The rich, intoxicating aroma that drifted into the Grand Defile was an act of psychological warfare far more devastating than any flying sword barrage.
It began with the faint, comforting scent of burning dry apple-wood, followed quickly by the pungent sweetness of sliced mountain ginger sizzled in golden sesame oil. Then came the deep, earthy richness of slow-simmered roots, wild dried wood-ear mushrooms. The clear, mouthwatering aroma of Grade-3 spirit turnips harvested at the peak of morning dew.
Down in the quivering sea of blue marshmallow jelly, five thousand locked still crusaders stopped groaning.
Heads that had been slumped against the grass twitched upward. Hundreds of noses, crusted with dried sweat and battlefield dust, flared all at once. Stomachs that had known nothing but chalky, bitter fasting pills for three in a row weeks emitted loud, cavernous rumblings that echoed across the canyon floor like distant thunder.
“What... What’s that smell?” a junior sword student whispered, his tongue involuntarily darting out to lick his dry lips.
“Stay vigilant!” an Azure Cloud deacon hissed, though his own Adam’s apple bobbed wildly. “It’s surely an ancient demonic incense designed to paralyze our spiritual will! Circulate the Void-Heart mantra! Don’t inhale!”
“Deacon Song,” the junior student whimpered softly, “the Void-Heart mantra doesn’t stop my belly from screaming. It smells like my grandmother’s kitchen on midwinter eve.”
From the winding forest path connecting the defile to the inner valley basin, a cheerful procession appeared.
Leading the way was Su Ling’er. The nine-tailed fox maiden looked breathtaking in her flowing vermilion-and-white robes, her nine snowy tails swaying gently behind her like clouds of fine silk. Beside her strode dozens of safe hall citizens pushing heavy two-wheeled wooden handcarts. Burly bear-artisans wearing clean white cotton aprons over their fur, slender fox-girls carrying stacks of glazed clay pot bowls, cheerful badger cooks balancing woven chopstick canisters, and round-faced mortal aunties in floral headscarves.
Upon each cart sat a massive, three-legged cast-iron cooking pot, its lid rattling gently over a bed of glowing charcoal. White, fragrant steam poured from the brass vent spouts, blanketing the grassy path in a warm, savory cloud.
Behind the carts rolled towering tiers of round bamboo steamers, each stack eight baskets high, streaming the sweet, yeasty fragrance of freshly steamed white mantou buns and pan-fried scallion flatbreads.
Lin Xiao walked alongside the lead cart, having rolled up the sleeves of his azure scholar robes to reveal clean, slender forearms. In his right hand, he carried a polished brass ladle the size of a melon bowl.
“Careful with the flat stone slabs, Uncle Xiong,” Lin Xiao called out warmly to a seven-foot bear smith pushing the lead cooking pot. “Don’t slosh the top broth. The ginger oil needs to stay floating on the surface to keep the heat locked in.”
“Aye, Sect Master!” the bear smith rumbled with a hearty chuckle that made his apron jiggle. “The road is smooth as river jade. Not a drop spilled!”
The food carts halted at the edge of the blue marshmallow outer edge.
Five thousand captive fighters watched in stone-hard silence as the mortal aunties and beastfolk girls began ladling steaming golden broth into wide clay pot bowls. With practiced, graceful movements, the servers dipped wide ladles into the simmering depths. That brought up semi-clear slices of tender white spirit turnip, plump red wolfberries, cubes of braised mountain yam, and slivers of fragrant black mushrooms.
“He... He has brought the cooking pot of torment,” a Crimson Flame swordsman stammered, pulling his chin back into his breastplate as Lin Xiao approached. “The blue demon intends to drown us in boiling grease!”
Lin Xiao stopped beside the trembling swordsman. He didn’t sneer. He didn’t draw a blade. Instead, he knelt down on the soft clover, balancing a wide clay pot bowl upon his left palm while holding a carved wooden spoon in his right.
The broth was a shimmering pale gold, perfectly clear, with small beads of fragrant sesame oil catching the midday sun. Two thick slices of spirit turnip rested beneath the surface. He looked like carved pieces of warm jade. He was surrounded by bright scarlet wolfberries and sprinkled with finely minced spring chives.
“You look very thirsty, friend,” Lin Xiao said, his voice as gentle as a mountain spring. “Here, blow on it twice before you take a sip. We simmered the turnip roots with wild ginger and sweet licorice. It’s very hot, but it cuts right through that bitter pill-film on your tongue.”
The swordsman stared at the spoon held inches from his lips.
He looked into Lin Xiao’s clear, smiling blue eyes. There was no mockery there, no demonic bloodlust, no haughty arrogance of a high-realm fighter looking down upon an ant. There was only the open, earnest warmth of an older brother offering a midnight snack.
“Is... Is there poison in this?” the swordsman croaked, his voice cracking with misery and starvation.
Lin Xiao dipped the wooden spoon into the broth, lifted a spoonful of clear liquid. Then he slurped it down himself with a heard, appreciative smack of his lips.
“A touch light on the white pepper,” Lin Xiao noted thoughtfully, “but the sweetness of the turnip fully makes up for it. Go on. Your arms are glued to your ribs anyway, so let me hold the spoon. Open wide.”
The swordsman’s resolve, built upon eighty years of traditional sect dogma, crumbled in a single second.
He opened his mouth.
Lin Xiao gently guided the wooden spoon past his lips, tipping the warm, savory broth onto his tongue.
The young swordsman’s eyes widened to the size of full moons.
The broth was not merely food. It was pure, pure comfort. The rich, earthy sweetness of the spirit turnip bloomed across his palate. He carried with it a soothing warmth that slid down his dry throat-pipe like liquid velvet. The moment the broth entered his stomach, a soft, blasting heat swelled through his midsection, wrapping his cramped, exhausted intestines in a blanket of gentle vital essence.
More miraculously, the lingering toxins from years of consuming cheap, low-grade sect fasting pills began to dissolve. The persistent, dull ache that had plagued his lower dantian since he was sixteen seemed to wash away, carried off by the purifying herbal qi of the turnip broth.
A single, quiet gasp escaped the young fighter’s lips.
“It’s... It’s so good,” he whispered, a tremble running through his jaw. “Elder brother... Can I have another bite? Please?”
“Of course,” Lin Xiao said with a warm smile, scooping up a tender piece of turnip and another spoonful of broth. “Eat slowly. There’s three whole cooking pots per regiment, and Auntie Chen brought six baskets of scallion pancakes. Nobody leaves this valley on an empty stomach.”
A crisp, semi-clear blue screen chimed within Lin Xiao’s mindscape, documenting the nutritional deployment:
Throughout the Grand Defile, the scene repeated itself five thousand times over.
Mortal aunties walked between the rows of locked still fighters, gently scolding them like wayward grandchildren.
“Look at you, boy,” an elderly human grandmother with graying hair scolded gently, spooning broth into the mouth of a weeping Heavenly Sword deacon. “Your lips are so chapped you could strike a match on them. Marching around in thirty pounds of iron without a hat! Here, eat this mantou bun. Chew it thoroughly. Don’t swallow it whole like a duck.”
The hardened deacon, who had carried out dozens of demonic beasts in his youth, cried openly into the grandmother’s wooden spoon, chewing the fluffy, sweet white bun with shuddering thanks.
Young beastfolk fox-maidens knelt beside captured swordsmen, patiently holding bowls. Meanwhile, the embarrassed youths sipped, their cheeks flushing brighter than the vermilion embroidery on the maidens’ sleeves. Burly bear-smiths broke off thick wedges of warm scallion pancake, feeding them to locked still Crimson Flame fighters whose fierce scowls had fully melted into blissful expressions of culinary shock.
Over by the circular sword fence, Gu Qingfeng sat cross-legged on his boulder, balancing a massive baked-clay basin of turnip broth on his knees.
The old Sword Saint tore off half a warm scallion pancake, dipped it deep into the broth until it was soaked through. Then it popped it into his mouth with a loud groan of delight.
“Ahhh, heavenly,” Gu Qingfeng sighed, glancing down at Bai Chong, who was still sitting waist-deep in the blue jelly. “Hey, Bai Chong. You going to sit there looking sour all afternoon, or do you want a bowl before the boys scrape the bottom of the kettle? Auntie Chen put extra wild garlic in this batch.”
Bai Chong stared at the steaming basin in Gu Qingfeng’s hands.
The smell of the roasted garlic, wild ginger, and spirit turnip was so overwhelming that the cold, austere Sword Elder found his stomach betraying him with a loud, disgraceful groan that could be heard three paces away.
Bai Chong looked at his former Senior Brother. Then he looked at the azure scholar youth who was patiently feeding a young student with a wooden spoon.
“Senior Brother Gu,” Bai Chong murmured, his voice cracking with utter defeat. “Does... Does Auntie Chen have any extra chili oil?”
Gu Qingfeng threw his head back and laughed until the cliffs rang with the sound.