He practically threw himself onto the stool, grabbing the wooden spoon.

He didn’t bother blowing on it as he took a massive, scalding spoonful of the broth.

The Drunken Sovereign froze.

His eyes widened. The flush on his cheeks seemed to pale by a fraction instantly.

A shudder ran through his entire frame as the neutralizing herbs and the rich, replenishing Yang energy of the broth hit his abused liver like a restorative lightning bolt.

He didn’t speak. He just lowered his head and began to inhale the soup, the bowl emptying in a matter of seconds.

Ji’an sat down across from him, crossing her arms, her spatula resting on the table between them.

She watched him wipe the bottom of the bowl with a piece of leftover flatbread she had heated up.

"Better now, master?" Ji’an asked dryly.

Jiu Zui let out a long, rumbling sigh, leaning back on the stool until it balanced precariously on two legs.

He rubbed his stomach, a look of profound peace settling over his handsome, rugged features.

"Kid," Jiu Zui murmured, his voice completely clear of the alcoholic slur for the first time. "If you ever leave this peak, I will hunt you down to the ends of the earth and drag you back by your ear!"

"We need to talk about that," Ji’an said, leaning forward, resting her elbows on the table. "Because I think you might have made a massive, impulsive mistake today, Master."

Jiu Zui raised an eyebrow. He reached for his belt, instinctively going for his wine gourd, but paused, his hand hovering over it.

He actually decided to stay sober for the conversation. "A mistake? I saved you from becoming an ice sculpture on Qin’s peak. You should be thanking me."

"Oh, I am grateful. Extremely grateful," Ji’an nodded emphatically. "Elder Qin absolutely wanted to bury me in an avalanche to keep Wangchen focused. But Master... you need to understand what you just invested in. Because taking me on as a direct apprentice? Promoting me to Martial Uncle? It’s a terrible ROI."

Jiu Zui chuckled, a deep, resonant sound. "ROI? Return on investment? You sound like that slippery Merchant boy."

"I am a pragmatist, Master," Ji’an stated, holding up a finger. "Let me lay out the facts for you, just so we are on the same page. I do not want you waking up tomorrow, regretting your drunken grandstanding, and throwing me off the mountain."

Ji’an began to list her flaws with the terrifying precision of a kitchen inventory audit.

"Reason One: I am not a swordmaster." Ji’an tapped the table. "This is the Celestial Sword Sect. The top ten disciples are supposed to be unparalleled martial geniuses who excel in fighting with all kinds of weapons and are versatile in other skills. I fight with a piece of cast iron. I don’t know any sword forms, I don’t care about sword intent, and if you try to make me swing a blade, I will probably chop my own foot off."

"Reason Two: I am functionally illiterate in Array Magic." She held up a second finger. "I can draw a ward using garlic and salt to keep out basic ghouls, but if you ask me to calculate the geometric resonance of a teleportation array, my brain will leak out of my ears."

"Reason Three: I am incredibly expensive to just keep alive." Ji’an leaned back, crossing her arms. "I don’t cultivate by sitting on a rock and breathing in the morning dew. I am a foodie. I am a chef. My cultivation requires high-grade, premium ingredients. I need spirit-beast meat, I need rare truffles, I need herbs that cost more than this entire kitchen is worth. I will eat you out of house and home."

"Reason Four: This Chaotic Root of mine." Ji’an sighed heavily, pointing to her own chest. "Everyone in this sect knows it. Five-element impurity, a trash root. It takes me ten times the resources to achieve what a single-element genius like Wangchen or Zhiwei can do in a day. I am but a spiritual black hole."

Ji’an finished her presentation, looking at the Drunken Sovereign with deadpan sincerity.

"So," Ji’an concluded. "I am a high-maintenance, non-traditional, incredibly expensive chef with a trash spiritual root who has somehow accidentally acquired the aggro of a bunch of weird geniuses. Why on earth did you pick me as your one and only legacy?"

Silence stretched across the freshly scrubbed kitchen. The only sound was the gentle crackle of the remaining embers in the hearth.

Jiu Zui looked at her. He didn’t laugh, nor did he look disappointed.

Instead, the Drunken Sovereign’s amethyst eyes softened.

The manic, chaotic energy of the drunkard completely melted away, revealing a man who had lived for centuries, who had seen empires rise and fall, and who knew exactly what he was looking at.

"Are you finished?" Jiu Zui asked quietly.

Ji’an blinked. "Uh. Yes. That covers the major liabilities."

Jiu Zui reached across the table. He didn’t grab her, just tapped the center of her chest, right over her dantian, with two fingers.

"You think this is a trash root," Jiu Zui murmured, his voice carrying the weight of ancient, forgotten histories. "You think the world sees a Chaotic Root and scoffs because it cannot easily channel a single element like fire or ice. The elders of this sect are fools, Ji’an. They have forgotten the old ways. They look at a river and complain that it is not a sword."

Ji’an frowned, confused. "What are you talking about?"

"I am talking about your constitution," Jiu Zui said, sitting back and folding his arms. "The Harmonious Five-Grain Constitution."

Ji’an froze. Her heart skipped a beat.

She had never said those words out loud. Not to Wangchen, not to Zhiwei, not to anyone.

The System had given her that title when she transmigrated, but she assumed it was just a fancy, gamified way of saying "you have a strong stomach."

"You... you know what it is?" Ji’an asked, her voice dropping to a cautious whisper.