The Complete Guide to Interstellar Cuisine

Luo Baiwei, the culinary cultivator who once stood at the pinnacle, was struck by a tribulation bolt. Instead of becoming an immortal, she was reborn as a spoiled, willful fourteen-year-old girl on a third-class colony planet, who had just gotten herself killed. Looking at a wasteland of taste buds where people ate nutrient solution for meals and synthetic pills to fill their stomachs, Ancestor Luo was heartbroken. This was a regression of civilization! She had intended to quietly cook under the guise of this fallen heiress, but her skills were so astounding that she couldn’t stay unnoticed. The Heart-Cleansing Pills she casually concocted were hailed as “miracle medicine for mental disorders,” while the Foundation-Building Soup she made without a second thought became “gene-evolution serum.” From then on, her kitchen took on a bizarre character. The Imperial Marshal insisted on working as her bodyguard, just for a bowl of spiritual soup that could quell mental storms. Her archenemy, the insect queen, parked a starship outside her door every day just to reserve flower cakes that could purify her bloodline. And as for the mutated star beasts that inspired terror wherever they went? Ancestor Luo weighed her spatula in her hand. Tsk, they were just top-grade ingredients that ran a little faster and had slightly tougher meat. With every pot and spoonful, she followed the path of cultivation through flavor, nourishing the stars and savoring the galaxy. There was just one problem: the mess left behind by the original owner was troublesome. Her eye-catching 33% fertility rate attracted countless covetous suitors, and then there was that seemingly accidental spaceship “accident”... Luo Baiwei waved her spatula and smiled faintly. It seemed it was time to teach this boring interstellar world a proper lesson with good food. A brainless feel-good power fantasy. If you don’t like it, just leave. A kind word can warm you through the coldest winter, while a cruel one can wound even in the heat of summer. I’m not a professional writer. I’m just writing to indulge my own fantasies.