Passable Cooking

Xiu Fu didn’t want to go.

After witnessing their brutality, who knew if going meant losing her life?

The fresh bloodstains hadn’t even dried—was it her turn now?

She trembled, wanting to speak but unable to.

Su Qing stood firm in front of her, refusing to yield.

She wouldn’t let Xiu Fu go alone.

If there was no choice, she’d go with her.

Having died once, if not for Xiu Fu, she might’ve died again in Little Shu Village.

Together, they could figure something out.

Tang Jiu was in a bind, and Su Qing knew it.

He couldn’t overpower the Qi Clan.

Tang Jiu knew it too, insisting, “These two girls are my benefactors. Without a reason, I won’t let them go.”

Su Qing noticed Tang Jiu might be frail—sweat beaded on his forehead.

Qi Libei wouldn’t explain.

He sneered, hand on his sword hilt, as if ready to act.

Su Qing didn’t want violence—they’d surely lose and take a beating.

Looking at Qi Libei, she said loudly, “Swear you won’t harm our lives! And no insulting our dignity!”

Qi Libei’s expression flickered oddly. “You’re not scared.”

He tilted his head. “We’re not evil cultivators. Why would we harm you?”

As for dignity? He ignored that—mortals were ants to cultivators, hardly possessing dignity.

Su Qing, relieved he’d promised no harm, exhaled.

Xiu Fu pushed her, shaking her head. “No.”

She’d go alone.

Terrified but with a shred of courage, she didn’t want to drag others down.

Su Qing ignored her, turning to Tang Jiu about Zhu Xing’er. “Please take care of this little sister.”

Tang Jiu gave a bitter smile, promising solemnly, “Of course.”

Zhu Xing’er refused, driven by a hidden longing. “I’m going with you!”

Su Qing, surprised by her loyalty, said, “What’s there to go for? You’re safer with Tang Jiu.”

Tang Yu muttered, “Are you daft?”

Zhu Xing’er glared, insisting, “I’m going!”

Qi Libei, already short-tempered, snapped, “If you want to come, then come. Follow me.”

Su Qing wanted to knock some sense into Zhu Xing’er!

The Qi Clan moved faster and ahead of them.

Su Qing wondered why they kept crossing paths with Qi Libei.

What cursed fate was this?

When Qi Libei led them, huffing and puffing, to the Qi Clan’s camp, she understood.

They were cooking.

Among their own, the white-robed youths showed a spark of age-appropriate liveliness, bickering over smoky firewood.

“Fruit again? Three days of fruit—my stomach’s sour.”

“I caught a pheasant. Can you cook it?”

“Why wouldn’t I? You’re the one who didn’t eat it!”

“Because it was charcoal, sister. Try my bird eggs—some meaty flavor.”

“Can you roast eggs?”

“Don’t. Last time they exploded.”

“Then boil them.”

“Boiled eggs are so fishy. How do you eat that? Are you a pig?”

“This won’t do, that won’t do—what now?”

“Stop arguing. I’m starving. Back to fruit, I guess.”

“But we’ve eaten fruit for days. We can’t let Daozi keep eating fruit!”

Su Qing’s group arrived to this scene.

Damp firewood smoked, barely burning.

An iron pot sat over it, a half-dead pheasant flapping weakly in lukewarm water.

The water sloshed, dousing the fire with pitiful sizzles.

A tragic sight.

A white-robed girl asked, “Qi Libei, you’re back from hunting. Why bring these three? Where’s the game?”

“Right here,” Qi Libei said smugly. “I brought cooks.”

The girl, Qi Liwei, eyed the dusty trio skeptically. “You sure they can cook? They look like they’re starving.”

“Try and see.”

Fine, try then.

If they were just needed for cooking, that was bearable.

Su Qing’s group washed their hands and faces by the river and got to work.

Su Qing could cook—she loved cooking videos and picked up tricks.

She couldn’t show off at Xiu Fu’s home due to scarce resources; modern recipes were too wasteful.

But here, with ample firewood and food, she didn’t care about waste—sleeves up, she dove in.

She grabbed the half-dead pheasant, pulling it out.

It struggled weakly, splashing her face with wet wings.

Though nearly dead, she’d never killed a chicken.

She told Qi Libei to do it.

He was incredulous. “My sword? For a chicken?”

Su Qing, disliking him but less afraid—fear dulled by repetition—knew they’d be safe until the meal was deemed inedible.

She said flatly, “Will you eat or not?”

Qi Libei was speechless.

The chicken met its end under his sword.

Zhu Xing’er was tasked with picking and washing vegetables, Xiu Fu with tending the fire.

Who’d scald and pluck the chicken?

Su Qing looked at Qi Libei.

He looked ready to slice her.

But he’d brought them and boasted, needing to prove himself before Qi Liwei’s skeptical gaze.

Su Qing wasn’t making trouble—she couldn’t handle sixteen people alone, with eight chickens awaiting plucking.

Qi Libei pulled two lackeys from the onlookers, threatening Su Qing darkly, “If it’s bad, I’ll cook you.”

Su Qing thought: You’ve eaten fruit for three days—how bad can meat be?

She’d found wild fruits for seasoning—it couldn’t be bad.

The cleaned chickens, minus innards, necks, and tails, were chopped and boiled.

The first pot of water, with wild onions and ginger, drew out impurities and blood, removing the gamey taste.

The second pot made soup, with bamboo shoots, wild greens, and mushrooms added near the end, seasoned with salt.

No fancy technique, but the soup was clear, the chicken tender, the vegetables crisp—richly fragrant.

Su Qing made a tangy-salty fruit sauce for heavier tastes, perfect for dipping.

The main course was handled by Xiu Fu, with the Qi Clan digging up root tubers—mountain roots, like a potato-sweet potato hybrid.

Raw, they numbed the mouth; cooked, they were sweet, starchy, and filling.

Xiu Fu buried them by the fire’s edge, ready when the chicken was.

The meal was done, ready to eat.

The aroma wafted miles, the Qi Clan’s stomachs growling in chorus.

They were prodigies but too young for fasting.

At home, they ate refined dishes, never knowing hunger.

In Tianxia Sword Mountain, without spiritual energy or storage bags, they relied on sword qi to hunt fruits, pheasants, rabbits, and boars.

But catching game was one thing—cooking it was another.

The Qi Clan lacked a single cook, surviving on raw, natural fare, missing proper meals.

Qi Libei salivated at the scent but kept a disdainful front. “You eat first.”

Qi Lifeng served three portions to Su Qing, Xiu Fu, and Zhu Xing’er.

They were checking for poison.

Fine, she was hungry anyway.

Su Qing peeled a blackened mountain root, biting into the steaming, yellow flesh—sweet, starchy, satisfying.

Before swallowing, she picked up a piece of chicken, dipped it in sauce, and popped it in.

The tender chicken and tangy-salty sauce sparked her appetite.

She ate voraciously.

Test her for poison? She’d eat it all!

After the meal and soup, her stomach bulged.

She was proud of her cooking.

Even she, used to cold water and dry rations, hadn’t eaten this well in ages.

Xiu Fu started daintily but soon shoveled food, ready to die full.

Qi Libei, impatient, waited a quarter-hour.

Qi Lifeng checked the trio, confirmed no issues, and began serving.

The best portion was reserved for Daozi.

Zhu Xing’er asked, “Do we deliver it?”

“No need,” Qi Lifeng declined politely.

He’d watched them cook—let them near Daozi? No way.

The Qi Clan ate in shifts, cautious.

Su Qing itched at their wariness.

But their appetite amazed her.

They were starving—the food vanished, not a drop of soup left.

The Qi Clan felt a twinge of shame but hid it behind cold masks, saying, “It’s passable. You can stay.”

As if Su Qing begged to stay.

But cooking might keep them safe, right?

She loathed their attitude—no desire to be anyone’s servant.

Unable to escape, she forced herself to see the upside.

Traveling with them had perks.

Tied to the strongest force, safety wasn’t an issue anymore, was it?

Soon, she realized how naive that was.