The Little Chef: Setting Up a Stall and Becoming a Hit

Song Rumiao, the Old Chef God’s last disciple, was struck by lightning and sent tumbling into a melodramatic CEO romance novel just before ascending to immortality.

The good news: She brought her culinary talent with her.

The bad news: She became the "baby" in a runaway-pregnancy plot, and her family was so poor they could barely put food on the table.

Looking at her beautiful mommy, who could do nothing but cry, six-year-old Miaomiao sighed, climbed onto a little stool, and hefted a huge iron ladle. Life is hard, so even immortals have to put on a show.

In her first year running a street stall, the aroma carried for miles.

By the fifth year, people lined up for her clear broth noodles until dawn.

By the tenth year of her business, her recipes were priceless. The whole internet begged her to livestream, share her location, and take on apprentices.

Her scumbag CEO dad showed up with a contract.

"Come back with me, and I'll give you my surname."

Song Rumiao held up her ladle and slapped the contract back at him.

"Learn to wait in line first. Then we can talk about acknowledging me."

Xie Wanzhuo, the young master of Yuncheng's Xie family, was famously aloof, picky with food, and indifferent to others.

By day, he was a well-dressed heir to a powerful family. At night, he knew his way around the kitchen, washing dishes like a pro.

Water splashed as he rolled his sleeves up to his forearms and looked up at her.

"Miaomiao, fame, fortune, opportunities... Whatever you want, I can give it to you. And whoever you're trying to avoid, I can deal with them for you."

He leaned closer, his breath brushing her ear.

"Could you... cook just for me?"

He was so close that his warmth and breath pressed against her. Song Rumiao gripped her ladle, her knuckles tense.

Doing her best to stay calm, she pushed his approaching face away.

"No. I need to earn merit."

Xie Wanzhuo paused.

"Merit? Does washing dishes count?"

"I'll wash all the dishes tonight. Could you favor me just a little more?"

Later, Song Rumiao completed her merits and stepped back into the Ninth Heaven.

But there, on the throne, sat the Lord Xuanming, master of winter's bitter cold across the Three Realms, so icy that the immortals dared not look directly at him. He was leisurely rolling up the long sleeves of his divine robe.

He descended from his altar, leaned close, and whispered in her ear:

"Miaomiao, I've pursued you across the Three Realms. Now that my merits are complete, don't you think it's time you gave me a proper title?"

Theme: Even when mired in hardship, keep moving toward the light. Those who strive onward will eventually taste the fruits of their labor!