Chapter 28: The Chef’s Revolving Lantern, Chess in a Bloodbath

White Night’s nerves were taut for her two Aunties, the eerie light of the Butterfly Knot flickering in her palm.

Across the ruins, the Head Chef was still holding on.

Bloody tears streamed from his dark, hollow eyes. The thick, dark red liquid flowed down his cheekbones and dripped onto the rubble. The blood-soaked boulder pressed down on him so hard he could barely breathe, his spine bending under the weight.

His bones creaked, and the muscles in his arms throbbed violently beneath his skin. His body trembled, his teeth gnashing together with a grinding sound. Yet, that stone was like a mountain, pinning him down firmly, refusing to budge.

The excessive overexertion caused his mind to wander. His vision began to blur, and the ruins and blood mist before him merged into a murky, dark haze. Then, within that murkiness, he saw someone.

“You brat, don’t just lie there on the ground!” A voice rang out, aged but full of vigor. “Hurry up and get up to eat some buns!”

The Head Chef froze.

In his blurred vision, a white-haired old man stood before him. One of his hands held a steaming hot bun, while the other reached out toward him. The old man’s wrinkled face wore a smile that was a mix of exasperation and heartache.

“Mas… ter?” The Head Chef’s voice squeezed out of his throat, so raspy it was almost inaudible.

The hands that had been braced against the ground involuntarily lifted, reaching tremulously toward the void. The memory of his Master grew clearer and clearer.

Behind his Master, a little girl with two braided pigtails followed, peeking out from behind him. There was also his Senior Brother, leaning against a doorframe, arms crossed as he looked at him with a grin.

Further back was the small shop from the deepest part of his memories.

The Chenji Steamed Bun Shop.

It had a simple wooden sign with crooked calligraphy. A large steamer was set up by the entrance, with wisps of white steam drifting through the gaps in the lid.

The lantern of memory rotated, and the scene changed.

“Kid, do you have a name?” That was what the old man had asked him, crouching down, when they first met.

He had lied. “I do.”

In reality, he had no name, and never had one.

“I’m called Baozi,” he said seriously.

It was because he thought steamed buns were delicious. His greatest dream at the time was to eat steamed buns for a lifetime, so he named himself Baozi.

The old man had been taken aback for a moment, then laughed. “Baozi, Baozi… simple and plain, it’s a good name. Fine, from now on your surname will be Chen, and you’ll be called Chen Baozi. You’ll be my apprentice, how about it?”

He had nodded frantically.

The lantern continued to spin.

“Senior Brother, stop making buns! Come out and play with me!”

“Junior Sister, let me finish this batch first.” He gave an apologetic smile, his hands continuing to knead the dough.

The Junior Sister puffed out her cheeks in annoyance, tossed her two braids, and turned to run away. That adorable sight was deeply etched into his memory.

The scene changed again.

“Junior Brother, do you like our Junior Sister?” His Senior Brother leaned in with a gossiping look, nudging him with an elbow.

He blanked for a moment, then gave a simple, honest smile and nodded firmly. Behind the corner of the wall, the eavesdropping Junior Sister pulled back with a flushed face, her cheeks bright red and her heart thumping.

The images flowed.

“You brat, I have nothing left to teach you.” That day, his Master had called him over, setting aside his usual joking manner. “Your culinary skills are at the genius level. I’ve taken in a good disciple.”

Though he still called him a brat, the smile on the old man’s wrinkled face couldn’t be hidden, his eyes narrowing into slits. That pride and satisfaction were one hundred percent genuine, without a hint of falsehood.

The scenes shifted constantly, the lantern of memory spinning faster and faster. Every single incident that had happened in that simple bun shop — he remembered them all clearly.

He had grown up there and learned his craft there. He had his Master calling him a brat, his Senior Brother gossiping with him, and his Junior Sister stamping her feet with puffed-out cheeks. The memories were as clear as if they had happened yesterday.

The Head Chef’s blood-stained mouth involuntarily curled upward. However, the bloody tears in his eyes surged even more violently. Beads of blood dripped onto the ground, blooming into dark red flowers.

Just then, an image materialized in the void before him.

The Chenji Steamed Bun Shop.

That simple, dilapidated shop, filled with all his happy memories, appeared in mid-air as a phantom. It radiated a soft, warm light. It wasn’t blinding or scorching. The glow was like the steam rising from a steamer on a winter stove, or the first ray of morning sunlight shining into the shop.

The warm light fell on the Head Chef’s face, onto that face distorted by pain and bloody tears. A warm power followed the light, pouring into his body which was on the verge of losing its vitality, igniting the sparks of recovery.

The Head Chef looked at the phantom of the bun shop with his blood-teared eyes and smiled. He bared his teeth, revealing a set of blood-stained white teeth. This smile completely overlapped with the youth in the photo on the corner wall, the one kneading dough at the cutting board.

He was still that youth who preserved his original heart.

He braced his hands against the ground again. Inch by inch, he slowly applied force. The massive black stone made his bones creak, and every inch he pushed up felt like he was fighting the weight of an entire mountain range.

But he didn’t stop.

One inch, two inches, three inches.

His knees left the ground. His back straightened bit by bit.

The Head Chef, bearing that mountain-like black boulder, stood up.

The bloody scent that blanketed the area began to dissipate, and the suffocating feeling that had gripped everyone’s throats receded like a tide. Air rushed back into everyone’s lungs.

When people opened their eyes, they saw the Head Chef standing amidst the ruins. His face was covered in bloody tears, his back was hunched, and a massive black stone sat atop him.

He was smiling. He laughed foolishly, like an idiot.

The phantom of the Chenji Steamed Bun Shop emitted a final wave of warm light, washing over everyone present and dispelling the chill and discomfort in their bodies. Then, the phantom turned into a streak of light, slowly sinking into the Head Chef’s brow and vanishing.

Everything returned to tranquility.

The Head Chef stood in the ruins. The massive black stone still weighed him down like an inescapable shackle, like a giant, deformed tumor growing out of his spine. He couldn’t shake it off, nor could he set it down. The heavy pressure forced him to hunch his back like an old man who could never stand straight.

But he was standing. Something was supporting him, ensuring that even under such pressure, he would never fall again.

The Head Chef’s gaze first landed on White Night for a moment, then slowly swept over the crowd. His deep, raspy voice broke the silence.

“You should have seen my memories as well.” He paused. “Do you think I was wrong?”

The area was silent. No one dared to speak, and no one dared to judge the right or wrong of the question.

The Head Chef didn’t care about the silence. He seemed to be talking to himself, or perhaps chatting with an entity that didn’t exist, as he continued in that raspy voice.

“In the past, when my Junior Sister couldn’t sleep, she would always lie in bed foolishly counting dumplings. One, two, three… she would fall asleep as she counted.”

His tone was very light, like the tone he used to use to coax his Junior Sister to sleep. Recalling her adorable appearance, he gave another foolish, dreamy smile.

“I wonder, when you are tossing and turning deep in the night, what do you count?”

Still, no one answered.

“It seems you don’t have trouble sleeping,” the Head Chef gave a low laugh, his smile pale. “As for me, it’s like this every day. Tossing and turning, unable to sleep. I count, one by one, every mistake I’ve made in the past.”

After saying this, he lowered his head again. In the dim light, the upper half of his face was shrouded in the shadow cast by the boulder. Only the blood-stained lower half of his face and his now-faded smile remained visible. A silent wave of regret and sorrow spread from him.

The Head Chef moved.

Hunched over and carrying the boulder that seemed to grow from his spine, he tremulously took his first step. The moment his foot hit the ground, deep cracks spread across the surface, and rubble splashed. A bloody footprint sank deep into the earth.

A second step. A third step.

Every step left a cracked, bloody footprint, as if the earth itself couldn’t withstand the weight on his back. He stumbled along, step by step, toward the Black Mist.

The crowd silently moved aside to create a path. No one spoke, and no one blocked him. They simply stood on either side, watching that hunched figure disappear into the churning Black Mist.

The Black Mist swallowed his figure, leaving only the long trail of bloody footprints on the ground to prove he had been there.

It began to rain.

Raindrops fell from the sky. Su Frost’er looked up and caught a drop in her hand. It was dark red in her palm.

Blood Rain.

“Get in the car!” Su Frost’er’s expression changed, and she immediately pushed White Night’s Rusty Bicycle toward the vehicle to take cover.

The Blood Rain grew heavier, striking the ruins and rubble and splashing into dark red droplets. Combined with the Black Mist, the world became a chaotic blur where nothing could be seen clearly.

Suddenly, another change occurred in the sky.

A blinding white light appeared, with white lines crisscrossing one another. A massive White Grid spread out from the dome of the sky, woven from streaks of brilliant white light, looking like a chessboard drawn across the heavens.

The blinding white light forcibly dispelled the Black Mist. The world suddenly became bright. But the Blood Rain continued to fall, appearing even more crimson and eerie under the white light, as if the entire sky was bleeding.

Amidst the pale light and the crimson curtain of rain, everyone saw the Head Chef’s figure once more. He was still walking. Hunched over and carrying the massive black stone, he stumbled forward through the Blood Rain. His figure grew further and smaller.

He was heading toward that eerie crack not far away. Step by step by step. Until he vanished into the edge of the fissure.

*Tack.*

A crisp sound echoed from the sky, sounding like a chess piece being placed on a board. Though the sound was clear, it made everyone’s hearts feel strangely heavy.

*Tack.*

There was another sound. Even though the Blood Rain was pouring down, loud enough to drown out almost everything, that *tack-tack* sound pierced through and entered everyone’s ears with absolute clarity.

White Night heard it too. As a Soul Body, she heard it more clearly than anyone else. It was crisp, light, and rhythmic. It was as if someone very, very far away was leisurely playing a game of chess.

The White Grid in the sky began to change.

A dazzling white piece fell from the sky, so bright it was impossible to look at, and embedded itself into a junction on the grid. Immediately after, a pitch-black piece followed, emitting a faint eerie glow as it landed steadily next to the white piece.

*Tack. Tack. Tack.*

White pieces and black pieces fell one after another. A chess match unfolded across the sky.

White Night endured the blinding discomfort and forced her eyes open to look at the sky. She saw it. Between the gaps of the grid and the chess pieces, deep within the void where the Blood Rain and white light intersected, there was a figure.

The figure was exceptionally tall but hunched and aged, wearing tattered black robes. It was a Mysterious Elder. He sat cross-legged in the void with a chessboard before him, his withered fingers holding a chess piece as he played against himself.

White Night stared at the figure, and her heart gave a strange jolt.

Familiarity. She couldn’t say why, but she felt as though she had seen him before. Yet, she had never encountered such an elder.

The elder’s movement suddenly stopped. His fingers, holding a chess piece, froze in mid-air. His hunched figure trembled slightly. Then, he slowly turned his head.

He had a weathered face and eyes that seemed bottomless. His gaze traveled from the depths of the void, through the Blood Rain and white light, across the layers of the grid.

Finally, he looked toward where White Night was.

Was he looking at her?

No, he wasn’t. He seemed to be looking at Auntie Ying!

White Night turned to look at Mu Yingying in shock and suspicion, only to find that Mu Yingying was staring blankly at the elder in the sky.