Even a fool could tell this person was off.
The Head Chef, of course, was no fool.
But a guest was a guest, and the more suspicious someone was, the less reason he could give them to cause trouble. He suppressed the unease in his heart, his expression remaining steady and polite.
“Guest, since you are hungry, what would you like to eat?”
“Dumplings.”
The Grisly Figure tilted his head, the two glimmers of green light within his deep eye sockets staring at the Head Chef. “I heard your Pork and Cabbage Steamed Dumplings are superb. Give me ten tables worth.”
‘Ten tables.’
The Head Chef’s fingers stiffened slightly. One table of steamed dumplings was at least ten steamers, so ten tables meant 100 steamers. A normal person would be stuffed after three, so this was not an amount a human could consume.
However, there were many talented and eccentric people in the world; perhaps he truly was a glutton. The Head Chef comforted himself with this thought while becoming even more certain that he could not afford to offend the man before him.
“Of course, Guest. Please wait a moment while I prepare them.” The Head Chef bowed respectfully.
“Make it quick,” the Grisly Figure’s raspy, ear-piercing voice squeezed out from deep in his throat. “I’m too hungry.”
“Of course, Guest. It will be out as soon as possible.” The Head Chef nodded and turned to walk quickly back to the kitchen.
Behind him, the Grisly Figure watched his retreating back and split his mouth open in a smile.
In the kitchen, the Head Chef worked with absolute focus.
Aside from buns, dumplings were his specialty.
He prepared the dough, kneaded it, and mixed the filling.
He minced green onions, pureed the pork, and shredded the cabbage, squeezing out the excess moisture before adding salt, soy sauce, and sesame oil, mixing it all together spoon by spoon.
His knife work was clean and his movements were swift, yet he performed every step with meticulous care.
He rolled the skins, filled them, pinched the pleats, and placed them in the steamers.
He brought the water to a boil over a high flame as steam surged upward. He timed the heat to the exact second.
“Senior Brother, the first batch is ready. Take them out.” The Head Chef pushed the first round of steamed dumplings to the serving window.
Senior Brother had already seen that the Grisly Figure was not ordinary.
Lacking his usual playful energy, he took the steamers and walked out in silence, carefully arranging them on the table one by one.
The Grisly Figure ate neither fast nor slow.
He picked up a dumpling with his chopsticks, put it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.
His movements were mechanical, and his speed was frighteningly consistent, without a single pause.
After finishing one steamer, he moved to the second.
After the second, the third. Senior Brother’s serving speed exactly matched the man’s eating speed.
One table was cleared.
Then two tables were cleared.
Yet that shriveled, skin-and-bones belly showed no change—it didn’t bulge or bloat.
The Head Chef’s forehead was drenched in sweat.
To maintain the speed without sacrificing quality, he handled everything personally. The heat from the stove left him soaked.
“Should we call Junior Sister down to help?” Senior Brother asked as he returned with empty steamers, glancing at the sweat-covered Head Chef.
“Don’t,” the Head Chef replied without looking up, his hands never stopping as he rolled the dough.
“This person is too strange. Let Junior Sister sleep a bit longer. She was exhausted from our outing yesterday.”
“You really do spoil her.” Senior Brother smiled and shook his head, picking up another stack of steamers to head back out.
Five tables.
The Grisly Figure had eaten five tables of dumplings and showed no sign of stopping. Senior Brother was about to place another steamer on the table.
“Wait.” The raspy voice sounded from behind him.
Senior Brother froze, then forced a smile as he turned around. “Guest, do you need something?”
“One must have a dipping sauce to eat dumplings.” The Grisly Figure tilted his head and tapped the dish of aged vinegar on the table with his chopsticks. “I’m not quite used to this sauce. I came from the West, so I’m more accustomed to Western flavors.” He paused, his eerie green eyes staring at Senior Brother. “Bring me some Tomato Sauce to dip my dumplings in.”
“Tomato Sauce?” Senior Brother was stunned.
He was well-traveled, so he naturally knew what Tomato Sauce was.
But in his 30 years of life, this was the first time he had heard of dipping dumplings in it.
The problem was that they were a Chinese restaurant. The decor was a bit Western, but the food was strictly Chinese. They served dumplings with high-quality aged vinegar. Where would they get Tomato Sauce?
“Guest, I’m terribly sorry, but we don’t have Tomato Sauce in the shop. If you would wait a moment, I can go buy some. There’s a condiment shop just one street away. If I run, I’ll be back in the time it takes to drink a cup of tea.”
“Then go,” the Grisly Figure waved dismissively.
Senior Brother breathed a sigh of relief and walked quickly toward the main door.
He reached out to push it open. The door didn’t budge.
It wasn’t bolted, and it had been wide open just moments ago.
Senior Brother froze for a second, then pulled with more force. It wouldn’t move.
He tried pushing again. Still nothing.
His smile froze on his face, and sweat suddenly broke out on his forehead.
The window.
He turned to try the windows.
The first one wouldn’t open.
The second one wouldn’t open. He tried the back door, but it wouldn’t open either.
Every exit leading outside felt as though it had been welded shut.
Senior Brother’s face turned pale.
Behind him, that raspy, ear-piercing voice drifted over lightly, laced with amusement. “It seems you can’t get out.”
Senior Brother stood frozen, slowly turning his head. Across the Main Hall, the Grisly Figure sat there, head tilted, watching him.
“If you can’t get out, you can’t buy me Tomato Sauce. Your hotel serves decent dumplings, but without the right dipping sauce, I’m not very satisfied.”
Despite the distance, the voice sounded as clear and sharp as if it were whispered right into his ear.
By then, the Head Chef had also come out of the kitchen.
When Senior Brother didn’t return for more dumplings, he knew something was wrong.
He placed the final steamer on the table, glancing at his pale-faced brother and then at the smiling Grisly Figure.
Anger surged in his heart, but he forced it back down.
This person was clearly here to cause trouble.
But the man’s methods were weird, and the Chef had no way to fight back.
“Guest,” the Head Chef took a deep breath, keeping his tone as steady as possible.
“If we have offended you in any way, please be patient with us. Tell us whatever you require, and we will do our best to provide it.”
“I just want Tomato Sauce,” the Grisly Figure said as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“If you can’t provide it, I’ll have to make it myself. My skills aren’t actually that bad.”
A chill ran down the Head Chef’s spine.
“Please wait, Guest. I will make it.” He didn’t dare let this monster “make it himself.” Who knew what he would create? A dark suspicion was already forming in the Chef’s mind.
The Head Chef returned to the kitchen and began making Tomato Sauce from scratch.
He chopped the tomatoes, boiled them down, added sugar for seasoning, and filtered out the pulp.
Authentic Tomato Sauce required a long time to settle and ferment to achieve that rich flavor; a version rushed in a short time would always lack that certain something.
But this was the limit of what he could do.
The Head Chef personally brought a dish of Tomato Sauce to the table.
The Grisly Figure picked up a dumpling, dipped it, and put it in his mouth.
He chewed twice.
Then, with a smile, he slowly shook his head.
That smile chilled the Head Chef from head to toe.
“It won’t do.” The Grisly Figure set down his chopsticks, dipped a fingertip into the sauce, and licked it with the tip of his tongue. His light words felt like a death sentence to the Chef.
“This isn’t the right flavor. This isn’t the Tomato Sauce I want. The flavor of something made so quickly isn’t right.” He sighed, looking deeply disappointed.
“I really must make it myself after all.”
“Give me another chance!” the Head Chef blurted out, his voice urgent.
“I can improve it. Give me one more chance, and I’ll definitely make a flavor that satisfies you.”
The Grisly Figure looked at him, his sunken green eyes devoid of any sympathy.
“A hotel with Western decor that can’t provide delicious Tomato Sauce… I’m very disappointed.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it was grating and unpleasant. “I am very hungry now. I need to eat Tomato Sauce immediately. I will make it myself.”
Before he finished speaking, his mouth began to deform.
The corners of his lips tore open toward his ears.
It was an expression no human could make.
Jagged, sharp fangs pushed out from his gums one by one, crowded together and covered in viscous saliva.
His withered hands were changing, too.
His nails grew explosively, curving into pitch-black claws.
His knuckles cracked and popped, and something throbbed beneath his skin, trying to burst out.
A Weirdness. It really was a Weirdness. All hope vanished.
“Run!” Senior Brother grabbed the stunned Head Chef and bolted.
The two fled for their lives, rushing toward the stairs to the second floor.
Behind them, the Grisly Figure didn’t chase. He stood up from his chair and began to walk at a leisurely pace, following them slowly.
His footsteps were very light. One after another.
Yet in this deathly silent hotel, those almost inaudible footsteps drowned out the sound of the two men’s frantic running, each step pounding against their hearts.
The remaining memories became fragmented and chaotic.
The images were shattered and incomplete.
There was Master’s scream.
Senior Brother’s roar.
And the terrified wailing of Junior Sister as she ran down from the second floor.
Then came the blood. There was blood everywhere.
The monster tore his family apart right in front of him, splashing blood across the Head Chef’s face. Master was old and couldn’t run; he was the first to be caught.
Senior Brother lunged forward to stop it but was swatted away by a claw.
His head struck the wall, and blood began to trickle down the surface.
Junior Sister hid trembling behind the counter, only to be dragged out by sharp claws.
The Head Chef could do nothing.
He was pinned to the floor under the monster’s foot, his ribs creaking under the pressure.
He struggled desperately, his fingers clawing into the gaps between the floor tiles until his nails peeled back, leaving the floor smeared with blood.
He couldn’t move.
Not even an inch. He could only watch.
He watched as the monster took the blood of his Master, his Senior Brother, and his Junior Sister and mixed it into the pot of Tomato Sauce he had just made.
It stirred the mixture.
The thick, crimson liquid gave off the scent of rust and sweet blood.
The monster scooped up a spoonful, dipped a dumpling into it, and placed it into that mouth which stretched back to its ears.
It chewed.
“Mmm, this is the right flavor.” It began to laugh.
“The dumplings are finished, but I’m still hungry. So hungry. But at least there’s Tomato Sauce and my delicious family.”
The monster let out a wild laugh.
The Head Chef’s pupils contracted violently.
He opened his mouth to scream, but only a raspy wheeze came from his throat.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t scream; even his vocal cords were trembling. Every negative emotion swirled within his chest, yet he couldn’t shed a single tear.
If only he hadn’t opened this Western-style hotel. If only he hadn’t honed his skills to such a high level. Then Master wouldn’t have died that day. Senior Brother wouldn’t have died. Junior Sister wouldn’t have died.
At this point, the memory was abruptly cut off.
The images vanished, but the feeling of suffocation remained.
The nauseatingly thick scent of blood still flooded everyone’s nostrils, wrapped in emotions of regret and despair.
An invisible force gripped the throats of everyone present.
It was difficult to breathe. It wasn’t just a description; they were truly suffocating.
Everyone’s faces turned red, their mouths hanging open as they desperately tried to inhale, but they could take in nothing, as if they were drowning.
The air in their lungs was thinning.
How many seconds could a person survive without breathing? 30 seconds to lose consciousness, 60 seconds for brain damage, and over 3 minutes for irreversible death.
White Night didn’t need to breathe.
However, she could still feel the crushing pressure of approaching death.
It wasn’t suffocation; it was that the Head Chef’s pain and despair were too thick—so thick that even a soul couldn’t bear it.
The Black Bowknot clutched in her hand was flashing violently.
The pitch-black light flickered faster and faster.
It was warning her. If the Head Chef couldn’t overcome this hurdle, everyone drowned in his memories would die with him.
That included Auntie Frost. And Auntie Ying.
White Night gripped the Black Bowknot tightly, looking at her two aunts in a panic.
Both aunts had their own abilities, so they were in much better shape than the others.
They even opened their eyes to look at her with concern. However, the grip on their throats prevented them from speaking.
White Night watched them nervously, her heart racing. If the two aunts couldn’t hold on, she would use the bowknot immediately.