Chapter 2: Chapter 2: This Is a Cook?

Corvale was an ancient town that had existed for several hundred years, known for its simple customs and the longevity of its residents.

Whenever a centenarian passed away, the town would hold a massive celebration. A grand feast would be laid out for everyone, and musicians would be hired to play, creating a lively spectacle.

The moment a black sedan appeared at the town’s entrance, it instantly drew a crowd of onlookers, with some children even chasing after the car.

From the men on the mountain, they had learned that Second Miss Aurora Sinclair’s master, Master Aerion, was a wandering Daoist with some martial arts skills.

His daily livelihood consisted of officiating weddings and funerals for the people in the town and surrounding villages. Everyone in the area called him “Daoist Miles.”

To make ends meet, he often brought his disciples down the mountain to “busk,” and the Sinclair family’s second miss was among them. She was said to be a good cook and had taken on many jobs as a chef for celebratory and funeral banquets.

Sue Quinn watched the throng of villagers in front of the car, her brow furrowed deeply and her lips pressed into a thin line. She looked utterly vexed.

The sound of firecrackers and music outside the car was so loud it made her head buzz.

’Crude. Uncultured. A wild brat…’

These words popped into Sue Quinn’s mind one after another.

This time, the Sinclair Family was sure to become the laughingstock of high society.

Suddenly,

The car screeched to a halt—

“What’s going on?”

The driver rolled down the window and yelled, “Are you trying to get yourself killed?!”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” A girl of about thirteen or fourteen, holding a little boy of five or six, bowed repeatedly in apology.

The little boy had been running around and was nearly hit, but the girl had reacted quickly, snatching him up and dodging just as they brushed past the front of the car.

“Watch where you’re going! If you’d damaged the car, you couldn’t have afforded to pay for it—”

The driver shot the girl a glare, shut the window with a muttered curse, and continued driving forward.

The girl bit her lip. Only after the car was far away did she turn to the little boy in her arms with a stern expression. “Tiger, why were you running when there was a car? Are you trying to get yourself killed—”

“Senior Sister… the car…”

The little boy held up a small, perfectly intact wooden car, showing it to her with a silly grin.

The girl wanted to scold him more. But when she saw the little boy already squatting on the ground playing with his toy car, she could only sigh. “Don’t do that again. If you got hurt, I would blame myself…”

A man in the crowd happened to see the small wooden car in the boy’s hands, and his pupils contracted instantly.

The little car didn’t have a single nail. All its joints were made from the wood itself. This was an ancient, nearly lost woodworking technique: mortise and tenon joinery.

The components to be connected are shaped with interlocking concave and convex parts, allowing them to be assembled like a puzzle. As a result, the finished object requires no nails, fitting together seamlessly and remaining sturdy and stable.

But this technique demands immense skill from the woodworker. The creator must have a crystal-clear understanding of the object’s structure, a strong sense of spatial awareness, and a steady hand. For this reason, there are fewer than five people in all of Veridia who still possess this lost art, each a national treasure of a Craftsman, revered as honored guests in the high-society circles of Kingsford.

He never expected to find someone with such skills in this remote little town.

The man glanced at the girl and boy again, thinking that after his mission was complete, he absolutely had to find the person who made the little car.

***

In the smoky, blazing-hot back kitchen, Aurora Sinclair was deftly stir-frying vegetables in a large iron wok.

Many people bustled in and out, all of them carrying plates or clearing away used bowls and chopsticks.

Dirty dishes were casually placed in large iron basins on the floor, stacked high.

A young girl was squatting on the ground, grunting with effort as she washed the dirty plates and bowls.

Squatting beside her was a boy playing with a small wooden car.

“Senior Sister, someone just asked where Tiger got his little wooden car. They even wanted to buy it…”

“Mm…”

“I think this could be a real business, way more reliable than the jobs Master finds for us!”

The young girl looked up at Aurora Sinclair.

She was holding the large iron wok with one hand, portioning the vegetables onto several plates beside her.

Immediately, young women and wives came forward to take the plates out.

Her strength was immense, and the hand holding the wok was perfectly steady.

“Senior Sister, I really think we need to talk to Master. We can’t keep taking these tiring jobs that pay so little. I’ve washed my hands raw.”

The young girl pouted, holding up her foam-covered hands.

Aurora Sinclair set down the iron wok, grunted another “Mm,” and pulled a small, wide-mouthed medicine bottle from her pocket, tossing it to her.

The young girl’s eyes lit up. She delightedly caught it with both hands, wiped them on her apron, and carefully tucked the bottle away somewhere safe on her person.

This was an exclusive herbal ointment prepared by Apothecary Warner from across the way. It could heal wounds, whiten skin, and protect it. But Apothecary Warner and their master didn’t get along, and by extension, he didn’t care for them either.

Only their Senior Sister wasn’t afraid of him. Whenever they needed medicine, she would go straight to his shop and get it.

No matter how unhappy Apothecary Warner was, he would still give their Senior Sister a small bundle filled with all sorts of medicines every time.

She seriously suspected that Apothecary Warner had no choice but to yield to her Senior Sister’s martial might because he couldn’t beat her in a fight.

“Senior Sister, we could actually make good money selling Apothecary Warner’s ointment!”

“Absolutely not—”

The curtain to the back kitchen was pushed aside, and a slender, middle-aged man walked in.

He wore navy blue Daoist robes, a black crescent-moon cap on his head, and black boots on his feet, giving him the air of a sagely immortal.

The moment the young girl saw him, she stuck out her tongue and fell silent.

The man’s eyes widened, his mustache bristling. “Leigh Miles, are you trying to slack off again—”

“No way…”

The man had other things on his mind, so he didn’t press the issue with her. Instead, he turned to Aurora Sinclair with a wide smile. “Dawn Miles, my good disciple, go to the supermarket and buy two bottles of liquor for your master.”

Aurora Sinclair nodded, obediently set down her spatula, took the money the man handed her, and left the back kitchen.

The young girl glared at the man before her, thoroughly displeased. “Master, you’re tricking Senior Sister again! The money you gave her isn’t nearly enough for two bottles of liquor…”

“Hehehe… What fine weather we’re having today…”

***

Because it was a celebratory funeral, most of the villagers had gone to the front street for the banquet, leaving the alleys of the back street completely deserted.

Dean Morgan clutched his injured arm, leaning against the wall as he slowly retreated. Blood streamed down his clothes.

His face was pale, his eyes vigilant.

The masked assassins before him had all reached the Martial Master Level, and one of them was even his equal in strength.

Although his Combat Power had reached the Ninth Rank of a Great Martial Master, he couldn’t withstand a siege from so many martial masters.

’Looks like this is where I die!’

Just then, he suddenly heard light footsteps approaching from a distance.

His expression changed. Mustering strength from nowhere, he immediately roared behind him, “Stay back—”

Seizing the opportunity, a masked assassin lunged forward and plunged a dagger into him.

The intense pain caused the veins on his neck to bulge.

Gathering his strength, he threw a punch that knocked the advancing assassin back, then staggered against the wall and slowly slid down.

A splash of crimson stained the wall.

“Kill them!” the lead assassin ordered ruthlessly.

Two assassins quickly stepped over the now-defenseless Dean Morgan and ran toward the alley’s entrance.

His body was paralyzed. The dagger had been coated with Soft Muscle Powder.

He could only watch helplessly as they ran out of the alley to slaughter an innocent person.

Hearing a few agonized screams of “AHH—”, Dean Morgan closed his eyes, powerless.

Suddenly—

The lead assassin asked warily, “Who are you?”

His voice was tense, as if facing a formidable enemy.

Dean Morgan’s eyes snapped open.

Backlit, a petite figure slowly walked into the alley.

She was dragging two assassins by their legs, one in each hand, as if they were dead dogs. Her steps were light, and she showed no sign of strain.

The lead assassin tightened his grip on his dagger and rushed forward, but before he even got close, he was sent flying back by a single punch.

The speed was so fast that no one saw when she had struck.

The lead assassin clutched his chest and stumbled back five or six steps before steadying himself. He immediately coughed up a mouthful of blood, his legs gave out, and with a THUD, he collapsed to his knees and fainted.

Seeing this, the two remaining assassins were so frightened they scrambled backward, then turned to flee.

But before they could even reach the alley’s entrance, someone grabbed them by the collar and yanked them back.

There were two muffled grunts, and then silence.

Dean Morgan stared, dumbfounded. ’Is that even human speed?’

When she turned to look at him, he stammered for the first time in his life, “W-we’re… not together…”

“Mm…”

As she drew closer, Dean Morgan finally got a clear look at her. It was a young girl.

She was very beautiful, with slender, willow-leaf eyebrows and phoenix eyes that tilted up slightly at the corners. But her gaze was overly cold, showing neither joy nor sorrow—just a placid, pristine clarity.

His throat tightened, and his Adam’s apple bobbed.

“Could you… make a phone call… for me?”

***

About ten-odd minutes later, the sound of urgent footsteps finally echoed from the alley’s entrance again.

“Master Dixon, are you alright?”

A group of people rushed into the alley.

Dean Morgan’s wounds had been crudely bandaged. Across from him sat the five masked assassins who had been hunting him, cross-legged and absurdly well-behaved.

The group was filled with awe and respect.

What they had heard over the phone was nothing compared to the shocking sight before them.

One of the stern-looking men in black carefully glanced at the girl squatting beside Dean Morgan, who had gone almost unnoticed. He forced a smile and said very politely, “Miss, our master would like to thank you in person. He’s just outside the alley…”

Aurora Sinclair thought for a moment, nodded, and slowly stood up.

Only then did the man in black notice her attire: a baggy tracksuit, white on top and black on the bottom, with a floral-print apron tied around her slender neck.

The apron’s hem reached her calves, and it had two large pockets, each holding a bottle of strong white liquor.

’This… Is she… a chef?’

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