When Alex opened his eyes, the ceiling swam above him.
For a moment he didn''t remember where he was. Then the faces came into focus- eight round, stunned faces staring down at him as if he had just crawled out of a
grave.
All eight Fattys crowded around the chair he had awkwardly converted into a makeshift bed.
Their bulky frames blocked out the light, their shadows falling over him. Eyes wide, mouths slightly open, they stared down at him as if he had just performed a miracle -or survived one.
Awe. Pure awe.
"Little Brother Ninth," the First Fatty said carefully, like he was handling something fragile. "Tell me the truth. Did you really cook those food pills?"
Alex swallowed. His throat felt dry. "Yes."
A ripple passed through the room.
The First Fatty leaned closer. "Did you change the recipe?"
"Yes."
Alex pushed himself upright. His body still felt weak, but his mind was clear. He nced around the chairs until he spotted a stack of paper notes on a nearby table. He reached for it.
"This," he said, holding it out, "is the new recipe."
The room went silent.
Eight pairs of eyes dropped to the papers. Then they snapped back to him as if he had just ced a priceless treasure in their hands.
For the Xia people, recipes and cultivation arts were lifelines. They were status. They were power. A chef without secrets was a chef without worth. No one shared such things-not unless blood bound them or death forced them.
And yet Alex had handed it over like it was nothing.
The First Fatty stiffened. He quickly pushed the paper back toward Alex, almost offended.
"No," he said firmly. "That recipe must be something special. You shouldn''t share something that important with us."
Alex went quiet.
In Estoria and Prussia, new discoveries were celebrated publicly. Innovation was meant to be shared, improved, debated. Knowledge was a bridge, not a weapon.
But here... here it was different.
He studied their faces—suspicious, touched, confused.
Then a slow smirk curved his lips.
"Brother First,” he said calmly, "this recipe was taught to me by my master. My only family."
His voice softened.
"But my master is gone. My only family died long ago."
The room felt smaller suddenly.
"Now I''m here," Alex continued. "And you eight are the only family I have."
He held the paper out again.
"So of course I''ll share it."
The First Fatty''s lips trembled.
The others looked at Alex as if he had just done something reckless and noble at the same time.
"You... you..." one of the Fattys stammered before suddenly lunging forward and wrapping Alex in a crushing embrace. “From now on, you''re my little brother!"
"Yes!" another shouted, charging in.
The rest followed.
Eight heavy bodies collided with Alex at once.
The bones creaked violently. The air vanished from his lungs.
"Please—” Alex gasped, his voice strangled betweenyers of flesh and fabric.
"Please... don''t kill me..."
Spots exploded in his vision.
Then everything went ck.
When Alex woke again, he heard animated voices.
He blinked and turned his head.
The eight Fattys were gathered around the table, hunched over the paper like schrs around a forbidden scripture.
"I never realized," one muttered, tapping the sheet, "if we mix this herb with this one, the efficiency doubles and the energy output increases."
"Look here," another said, eyes shining. "If we cook this herb at high temperature, it actually bes less potent. We''ve been ruining it for years."
A third Fatty pped his forehead. “This herb doesn''t need to be cooked at all. Just grind it and mix it raw with this one. Maximum energy preserve!"
They spoke over one another, excitement rising.
Each of them was discovering something new.
For men who had spent decades in the kitchen-decades repeating the same methods, the same traditions—finding a breakthrough was like discovering fire for the first time.
Their eyes gleamed.
Their minds burned.
"Ninth Brother-you''re awake!"
The Eighth Fatty was the first to notice. He hurried to Alex''s side, nearly knocking over a chair.
The others immediately followed, crowding around him again.
"Wait wait!" Alex threw both hands up, genuine panic shing across his face. "Don''t hug me. I''m going to die."
The Fattys froze mid-charge.
"Sorry, sorry!" one of them said, scratching his head awkwardly. "We forgot you''re still weak. Hah... we got too excited."
The First Fatty cleared his throat and stepped forward, his tone turning serious.
“Brother Ninth, the Elder gave us herbs for three thousand food pills. You made four thousand.” He paused, eyes steady. "I''ll report three thousand. The extra one thousand food pills—you keep them. Sell them. That money is yours.”
It was a generous offer.
Alex shook his head immediately.
Money was useless if he ended up dead.
Right now, he needed protection. In this sect, any servant could kill him. Someone
like Wang Junhao wouldn''t hesitate.
"Brother,” Alex said, forcing his warmest smile, "what I have belongs to this family. Let''s share the extra thousand pills among us."
The Second Fatty mmed his plump palm against the table so hard the bowls rattled.
"I told you! Our Ninth Brother is different!"
"Thank you, Ninth Brother," the Seventh Fatty said earnestly. "If you ever need anything anything at all-you tell me."
Voices rose around him.
Praise. Laughter. Genuine affection.
“Brother Ninth,” the First Fatty said with authority, "you worked three days and three
nights without stopping. I''m giving you one full week off. Rest properly."
"Brother," Alex cut in quickly, almost urgently. "Please. I want to work."
The Fattys blinked at him.
"Don''t make me rest," Alex insisted. "How can your little brother sleep while his big brothers are working?"
What he didn''t say was this: his room was not safe. Alone, he was vulnerable. In the kitchen, surrounded by eight heavy, loyal shields, no one would dare touch him.
"Little Brother Nine..." the First Fatty began.
"No," Alex said firmly. "There''s nopromise. I still have many recipes to write. We
can make more spare pills. Sell them. Strengthen ourselves."
He would do everything he could to stay in this kitchen.
The words hit them harder than anypliment.
Eight pairs of eyes turned red and glossy.
"You were born for this kitchen!" someone choked out.
And before Alex could brace himself—
They rushed him again.
Eight massive bodies mmed into him in a wave of emotion.
The table shook. The shelves rattled.
“Careful—careful—” Alex wheezed as theirbined weight crushed the air from
his lungs. His ribs screamed in protest. "I need those bones!"
But it was already toote.
The world tilted. Sound faded into a dull hum. Darkness rushed in like a closing
curtain-
And Alex cked out again.
Time moved forward.
Alex didn''t slow down.
He refined more recipes, adjusting proportions, experimenting with heat levels,
teaching them how to preserve herbs longer without losing potency.
He showed them how to use scraps and leftovers to create low-rank food pills that
could still be sold in the market instead of wasted.
Nothing was thrown away anymore.
Every herb had value.
Every mistake became a lesson.
The Fattys watched him like men witnessing a quiet revolution.
For decades they had cooked by habit. Now they cooked with precision.
Profit increased. Efficiency improved.
And with every shared discovery, their affection for Alex deepened.
They began to guard him without being asked.
They saved him the best portions of herbs.
They stood between him and outsiders during deliveries.
They treated him like a true younger brother.
Meanwhile, Alex continued cultivating in silence.
He consumed herbs when he could, refining energy carefully, building strength
piece by piece. He hid his progress well, but his foundation was stabilizing.
Days blurred into weeks.
Weeks slipped into months.
Before he realized it, three months had passed since he first stepped into this
kitchen.
Three months of heat, sweat,ughter, bruised ribs, and growing bonds.
And for the first time since arriving here—
Alex no longer felt alone.
It didn''t take Alex long to understand the truth.
This wasn''t some prestigious spiritual kitchen.
They were the lowest tier-kitchen servants mass-producing basic food pills for
outer disciples andmon servants. Their work fed the crowd. It did not impress
the elite.
The inner disciples, core disciples,
even the Elders-they ate elsewhere.
In a more refined kitchen. A higher one. Where the ingredients were rarer the vors deeper and the Spiritual energy richer.
Here, they cooked in bulk.
One day, the Fatty brothers were confused by something else entirely.
"Brother Ninth," Number Eight said one afternoon, staring at Alex suspiciously. "You''ve been with us for three months You eat with s You eat more herbs than anyone. Why aren''t you getting fat?"
The others turned, squinting at him like investigators.
“If you''re a real man,” Number Eight continued proudly, patting his own round
stomach, "you should look like us. This is the new model. Women like this now."
Alex blinked.
Apparently, their definition of masculinity came with extrayers.
He scratched the back of his head. "Brother... I don''t eat the herbs directly."
Eight eyebrows lifted.
"I refine them into cultivation pills first," Alex exined calmly. "Then I absorb the
energy slowly whenever I have time."
Silence.
The Fattys looked at one another.
They had always eaten the herbs the moment they received them. The
supply came with strict limits and tighter deadlines. Once the weekly portion was delivered to their
kitchen it had to be cove
ground into food pills immediately-before the next inspection arrived.
That was the rule.
That was how they had been taught.
No dys. No stockpiling. No experimentation.
Just process it fast, report the numbers, and survive another week.
They knew direct consumption was inefficient-like trying to pour a river into a cup.
The body could only hold so much at once. The rest spilled away as waste.
But that was all they knew.
Now Alex had shown them something different.
Refine the river into pills.
Store it.
Absorb it gradually.
No overflow. No waste.
"Can we see your pill?" the Second Fatty asked carefully.
Alex reached into his sleeve and ced several pills into the man''s palm.
Eight heads leaned in.
Eight pairs of eyes widened.
"How..." one of them whispered. "How is this pill more potent than the herb we eat
raw?"
Alex shrugged lightly. "That''s the art of pill-making. If done correctly, it can produce
ten to twenty times the usable energypared to direct consumption."
The words struck them like thunder.
Ten to twenty times.
The First Fatty slowly looked around at his brothers. No one spoke. But one by one,
they nodded.
They had already decided.
“Brother Ninth,” the First Fatty said solemnly, “starting today, you will help us refine
all our herb portions into pills. Will you help us?"
Alex smiled.
“Making mine and making yours is the same work,” he said simply. “It''s no trouble at
all."
The room exploded.
"Brother Ninth!" they shouted in unison.
And then-
They charged him again.
Eight enormous men crashing forward in emotional gratitude.
"Please!” Alex screamed as they wrapped him up. "Don''t kill me!"
His ribs protested. His spine questioned his life choices.
Outside, beyond the warm smoke and ttering pots—
Wang Junhao stood in the shadows.
For three months, he had been waiting.
Three months of watching the kitchen doors.
Three months of swallowing rage.
His eyes were cold as stone.
"The moment you step out of that kitchen," he muttered under his breath, voice low
and venomous, "I swear I''ll kill you."