”
Mingtian nodded in respect.
Whatever else, Mingtian’s cold reading may not have been perfect, but he could tell Zhao Ke was telling the truth.
Such a chef deserved nothing but respect.
There must have been many like him—brilliant enough to be remembered forever, yet fated to live out their lives in obscurity.
“What did you say? He’s dead?! Then what about the appetizer cold dishes?”
At that moment, Qian Shanduo’s voice bellowed like a slaughtered pig from outside the door.
Mingtian peered outside.
Qian Shanduo was wielding a bronze ladle, smashing it furiously against a kitchen hand’s head.
The kitchen hand bowed his head, trembling, taking the beating and scolding without a sound.
The fat brute seemed unsatisfied, and when the ladle bent, he switched to his fist, pounding the man’s forehead.
Come on, fight back! You’ll end up with a concussion!
“You useless fool! I told you to keep an eye on him, not to let him die! He was still useful, and you dare slack off?! Eh?!”
“I’m… I’m sorry, Kitchen Steward Qian.”
“Damn it!”
Perhaps because of his weight and lack of exercise, Qian Shanduo soon tired, panting and resting his hands on his hips. “Useless! All of you are useless! We’re short-handed—six cold dishes still missing. What now?! If the Emperor gets angry, who’ll take the blame?”
As he spoke, Qian Shanduo happened to look up, his gaze meeting Mingtian’s across the thirty yards of kitchen.
Under that piggish stare, Mingtian shivered, a sense of foreboding creeping up his spine.
Sure enough, Qian Shanduo raised his chubby hand, pointing straight at Mingtian. “You there! The one with connections! Stop chopping vegetables! Go to the Human Platform and make six cold dishes for me within half an hour!”
Mingtian’s heart sank.
Are you kidding me? Six cold dishes in half an hour?! Why don’t you ask me to braise your head for red-cooked pork while you’re at it?!
……