The scent of ink lingered in the air.
Inside his quiet room on the second floor of the tavern, Zane sat cross-legged before a low wooden table. Upon it were three simple items: yellow talisman paper, a dish of thick vermilion ink, and a brush tipped with soft white bristles. The scene was austere, almost sacred.
He reached out slowly.
With practiced calm, Zane dipped the brush into the vermilion ink, his other hand steadying the crisp yellow paper. But before the first stroke touched down, he closed his eyes. His breathing slowed.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Only when his thoughts were stilled and his heartbeat fell into rhythm with the world around him did he begin.
Each line of the talisman formed with deliberation—brush flowing like wind over a silent lake. The strokes weren't fast, but they carried intention, weight. As the final arc was completed, a faint shimmer ran through the talisman.
Before him, the brushwork came together into something far more than a symbol. Intertwined ancient glyphs merged into the shape of a phoenix mid-ascent—its wings arched, its tail a curling flame. The power it suggested sent a ripple down Zane's spine.
He studied the paper and whispered, "It should… have some effect, right?"
It was his first attempt at drawing a talisman. And though it might be crude by some standards, something within it pulsed faintly with qi. He folded it gently and slipped it into the pocket of his robe before rising.
Downstairs, in the warm heart of the tavern, life quietly unfolded.
Ryoko polished the long wooden counter with her usual diligence, her ponytail bobbing lightly as she moved. Sonoka swept the floor in smooth strokes, humming an off-key tune. The quiet clinking of glasses being arranged came from behind the bar.
At a corner table, Hisako sat with perfect posture. She wore reading glasses—elegant, thin-framed, perched precisely on the bridge of her nose. Their subtle shine softened her sharp expression, giving her the air of a young academic lost in thought.
Her gaze, calm and cool as an autumn lake, drifted to the antique cash register.
Tick, tick.
Only the sound of the wall clock echoed in the serene tavern air.
Suddenly, Ryoko's head snapped up. "Hey!"
Zane blinked, caught off guard.
Ryoko marched toward him, eyes narrowed. "Why didn't you tell us you hired someone new?"
"Ah." Zane rubbed the back of his neck, slipping the talisman deeper into his pocket. "It's not exactly hiring. Hisako's… staying for a while."
Ryoko crossed her arms, frowning.
He continued, voice even. "She needed a place to rest. I figured she'd find comfort here. Besides, you know how it feels to lose in the Autumn Elections, right?"
Ryoko flinched slightly at the mention. She had once stood in that very ring and tasted bitter defeat.
"Don't bully her," Zane added gently. "As her senior, show her what kindness looks like."
Ryoko didn't reply. Her eyes flicked to Hisako, who gave a respectful nod in return. No words passed between them—but something settled, unspoken.
The silence was broken by the distant hum of a small truck pulling up outside.
Moments later, the door creaked open, and a gust of night air rushed in, along with a familiar scent—rich, warm, and slightly musky.
"Phew…"
Mito Saeki stepped in, wiping sweat from her brow. Dressed in a sleeveless black tank and shorts, her skin glistened under the lamplight. Her long hair was tied into a messy ponytail, streaked with sweat and exhaustion.
She looked like a warrior just returned from battle.
"I just delivered a two-hundred-kilo order of premium chuck roll. Zane, got any tea?"
Zane raised a brow but smiled. "You're in luck."
A Tang of History: The Sour Plum Brew
He moved behind the counter and brought out a clay jar.
Sour plums. Aged dried orange peel. Hawthorn berries. Dried licorice. Clove buds. Hibiscus petals.
The ingredients clinked softly as he added them to a copper pot of water and set it to boil.
Steam soon curled upward, fragrant and bright, as the tavern filled with the scent of herbs and fruit.
When the liquid had reduced by two-thirds, Zane added a dash of osmanthus blossoms and rock sugar. The sweet floral aroma burst forth, blending with the tang of plum.
Straining the dark crimson liquid into a ceramic cup, he handed it to Mito.
She took a long sip.
"Mmm…"
The flavor was like stepping into a cool forest in summer. The sourness danced over her tongue, tempered by floral sweetness. Her parched throat sighed with relief.
But even as she savored the tea, her stomach rumbled loudly.
Her cheeks flushed red. "So embarrassing…"
Zane chuckled. "Hungry?"
"A bit…" Mito hesitated, then smiled slyly. "Got anything besides beef bowls or noodles?"
"I've got something special."
"Name it."
"Lamp Shadow Beef."
Her eyes lit up.
The Legendary Dish: Born in Fire and Patience
Zane vanished into the kitchen.
Outside, the tavern's atmosphere began to shift. Even before the dish was complete, a wave of warmth flowed into the room.
Sonoka wiped her brow. "Huh? It's getting hot…"
Ryoko loosened her collar. "It's like a sauna in here…"
Behind the curtain, Zane's hands moved with surgical grace.
He began with beef tendon—cut from the hind leg, fresh and still pulsating with life. He sliced it against the grain, each cut precise and measured, until the pieces were thin enough to see light through.
Not strips. Not chunks. Wide, flat sheets.
Like translucent paper.
He salted them with sun-dried flakes, rolled them into cylinders, and let them drain naturally in a woven basket. Then came a double steaming process—each round slow and measured, locking in moisture and softening fibers.
Finally, the slices were laid flat on oiled bamboo racks, brushed gently with a proprietary blend of spices—licorice, amomum, clove, fennel, star anise, and a dozen more. Then came the flash-fry in sesame oil. Then a final toss in chili powder and sugar, until the meat glistened red like lacquer.
The scent hit the dining hall like a thunderclap.
Mito stood up involuntarily.
Zane brought out a plate.
And the tavern fell into stunned silence.
The Test of Taste—and Temperatures
The Lamp Shadow Beef was red, glossy, and curled at the edges. Each slice was so thin, light passed through it in flickers.
"It's… see-through," Mito breathed. "Like stained glass."
She picked one up.
No sinew. No fat. No flaws.
She bit.
First came the crispiness—like biting into a whisper. Then the heat slammed forward—mala numbing spice, earthy and bold. The meat practically dissolved, leaving only waves of tingling warmth behind.
"Oh gods…"
She ate another.
And another.
Sweat poured down her brow. Her breath came short. Her vision shimmered.
The spices coursed through her body like fire.
Her limbs trembled as warmth rose from her stomach into her chest, neck, and ears. A low moan escaped her lips, unbidden.
She braced herself against the table.
"This—this isn't food. It's… an experience!"
A Master's Technique
Still dazed, Mito turned toward Zane. "How the hell did you coat the slices without ruining them?"
He folded his arms. "Each slice is 0.3mm thick. Any thinner and the fibers tear. Any thicker, and you lose that delicate melt."
"We coat about 8kg at a time, mixing by hand to avoid breakage. The bamboo trays are brushed with oil to prevent sticking. Each slice is laid horizontally to follow muscle grain."
Mito stared at him. "You… you thought about all that?"
Ryoko muttered from behind her, "Now I feel bad for ever thinking it was just dried beef…"
The others were already crowding in, eyes wide, plates clinking.
Hisako adjusted her glasses, silently watching.
Zane smiled softly, arms crossed, his talisman forgotten for now.
Tonight, the flame of flavor had cast shadows deeper than any candle ever could.