A grand constellation that gleamed high in the northern sky, seven radiant stars curving together like a ladle dipped into the heavens.
In ancient Chinese cosmology, the sky was divided into three enclosures and twenty-eight mansions. Among them, the Big Dipper formed part of the Purple Forbidden Enclosure, a celestial domain reserved for divine significance.
Each of its seven stars bore a name:
Tan Lang (Greedy Wolf)
Ju Men (Giant Gate)
Lu Cun (Prosperity)
Wen Qu (Literary Star)
Lian Zhen (Integrity)
Wu Qu (Military Star)
Po Jun (Breaker of Armies)
In the legendary culinary world of Cooking Master Boy, a famed set of chef knives was modeled after these seven stars—The Seven Star Knives, each forged for a distinct culinary purpose. Among them stood the most brutal and decisive of all:
The Po Jun Knife.
Weapon of the Battlefield ChefZane held the Po Jun Knife in his hand.
The moment his fingers wrapped around the wooden hilt, he could feel it—not just the weight, but the will within the blade. It was heavy, yes—roughly five kilograms, nearly double the weight of a standard butcher knife. But it wasn't just heaviness that marked it.
It was power.
The knife stretched 80 centimeters long, 10 centimeters wide, with a forward-balanced curve to its thick spine. The blade glinted like starlight captured in steel, and when he swung it lightly—
Whoosh.
A clean whistle sliced through the air. The breeze it created felt like a predator brushing past your cheek.
Zane narrowed his eyes.
"No wonder Leon could use this to perform the Fierce Bull Dragon Slash," he murmured, recalling the iconic scene. "He dismembered an entire bull like it was tofu…"
The aura of the blade was wild and fierce, like a tiger descending from the mountains.
In his grip, the Po Jun Knife didn't feel like a kitchen tool—it felt like a weapon from a forgotten battlefield.
Yet, this was still a culinary tool at heart. A tool for the pursuit of flavor.
And in the hands of a chef, it could become something far more terrifying than a sword.
Zane couldn't help but admire it longer. This wasn't just a showpiece. It would become a cornerstone in the next stage of his cooking—where power, precision, and intent merged.
The Truth About KnivesA good dish begins with a good knife.
For ordinary homes, a single versatile Chinese cleaver was often enough. But professional chefs curated entire arsenals—each blade with its own purpose.
Herb cutters with straight, short blades.
Delicate sashimi yanagiba blades for transparent fish cuts.
Paper cutters for ultra-thin rice wrappers.
And heavy-duty bone cleavers like the Po Jun.
There were countless knives in the modern culinary world.
Even the highly acclaimed Japanese SG2 powder steel gyuto was often considered peak steelwork—razor sharp, incredibly durable, needing sharpening only once every two months.
But even the gyuto had drawbacks. Its blade was too narrow to lift food off the board. Too thin—ingredients stuck to it. Try cutting starchy potatoes? You'd end up fighting suction instead of slicing.
Compared to all those, the Po Jun Knife felt like a declaration:
"I am the storm."
Zane grinned. "A great knife. A truly great knife."
He sheathed it with care and headed upstairs, ready for a hot bath and well-earned rest.
Shower, Scent, and Sudden ScreamingThe third-floor bathroom was dim and filled with warm mist. A subtle fragrance of shampoo and herbal body wash drifted through the air.
Zane stepped out of the shower wrapped in a soft, thick bathrobe. His damp hair clung to his forehead, and rivulets of water trailed down his neck.
He felt warm. Clean. Light, even.
Maybe it's just the afterglow of a perfect night.
A few feet away, a girl rounded the hallway corner in a blur of motion.
"Ah!"
Hisako stopped short, nearly skidding as she clutched her towel.
She slapped both hands over her eyes—but Zane noticed she left the tiniest gap between her fingers.
He blinked. "...Hisako? What are you—?"
"I—I was going to shower!"
Her face exploded into color. She spun around so fast she hit the doorframe with a loud bonk.
"Ow...!"
Zane rushed over. "Are you okay?!"
"I'm fine, I'm fine! I swear it wasn't that hard…"
She leaned slightly against him—whether for support or something else, neither was sure.
The scent of his freshly bathed body wafted into her nose: soap, citrus, and that faint smoky undertone she'd come to associate with him.
Her heart skipped a beat.
"You've been working so hard," he murmured, his voice low. "Since you joined, you've taken over almost everything behind the scenes. Cleaning. Managing the storeroom. Prep. Inventory…"
"You're making this tavern feel like home."
Hisako froze.
"I should be thanking you," he continued. "If it weren't for you tonight… I wouldn't have known how to face Erina."
Her breath caught in her throat.
Stop it, you idiot, she thought to herself, you're not allowed to fall for someone this gently.
Sweet as WagashiElsewhere, in the softly lit kitchen, Erina stood at the counter, gazing at a small plate of handmade wagashi.
Wagashi... I actually made this?
Delicate confections sat like flower buds—white bean paste wrapped in pillowy mochi, the surface decorated with etched floral patterns and tiny dots of yellow pollen.
Her usual cuisine was extravagant, elegant, and proudly inaccessible. Dishes made of foie gras and caviar. Ingredients no commoner could afford. Presentation over intimacy.
But this… this was different.
This wagashi wasn't made for me.
It was made for someone else. For Zane.
And that shifted everything.
Was it still cooking if it wasn't just to showcase her brilliance?
Her fingers hovered over the mochi.
She took a bite.
Sweet. Fragrant. Soft.
I wonder… will he like it? Or is it too traditional? Too feminine?
Her thoughts spiraled.
In truth, wagashi wasn't meant to be "delicious." It originated from the tea ceremony—a hyper-sweet counterpoint to bitter matcha. Its beauty lay in its form, in its calmness, in its intention.
Now, working with white bean paste and pressed flower tools, Erina understood.
The sweetness issue wasn't in the sugar—it was in the heart behind the process.
The Next Morning – Fried Noodles of MemoryMorning light filtered into the tavern.
Zane emerged downstairs, stretching lazily.
To his surprise, Hisako was already up and wiping down tables.
"Good morning, Hisako."
She looked up and beamed. "Good morning, Zane!"
"You're working already?"
He smiled in surprise, rolling up his sleeves. "Come on. Let's make some breakfast. Fried noodles today. I'll handle the sauce, you prep the toppings."
Hisako's eyes sparkled. "Okay!"
Fried noodles.
A dish Zane hadn't made in ages. He remembered his old friend in Beijing who practically lived off it—eating five bowls a week, dipping cucumber slices in the sauce like ritual.
First, the sauce.
Yellow soybean paste, sweet flour paste, and minced pork belly—rich in fat and flavor.
Fat rendered slowly in vegetable oil, bubbling into golden pools. He stirred in the paste, ladling water bit by bit, letting the mixture simmer gently until it shimmered with oil.
Then he made the noodles.
Rolling dough, folding it, slicing it into thick ribbons. These weren't dragon-beard noodles; no need for fancy stretching. Just hearty, home-style strands.
He boiled them with a pinch of salt, added cold water to halt the cooking, and stirred until the noodles gleamed—firm, chewy, refreshing.
Over-water noodles.
The final assembly was art: thick sauce scooped into a small bowl, green onions lightly warmed inside, then ladled over the noodles alongside crisp cucumber shreds, bean sprouts, and garlic slivers.
"Eh? This is fried noodles?"
Hisako tilted her head, confused.
Zane grinned.
"Technically, it's called zhajiangmian, but 'fried noodles' is how my friend always said it. Trust me—once you taste it, you'll get it."
He handed her a bowl.
She slurped a bite.
Eyes widened.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
And smiled.