The wind in the Salt and Tears Desert always carries the smell of salty rust, which feels like a dull knife cutting flesh on your face. When Muchen poured the last mouthful of "Origin Broth" into the silver thermos pot he carried with him, the setting sun on the horizon was dyeing the sand dunes into molten gold ingots. In the flowing light and shadow, it seemed that the deathbed sigh of the first generation of chefs still remained.
