Chapter 37: Culinary Arts and Swordsmanship

In the final three days before the grand competition, Bai Yue’ning no longer went out.

She was well aware that a string stretched too tight would snap.

Aside from her cultivation, she spent most of her time beside the humble stove in her dwelling.

It was not greed for taste that kept her there, but rather the instinctive craving of the body for spiritual nourishment after intense exertion.

The fasting pills distributed by the sect could only sustain life; they were of no benefit to cultivation.

She took out the small amount of spiritual rice and withered wild vegetables earned from previous missions, intending, as usual, to throw them together into a pot for a simple meal.

She had just poured the rice into the clay pot when Ye Ming’s voice sounded, laden with obvious disdain.

“Here we go again, eating this stuff. Can’t you treat your stomach a bit better?”

“Did you even bother washing the rice? There’s still grit in it! And that vegetable is as dry as kindling—how do you expect to eat it without soaking?”

Bai Yue’ning’s movements paused.

Since returning from Sword Abyss, Ye Ming’s complaints about her rough cooking had grown by the day.

“As long as it’s edible,” she replied coolly, still preparing to add water directly.

“Such waste!” Ye Ming lamented, pained.

“These ingredients may be meager, but they still hold a trace of spiritual energy. The way you’re handling them, not a speck will remain. It’s barely better than pigswill. Listen to me!”

Bai Yue’ning frowned. Her time was precious—she had no wish to squander it on kitchen affairs.

Yet Ye Ming’s incessant chatter in her mind was so noisy she couldn’t find peace.

“Be quiet. Either hold your tongue, or you do it,” she snapped inwardly.

“I will! Just do as I say!” Ye Ming surprisingly agreed at once, as if he’d been waiting for her to say this.

“Wash the rice first. Rub it gently with your fingers, let the water flow slowly. Good, now skim off the floating debris…”

“Don’t wash all the rice away! Control your strength!”

With no choice, Bai Yue’ning endured his directions.

She soon realized that even these seemingly simple actions required precise control and delicacy.

If the water was too fast, the grains washed away; if her strength was too rough, they broke.

She had to focus intently.

Once the rice was washed and the right amount of clean water added, Ye Ming began instructing her on lighting the fire.

“Don’t stuff the kindling too tightly—leave gaps. Airflow feeds the flames…”

“Yes, just like that. Control the heat, keep it low and steady. Sense the changes in temperature within the pot with your spiritual energy…”

Sitting cross-legged by the stove, Bai Yue’ning truly split her attention, perceiving the subtle shifts in water temperature and the rolling of the rice grains within the clay pot.

It was, in its way, another form of training in fine control over her spiritual power.

When the rice porridge was on the verge of boiling and its fragrance began to rise, Ye Ming instructed her to add the soaked, chopped wild vegetables.

“Use your wrist. Cut in midair—don’t press the leaves against the board or you’ll just crush them…”

“Yes, use finesse. Feel the grain of the leaves, cut along it…”

Holding an ordinary iron knife, Bai Yue’ning unconsciously adjusted her technique.

Her wrist became nimble, each cut precise, the chopped vegetables uniform.

The sensation was strangely reminiscent of searching for flaws when drawing her sword—using the least force for the greatest effect.

The aroma of porridge filled the air, richer and more inviting than any she had cooked before.

She sprinkled in a pinch of salt, preparing to take the pot from the fire.

“Stop!” Ye Ming called out again.

“One last step! Stir it a few times so the salt dissolves and the vegetables heat evenly.”

Bai Yue’ning picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the pot.

Her movements retained the decisiveness of sword practice, even echoing a sword form.

“Wrong, wrong!” Ye Ming immediately complained.

“That’s not stirring, that’s hacking! Your stance is weak, wrist rigid, strength wasted! You’ll mash the whole pot!”

“Stir from the waist and abdomen, let the wrist relax. Contain the strength but don’t release it—just touch and move on…”

“That’s it. Do you feel the smooth, circular motion?”

Bai Yue’ning stilled.

Following Ye Ming’s guidance, she adjusted her force—her waist and abdomen sinking slightly, wrist rotating lithely. The spoon traced a graceful arc through the porridge, enveloping every grain and leaf with gentle yet effective strength.

The feeling was… oddly familiar.

It was not culinary skill, but the rhythm of ultimate control over power, akin to the meticulous precision she sought in swordsmanship.

She unconsciously mimed a few strokes in the air with the spoon, feeling the flow that began at her waist and abdomen, passed through her arm and wrist, and landed lightly at the “tip of the sword.”

Her spiritual energy, too, seemed to adjust itself in harmony with this rhythm, becoming more supple and obedient.

“Well, that’s interesting,” Ye Ming remarked, surprised at her transformation.

“Who would’ve guessed that cooking could help you train like this? Seems you’ll need to practice more often.”

Bai Yue’ning silently ladled out the porridge.

It was perfectly thick, each grain plump, the vegetables tender and green, the aroma mouthwatering.

She tasted a spoonful—the flavor was unexpectedly delightful.

She ate slowly, thoughts turning inward.

The way to mastery is simple; all things are connected.

Mastery over strength is not reserved for the heat of battle—one can cultivate even in everyday minutiae.

Ye Ming’s accidental guidance had granted her new insight into the coordination between her spiritual power and her physical body.

When she finished, she cleaned the clay pot. Ye Ming, unsatisfied, pressed on.

“What’s for dinner? There’s still some dried spiritual meat—maybe we can soak it and try…”

“Cultivation,” Bai Yue’ning cut off his musings.

“…Fine,” Ye Ming grumbled.

“But remember that feeling from before: force isn’t about being as strong as possible, but just enough.”

“Fighting’s not so different from cooking—when the timing is right, everything falls into place.”

Bai Yue’ning stepped into the open space in her hut. She did not immediately begin practicing sword forms, but closed her eyes and revisited that smooth, flowing sensation from stirring the porridge.

She slowly raised her hands—not in any formal sword technique, but in the simplest thrusts, sweeps, arcs, and leads.

Her movements remained swift, but were less harsh and rigid than before, imbued now with an elusive flexibility and precision.

Her spiritual power followed her motions, more responsive and controlled than ever.

“Hm?” Ye Ming hummed in surprise, clearly noticing her change.

“Not bad—already applying what you learned? Your stance is much more solid now. Relax your wrist a bit more…”

He no longer spoke of cooking, but instead shifted to critiquing her basic drills with his usual precision and rigor.

Yet this time, his complaints were sometimes interspersed with comments like:

“Yes, that force is just like when you stirred the porridge.”

“No, that turn is off—the energy is scattered. Remember how you mixed the porridge!”

“Use your waist! Let it drive the movement—don’t rely only on your arms. Didn’t you practice while cooking?”

Bai Yue’ning listened with undivided attention, absorbing every word, whether rooted in the way of the sword or the kitchen, and wove them into her practice.

Outside, the sun slanted westward, its golden light streaming into the small house, illuminating the figure of the girl sweating in her training, and the silent sword resting on the table.

Her cultivation never ceased, and her growth took place amidst the ordinary.

Even as night fell completely, the silhouette within the little house did not stop.