He was currently absorbing the ambient, dark Qi of the wasteland, condensing it into his Demonic Core to prepare for the inevitable war against the orthodox sects.

But the Supreme Demon Lord’s legendary concentration was compromised.

Xuanye rested his chin on his knuckles, his dark eyes staring blankly across the desolate wastes.

He was thinking of a teenager with a spatula.

He had only encountered the cook briefly, during a clandestine scouting mission near the Celestial Sword Sect.

He had watched the boy from afar, sensing the bizarre, highly condensed Qi within the chef’s meridians.

At first, Xuanye had been amused.

An orthodox disciple who was cultivated by cooking?

It was a pathetic, laughable Dao.

But then, he had tasted the residual energy.

He had sensed the overwhelming vitality radiating from the boy.

And something dark and incredibly dangerous had awakened within the Demon Lord’s soul.

Demons did not care about the moral posturing of the orthodox world.

They did not care about societal norms, gender roles, or the concept of a "cut-sleeve."

To a demon, desire was the only law.

If you wanted something, you took it.

You consumed it.

You broke it until it fit your mold.

And Xuanye wanted Lin Ji’an.

His demonic senses, honed to detect the subtlest shifts in spiritual energy, had subconsciously identified the pure Yin essence hidden beneath Ji’an’s male disguise.

His dark Yang energy was reacting to her existence.

It was a biological, spiritual imperative.

She was the perfect vessel, the ultimate catalyst that could elevate his demonic cultivation to the realm of gods.

’They hide him in their pathetic, self-righteous sects,’ Xuanye thought, a slow, cruel, incredibly sensual smile curving his lips, revealing slightly elongated canines. ’They treat him like a mere cook who has no value. They do not understand the treasure they possess. The intoxicating heat of his soul... it is being wasted on those orthodox hypocrites.’

Xuanye stood up from his throne.

The ambient dark Qi of the wasteland violently swirled around him, reacting to the sudden spike in his killing intent.

"Generals," the Demon Lord commanded, his voice a melodic, terrifying vibration that shook the earth.

"Yes, My Lord!" the demonic entities chorused, trembling in the ash.

"Prepare the vanguard," Xuanye ordered, his eyes blazing with absolute, unyielding obsession. "The time for hiding in the wastes is coming to an end. There is a treasure in the orthodox lands. A treasure that belongs on my throne. And I am going to burn the Celestial Sword Sect to the ground to claim him."

.

.

.

Far away from the demonic wastes and the orthodox peaks, in a quiet, mundane clearing near the southern borderlands, two young men sat around a crackling campfire.

Gu Zhiwei, the Holy Son of the Celestial Sword Sect, sat cross-legged on a log, enthusiastically poking the fire with a stick.

His golden hair shone in the firelight, and his eyes were bright, radiating the pure, heroic righteousness of a classic protagonist.

Sitting across from him was Wen Shiru, the brilliant, calculating scholar-cultivator.

Shiru was elegant, refined, dressed in immaculate green robes as always, possessing a mind like a complicated trap.

He had orchestrated this joint mission specifically to isolate Gu Zhiwei, to strengthen their personal bond.

It was supposed to be a bonding experience between two supreme geniuses.

Instead, it was a culinary and emotional disaster.

Shiru gracefully lifted a piece of sect-issued ration, a dry, tasteless block of compressed spirit-wheat, to his mouth.

He chewed slowly, his face completely devoid of joy.

Zhiwei took a bite of his own ration, chewed twice, and let out a loud, melodramatic groan, tossing the remaining block into the fire.

"It tastes like sawdust," Zhiwei complained, resting his chin in his hands, looking utterly miserable. "I can’t eat this. My stomach is weeping, Brother Shiru..."

Shiru sighed, adjusting his monocle. "It provides the necessary caloric and spiritual sustenance for survival, Zhiwei. We are on a subjugation mission, not a royal banquet. One must learn to endure hardship..."

"Brother Lin wouldn’t make me endure hardship," Zhiwei pouted, his golden eyes gazing wistfully into the flames. "If Brother Lin were here, he would have taken that dry wheat, mixed it with wild boar fat, added those spicy red peppers he found in the ditch, and made a feast fit for the Heavens. He would have scolded me for complaining, but he would have given me the biggest portion."

Shiru’s eye twitched.

It was the fifteenth time that day that Gu Zhiwei had mentioned the cook.

’Brother Lin. Brother Lin. Brother Lin,’ Shiru’s mind echoed, a sharp, uncharacteristic spike of intense irritation flaring in his chest. ’He is just a cook. A foul-mouthed, arrogant, unrefined boy with a spatula. Why is Zhiwei so obsessed with him?!’

But as the thought crossed Shiru’s mind, his calculating brain completely betrayed him.

He pictured Lin Ji’an.

He remembered the time he had visited the sect and seen the cook standing in the plaza, dismantling the Second Prince with effortless, sarcastic grace.

He remembered the way the sunlight had caught the silver-flecked eyes of the young master, the sharp tilt of his chin, and the charisma that radiated from his slender frame.

Shiru swallowed hard, a sudden, inexplicable heat rising in his throat.

His mind, usually capable of dissecting ancient arrays and complex political treaties, was completely short-circuited.

The logic failed.

The equations did not balance.

Why did the memory of a teenage boy make his heart race?

Why did the thought of Ji’an smiling at someone else, specifically at the Golden Retriever sitting across from him, make Shiru want to draw his sword and commit something violent?

’It is a mental affliction,’ Shiru panicked internally, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his knees. ’I am a scholar of the orthodox path. I do not harbor romantic inclinations for men. It is an aberration of the mind!’

But his body, subconsciously reacting to the supreme Yin energy Ji’an possessed, told a completely different story.

It demanded proximity.