Iel Kit Huang Pihuo was brimming with fidend full of spirit as he took the cigarette offered by his apprentice, ung into an animated discussion about a’s Eight ary Traditions. It was an essential foundational lesson for anyone learning the craft, much like his owive cooking css at the Iional Retions Academy during his younger years.

  "Do you know what the Eight Great ese Cuisines are?"

  "Si cuisine, tonese cuisine, Beijing cuisine, Shanghai cuisine, Hong Kong cuisine, hotpot, barbecue, and ma tang," Zhang g said casually without missing a beat, as though the terrifying memory of being trapped in a freezer had pletely vanished from his mind.

  Huang Pihuo ughed and said, "I really like the way you spout nonsense so seriously. You’ve got talent, kid."

  Uedly, those words made Zhang g blush. His master’s teasing seemed like a joke, but for Zhang g, they weren’t. He had never received even a word of praise from ahroughout his life—her his parents nor teachers. He had grown up in a cycle of criticism, harsh reprimands, shame, and insults. To adults, he was seen as an unteachable failure, a criminal’s son, a subpar student, and a gamer addicted to online games. Over time, this caused him to give up on himself, to st to be a "good child."

  It was this disillusioned and ical attitude that drove Zhang g to spend so much time in i cafes and take risks, such as risking everything for an iPhone. After all, life wasn’t worth mu anymore.

  Now that someone was plimenting him as having "talent," Zhang g found himself unprepared for such praise and didn’t know how to respond.

  Huang Pihuo noticed his apprentice’s rea and tinued, "The Eight Great Cuisines are Shandong cuisine, Si cuisine, tonese cuisine, Fujian cuisine, Hunan cuisine, Zhejiang cuisine, Jiangsu cuisine, and Anhui cuisine. But you’re irely wroher. There is Beijing cuisine, Shanghai cuisine, and Hong Kong cuisihough hotpot and barbecue fall outside the traditio Great Cuisihe idea of these eight regional cuisines only emerged much ter in history. The e between humans and food, oher hand, dates back hundreds of thousands of years. From primitive humaing raw flesh to cooking with fire, it was more important to learn food preparation than dividing it into specific ary schools. You’ve got potential, having survived fire and ice. Surviving fire and a freezer means your life has a purpose. You’ve got a future in this profession, kid."

  Zhang g was touched by his master’s siy. Though part of what was said might have been a light-hearted joke, there was a clear truth beh. Zhang g swore, "Master, I’ll bee the best chef! Starting now, this is my dream!"

  Huang Pihuo smiled, saying, "Having a dream is a good thing, but simply having dreams isn’t enough. You need passion for your dreams to make them e true. Why do you want to bee a chef?"

  Zhang g hesitated, unsure how to respond. His master, uanding his thoughts, said, "Speak from your heart. Holy, you won’t be scolded for that. I’m not your school teacher or your father. Think of me as your buddy."

  This was a new kind of teag for Zhang g. His entire life had revolved around being taught strict, predetermined answers: Learning was for building the nation, and aion from this reasoning was met with scolding. Speaking the truth unishable.

  Today, however, Zhang g admitted his reality. He stammered, "I’ll o eat iure. I’ll need a stable job that support me."

  His master ughed and said, "That’s not a dream; that’s a choice made out of y. But you’re lucky to have me as your teacher. Being a chef is one of the oldest professions in human history—a very respectable profession. Do you know how a humans made hotpot?"

  Zhang g thought for a moment and said, "Did they use a hot spring for hotpot? The kind with bubbling water a dropped in until it cooked in seds?"

  His master replied, "You’re clever. People living near hot springs could do that, but most people would dig rge pits in the ground instead. They’d lihe pits with animal skins to prevent water from seeping out, fill the pits with water, and light a fire. They would heat hundreds of goose eggs until they were boiling, then toss food into the pit to cook it. Ohe water cooled, they’d add more red-hot stones."

  Zhang g shrugged, "That’s silly. You could just roast the food directly over a fire, hang it up to cook, or pce it oed stones. It would cook just fihout needing to dig a pit."

  His master ughed, "You’re qui the uptake. A humans did exactly that. Even today, in Iran, people use heated goose eggs to make ftbreads—a teique that dates back to prehistoric times."

  Zhang g began to feel proud. Rarely had he received this kind of praise before, and his fidence grew. "I’m not stupid. If I had a teacher like you growing up, I would have gotten into Peking Uy long ago. I really enjoy listening to you talk about all these things, Master."

  His master tinued, "Humans transitioned from using fire pits for boiling food to using cy pots. In a civilizations, noble families used bronze cauldrons to cook. That’s where the idiom ‘zhong ming ding shi’ (literally 'the ringing of bells and cauldrons') came from, symbolizing the lives of nobles. Eventually, iron pots became on, and during the Southern and Northern Dynasties period, stir-frying became a on practice. During the Song Dynasty, food culture became even more refined. Food became a symbol of sophistication and attention to detail—chefs specialized in specific roles, with entire households having workers whose sole task was to peel onions for decades."

  Zhang g interrupted, "Isn’t that Yu Qian’s father?"

  His master chuckled, "The cept is ected. Human development reflects the division of bor in a social system."

  Zhang g didirely uand this, and even Wu Yumei, who had just been passing by, found herself p the statement. The old man was using academic references in his expnations, and even she wasn’t sure where these ideas came from.

  His master tinued with the story, "By the Qing Dynasty, food had bee even more refined. One example is a dish called fire sprouted silver threads—a dish that Empress Dowager Cixi had ied. It involved using bean sprouts, fi paste, and painstaking attention to detail to create an exquisite dish. It was incredibly time-ing and required a lot of precision. During that era, people pursued refined food preparation to areme."

  Wu Yumei scoffed, "What a waste of time. Why bother with this? If you wa, just eat meat. If you waarian food, eat vegetarian food. This is pure torture for cooks. That old witch wasn’t eve."

  His master smiled, "Back then, there were no phones, no puters, no i. People could only focus on perfeg their craft in this way. The pursuit of fine dining tio this day, and mahy people are still willing to pay a premium for this kind of artistry. Chefs will never faemployment as long as they perfect their craft."

  Enced by the versation, Zhang g excimed, "I want to make fire sprouted silver threads now!"

  His master chuckled and said, "You should first learn how to peel onions."

  The school proposed a New Year's parent-child party, which sparked a great deal of reaong the students. Not everyone was enthusiastic about the idea because their parents, much like themselves, cked any particur talents. Many of them were just ordinary workers at the shipyard, w three shifts in demanding ditions, with little time or energy for these types of events.

  Fortunately, the school wasn’t making parental participation mandatory—they only enced it. Still, some students had good retionships with their parents, and tally, their parents were happy to join in on the fun. This afternoon, after sany families began preparing performances for the event.

  Feng Xiaoxiao, as the css representative, naturally took it upon herself to set an example. She returned home after school and brought up the event to her mother, requesting her support. Feng Li, her mother, found the idea simple enough and immediately said, “Not a problem! I’ll perform a dance for you all myself. I’ve just learned some pole dang at the club.”

  Looking at his 180-pound mother, Feng Xiaoxiao gritted his teeth and said, "Fet it."

  He still had another option—he could call his handsome, charming father for help. But his father was so busy with work that it seemed impossible for him to take time off to support his son. Still, he couldn't shake his unease. So, he made a call to his father.

  Ma Xiaowei was in a meeting when he received the call from home. He felt irritated and stepped out of the meeting room to answer, speaking impatiently: "What is it now?"

  Oher end came his son's voice, expining that the school had anized a parent-child gathering and hoped that parents would participate. As the css monitor, he should take the lead.

  The moment Ma Xiaowei heard this, he thought of Ou Li. This was a great opportunity to show off. He quickly reviewed his schedule for the week—December 31 was free of any important work.

  "Alright, Dad will definitely support you," he said.

  Feng Xiaoxiao hung up and pumped his fist in the air. "Yes!"

  At the orthopedic department of the hospital, the small group of friends, Yijianmei, had gathered again. Yin Weiran's injured leg no longer required tra. She told her two close friends that the doctor said her bone fracture wasn’t a severe pound one, and the soft tissue injuries were minimal. She didn’t need long-term hospitalization and would soourn to school.

  "First thing when I get back to school is to mess with her," Yin Weiran said, referring, of course, to Yi Nuan-Nuan.

  Mei Xin added, "You attend the gathering this time, which is different from the past. Everyone is making dumplings together and inviting parents to participate. By the way, Yin Weiran, won’t you have your parents perform something?"

  Jian Shiyu looked at Mei Xin with a resentful expression. Why did Mei Xin always bring this up? Jian Shiyu’s father was a stru business owner with a mistress and two children outside his marriage. He didn’t care much about family matters. Her mother was a housewife with no talent in perf arts. Meanwhile, Mei Xin's family had numerous artistic talents—her father was the deputy head of the pany’s propaganda department, and her mother was an aplished cultural worker.

  There were subtle rivalries within the Yijianmei group. Jian Shiyu and Mei Xin were "pstic sisters"—their friendship was fragile at best. Yin Weiran, however, was the eldest, and she always o be the best. After a brief moment of thought, she picked up her phone and called her father.

  Yin Bingsong was currently at a rural guesthouse, avoidiain troubles. By all logic, his safety should have e first, and he should not have shown his face. But, due to his love for his daughter, he only hesitated for a few seds befreeing to her request.

  "Don’t worry, Dad will give you face," he promised.

  Ba Apartment 17, Shipyard New Vilge, Yi Nuan-Nuan was also preparing for the gathering performance. Initially, she didn’t want to participate in such a lively event, but after Ms. Ali's arrival, she slowly started to bond with her cssmates and became willing to tribute to group activities. Uncle Huang was right—she was excellent in vocal musid drawing. But what about the parent-child performance?

  Her grandfather wouldn’t e, but her grandmother could dance folk dances. However, those dances wouldn’t really "shine" on stage. After much thought, she sidered her aunt. Her aunt was young, pretty, eid could sing well.

  tally, her grandmother was on the phoh her aunt, asking if she would return home for the New Year's holiday. Her aunt said she had just finished her interview with a new pany and would only begin work after the New Year. She could indeed e home for the holidays. Yi Nuan-Nuan expihe parent-child gathering to her aunt, and she immediately agreed to participate.

  Nuan-Nuan suppressed the urge to tell her aunt a secret—that her father was alive and was a secret agent. The "real-life True Lies" in their family was a fantasy no normal child could resist, let alone someone like her, who had ehe pain of losing parents. On sleepless nights, Nuan-Nuan had created tless fairy tales in her mind. She kept a diary full of drawings and stories about her parents and herself. Before Uncle Huang appeared in her life, it was this diary and a family photo that had kept her alive.

  Yi Leng was the st to join. When Yi Nuan-Nuan was little, he had missed many pareings. This time, he didn’t want to leave as. Ms. Ali asked him to assist with the dining arras, so he naturally stepped in without hesitation.

  The days passed quickly, and soon it was the final weekend of the year—the st day of the year. Both schools and workpces had no motivation for learning or work anymore. Schools were preparing parent-child gatherings, and workpces were hosting simir events. The m csses ended early, and students were dismissed to gather supplies in preparation for the afternoo at 3 PM.

  This was the time for parents to show off their creativity. Mothers were busy dressing and putting on makeup at home, while fathers drove their cars, transp supplies. Making dumplings would require electric stoves, boiled water, meat fillings, and pre-made dumpling skins. These were minor inveniences pared to the real spectacle—the performances in the school auditorium.

  Mei Xin’s father, Mei Yuliang, was the deputy director of the pany’s Administrative Propaganda Department. Using his resources, he arranged for a set e dispy ss and sound equipment to be provided to the school. His daughter would be the ter of attention at the event.

  The most impressive effort, however, came from Feng Xiaoxiao's family. His father, Ma Xiaowei, arranged a truck, recruited eight workers, and brought in a Steinway grand piano.

  The students from Css 2-5 leaned against the corridor railing, watg the workers unload the piano. One of them remarked: "Css monitor, is your dad going to perform a piano solo?"

  Feng Xiaoxiao had never heard his father py the piano. Nor did he know if his father pyed any musical instrument. heless, assuming his father was a Tsinghua Uy graduate, he felt fident that piano pying wouldn’t be difficult for him. He said casually: "My dad's piano skills are average. He’s just the 'Piano Prince' of Tsinghua."

  He enjoyed using this modest tone while saying the most impressive things. His cssmates were amazed and envious.

  Ma Xiaowei oversaw the workers as they unloaded the piano. The Steinway grand piano was expensive and delicate, requiring careful handling. He wiped the sweat from his brow as he removed his Chesterfield cashmere coat, revealing his formal evening attire—a red and blue striped bow tie and satin jacket—his performafit for showing off in front of Ms. Ali.

  However, Ma Xiaowei didn’t know how to py the piano. He came from a w-css background, had no musical talent, and could only recite poetry well.

  A Wuling minivan arrived with stoves and food supplies for Css 2-5. Yi Leng stepped out, smoke in his hair, wearing a dirty cotton jacket and bck leather pants with white socks. He looked at the Steiniano and paused, turning his prayer beads absentmindedly.

  "Wow, a Steinway A188. Who would spend that much money?" he muttered.

  [--------------------------------------------]

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