Chapter 24: Steamed buns

Facing this Tomato Sauce, no one dared to pick up their chopsticks.

The dumplings were steaming, and the dipping dishes were set aside, filled with a bright red, thick liquid. The metallic, sweet scent hit them squarely in the face.

The Head Chef’s expression darkened.

“Why aren’t you eating yet? Are you dissatisfied with my cooking?”

Everyone shook their heads frantically, yet not a single person dared to reach out with their chopsticks.

“The dumplings will get cold in a moment.”

The Head Chef’s voice was slow and casual, as if he were merely making idle conversation.

“If you don’t eat now, you’ll never be able to eat such delicious food again.”

As he spoke, a smile spread across his face.

That smile held no warmth, and his gaze slowly swept over everyone present.

Eat, or die.

Just one look at the contents of those dipping dishes was enough to make one’s stomach churn.

This thing was a Weirdness through and through; eating it would likely result in death as well.

It was a dilemma.

The steamed dumplings were still emitting their last wisps of steam.

Outside, it was freezing cold, and the steam dissipated quickly.

Once the dumplings were completely cold, they probably wouldn’t ever have to worry about eating again.

White Night’s heart tightened at the Head Chef’s words.

Time was running out.

Her Perception quickly scanned the Black and White Photos on the wall. She went through them one by one, not missing a single corner.

Then, her gaze stopped.

In the most remote, shadowy corner of the Main Hall, an inconspicuous photo was hanging.

The frame was worn, the edges of the photo were damaged and yellowed, and the image was so blurry it was almost illegible.

If one wasn’t looking for it intentionally, its existence would go unnoticed.

But White Night saw it.

The photo showed a young boy.

Wearing an old, faded apron, he stood before a kneading board piled with flour, his hands busy wrapping buns. Flour was smeared across his face and hands, yet the boy’s eyes were curved in a smile — a look of genuine happiness.

White Night stared at that face, then looked at the hunched, gloomy Head Chef not far away.

The facial features matched.

That boy was the Head Chef in his youth.

An idea suddenly popped into her head.

“Little White Night?”

Su Shuang’er’s voice was very low. Her palm was pressed against the bicycle seat, her thumb nervously rubbing back and forth.

White Night could feel that her body temperature was hotter than usual — a sign of tension and anxiety.

“It looks like we have to prepare to fight for our lives,” Su Shuang’er said in a low voice, her fists clenched tight.

“Yeah, this damn thing isn’t giving us a way out,” Mu Yingying added quietly. Her other hand secretly gripped the Steel Pipe leaning against the table, her fingertips tightening as she prepared to act at any moment.

Even though she spoke discouraging words, the hand holding the Steel Pipe was steady, and her body leaned forward slightly, shielding White Night.

‘Auntie Frost, Auntie Ying, don’t be impulsive yet,’ White Night quickly spoke into their minds.

‘I’ve thought of a way. Let me try.’

Su Shuang’er blinked. Her clenched fists didn’t relax, but her movements paused.

Mu Yingying also tilted her head slightly. Her hand remained on the Steel Pipe beneath the table without moving as she lowered her voice.

“Then hurry up. Your auntie’s Steel Pipe is already thirsty for blood.”

Su Shuang’er’s eyelid twitched at those words. She turned back to glare at her and hissed, “Damn Mu Yingying, if you don’t stay serious, believe it or not, I’ll punch you to death.”

Mu Yingying shrank her neck and muttered softly, “I meant we’re about to fight for our lives…”

The dumplings were almost cold; there was no time to explain.

No longer hiding her voice, she spoke directly to the Head Chef.

“This stuff you’ve made isn’t fit for human consumption.”

The voice was clear and bright, coming from the direction of the Rusty Bicycle, sounding exceptionally abrupt in the deathly silent Main Hall.

The others present couldn’t hear her, but the Head Chef did.

He slowly turned his head, his dark gaze landing on White Night.

A few seconds of silence passed.

“The way you’re dressed… it’s very similar to my Junior Sister,” the Head Chef said, his tone turning somber as he spoke each word deliberately.

“But you don’t look like her at all. Don’t think you can act presumptuously in front of me just because you’re dressed like her.”

He took a step forward, and the temperature of the surrounding air plummeted.

“Believe it or not, if you say one more word, I’ll turn you into a dish.”

Su Shuang’er’s body tensed instantly, her fists creaking.

Mu Yingying’s Steel Pipe was also quietly lifted from beneath the table.

Both women prepared to move almost simultaneously.

But the Head Chef didn’t actually strike.

He stared at White Night for a while, the killing intent in his eyes slowly receding a fraction.

He truly did have deep feelings for that Junior Sister, making him unable to commit to the kill for the time being.

“Now, while I’m in a good mood, get out.” The Head Chef waved his hand impatiently.

White Night’s heart leaped.

Get out? He was letting her leave?

“Can I take them with me?” White Night blurted out.

“No.” The Head Chef rejected her without a second thought. “If you’re going to get out, do it alone, and do it now.”

White Night fell silent.

Only she could leave. Su Shuang’er and Mu Yingying couldn’t.

Her Perception instinctively scanned to her sides.

Su Shuang’er’s hand was still against the bike seat, the warmth of her palm coming through steadily.

Mu Yingying’s hand was still pressed against the rear rack of the bike. Although the placement was as inappropriate as ever, the knuckles of the hand holding the Steel Pipe were white as she prepared to take a blow for her.

“Maybe you should go first, White Night. We’ll think of something else,” Su Shuang’er said.

“Yeah, if one can get out, one should go,” Mu Yingying agreed.

White Night never intended to abandon them. She shook her head at the two aunties, giving them a reassuring look.

She took a deep breath.

“I’m not leaving.”

The Head Chef frowned.

“Furthermore, I’m not taking back what I just said.”

White Night stared into the Head Chef’s dark eyes, her voice steadier than before.

“This food isn’t fit for humans, especially those dumplings.”

She paused.

“How could anyone eat dumplings with Tomato Sauce?”

As soon as these words left her mouth, White Night was scared to death. She watched the Head Chef uneasily.

The Head Chef’s reaction was beyond her expectations.

He didn’t erupt in rage, nor did he lash out to kill.

He simply froze in place, his gaze suddenly becoming dazed.

“That’s true… how could anyone eat dumplings with Tomato Sauce?”

He muttered White Night’s words back to himself. There was no anger in his tone; instead, he seemed lost in a distant memory.

A second later, his expression became twisted and pained. His aura fluctuated violently, causing the bowls and dishes on the tables to clatter.

A terrifying killing intent exploded from him.

White Night’s heart jolted as an immense pressure bore down on her like a collapsing sky.

She didn’t understand.

Those words sounded perfectly normal. Why would they trigger such a massive reaction from the Head Chef?

Su Shuang’er was already halfway out of her seat, her fists ready as she firmly blocked the path to White Night.

Mu Yingying had also raised her Steel Pipe, her lips pressed into a thin line. For once, she didn’t have a single inappropriate comment.

But in the end, the Head Chef did not move.

The violent aura came quickly and left just as fast, as if forced down by something.

His breathing gradually leveled out.

When he looked at White Night again, his gaze had changed. It was no longer filled with gloom and killing intent, but an indescribable complexity — like he was looking at someone who both annoyed him and left him helpless.

“…In that case, what exactly do you want?”

The Head Chef’s voice was much lower than before, and a hint of exhaustion lingered in his raspy tone.

“You won’t leave, and you won’t eat. What is it you’re after?”

Hearing this tone, the weight in White Night’s heart finally lifted.

It was working.

“I want to eat normal food.”

Her tone was serious as she enunciated each word clearly.

“Real, normal food that can actually fill a stomach, not this chaotic mess.”

“And what would you like to eat?”

“Meat Buns.”

White Night didn’t hesitate for a second. “I want to eat Meat Buns.”

Meat Buns.

The moment those two words landed, it was as if the Head Chef had been struck by something.

His expression froze.

It wasn’t anger or killing intent, but something far deeper.

Within those sunken eyes, the dark light suddenly wavered.

He remained silent for a long time.

The Main Hall was so quiet that a falling needle could be heard.

Su Shuang’er and Mu Yingying’s bodies were taut; neither dared to make a sound, fearing they might break this delicate balance.

Finally, under White Night’s anxious gaze, the Head Chef slowly nodded.

“Fine.”

Just one word.

“I’ll make you Meat Buns.”

He turned around, his hunched figure retreating back into the Transparent Kitchen.

As the glass door closed, the oppressive atmosphere in the Main Hall dissipated slightly.

However, the Pork and Cabbage Steamed Dumplings and the blood-colored Tomato Sauce, which were rapidly losing heat on the table, still left them feeling stifled and uneasy.

“Phew — “

Mu Yingying let out a long breath. The Steel Pipe slipped from her hand to lean against a table leg as she slumped against the back of her chair.

“Good lord, I thought we were done for.”

She raised a hand to wipe the cold sweat from her forehead, her other hand naturally resting on the back rack of the bicycle.

“…Auntie Ying, your hand is covered in sweat from holding that Steel Pipe. Can you stop touching my butt?” White Night said.

Mu Yingying ignored her and gave it another pat.

“We just survived a brush with death! Let your auntie touch it a bit to calm her nerves.”

Su Shuang’er turned her head and raised a fist, staring at Mu Yingying without a word.

Mu Yingying’s hand silently retracted.

“…I’ll wipe my hand clean before I touch it again.”

“Damn Mu Yingying, if you keep groping around, I’ll punch you to death,” Su Shuang’er said.

Mu Yingying instantly behaved herself, crossing her arms and sitting up straight.

At that moment, the scene inside the Transparent Kitchen caught her attention.

It caught everyone’s attention.

The Head Chef stood before the kneading board.

He had removed his gloves, which were covered in blood scabs, revealing hands blanketed in scars and calluses.

He scooped flour from a bin, added water, and began to knead the dough.

He was incredibly focused during every step, a completely different person from the one who had been preparing those dark dishes earlier.

White Night didn’t quite understand the methods he used to make the dough rise so quickly, only seeing that it doubled in size in just a few minutes.

Then came the rolling, the filling, and the wrapping.

The Head Chef’s fingers pinched uniform pleats into the dough. His speed wasn’t fast, but every bun was identical in shape — plump and perfectly round.

Through the glass wall, White Night noticed a detail.

While wrapping the buns, the expression on the Head Chef’s face had changed. He had become peaceful, one might even say gentle. He looked exactly like the young boy in the worn photo in the corner.

Simple dough, simple skill.

The steamer was placed on the stove.

Wisps of white steam began to drift out from the gaps in the bamboo steamer basket.

During this time, because the Head Chef was buried in his work, he paid no mind to the people in the Main Hall who had yet to pick up their chopsticks.

Those dumplings had gone completely cold, and the red dipping sauce had begun to congeal and darken.

Every survivor sat frozen in their seats, not daring to eat, move, or even breathe too loudly.

About ten minutes passed.

The door to the Transparent Kitchen pushed open once again.

The Head Chef himself emerged, carrying a bamboo steamer.

It wasn’t large — just one tray, exactly enough for three people.

He walked straight to White Night’s table and set the steamer down.

He lifted the lid.

A cloud of hot, white steam billowed out, carrying a rich aroma.

Six plump, white Meat Buns were arranged in the basket. The dough was smooth and full, and the pleats were beautifully pinched.

There was no foul stench, no strange smell.

They were just piping hot Meat Buns.

Normal food.

The Head Chef stood by the table, looking down at the tray of buns, and then quietly watched White Night.

“The buns you wanted are ready. Try them.”