Others cultivate their immortality by meditating and refining their Qi, while he cultivates his immortality by frying rice in an iron pot.
The resentful spirit lingers? Fry a bowl of egg fried rice. Is the curse difficult to cure? Make a pot of soothing porridge. The whole building is shrouded in gloom? Boil a pot of glutinous rice, red dates and tuckahoe stew to purify it thoroughly.
The orthodox cultivation world said that he was a deviant, and the Alien Management Bureau listed him as a "low-risk observation object." Even the children of the aristocratic family who came to deliver the invitation said to his face: "I will deliver your takeaway honestly, and don't embarrass myself."
Until he won the "Baiwei Guiyuan Soup" that has been passed down by the Nangong family for hundreds of years with a bowl of steamed bun paste in the Baiweilou competition.
"The way of a spiritual chef is, in the final analysis, for people to eat." The judge put down the bowl and said something to silence the audience.
From a delivery boy to a tripod owner, from a shabby rental house on Qinghe Road to the center of attention in the entire cultivation world, Chen Wuwei walked into a world that looked down upon him with the iron pot in his hand. Behind him were the book spirit who was being hunted by the sect, the steppenwolf who was imprinted with the beast-control mark, and the fox demon who carried the fragmentary map of the secret realm—each one was trouble, and each one he kept.
"You have to walk your own road, and you have to eat your own food."
"Who the hell is this cook? He is clearly the Supreme Master of the Ding Dao!"
From a delivery boy to a pot owner, Chen Wuwei walked into a world that looked down upon him with the pot in his hand.
