One person: Senior brother Zhang Zhiwei, the Celestial Master begged me to descend the mountain.

As dusk falls, the city lights begin to illuminate the scene.

The prosperity of Beijing was on full display at this moment, with dazzling neon lights turning the night sky a dark red.

Inside a Michelin three-star French restaurant located in the heart of the CBD, crystal chandeliers reflect dazzling light, and melodious violin music flows through the air.

Every corner here exudes sophistication and luxury, and even the air is filled with an expensive aromatherapy scent.

"Um... senior, please try this."

Wang Ye pointed eagerly at the enormous white porcelain plate in front of him.

In the center of the plate, there was a lone piece of something about the size of a thumb, with a strange, foamy appearance, garnished with two drops of dark brown sauce and a leaf from some unknown plant.

"This is the restaurant's signature dish: molecular gastronomy foie gras."

Wang Ye introduced with a smile:

"I heard it even won an international gold medal. Would you like to try it?"

Zhang Taichu sat at the dining table covered with a velvet tablecloth, holding a silver fork in his hand, his brows furrowed, as if he were facing not some top-notch delicacy, but a pile of indescribable garbage.

He gently poked the clump of foam with the tip of his fork.

puff.

A section of the foam collapsed.

"Is this dinner?"

Zhang Taichu raised his eyelids, glanced at Wang Ye, and then at Zhang Chulan, who was holding a knife and fork and preparing to start eating.

"Xiao Wang, what have I done to offend you?"

"If you're reluctant to spend the money, just say so."

"Trying to fool this Taoist priest with something so low-quality it wouldn't even fit in a cat's teeth?"

Wang Ye's smile froze on his face. He held the decanter in his hand, unsure whether to put it down or not.

"Senior, this...this is art, it's all about the artistic conception..."

"Poor artistic conception!"

Zhang Taichu casually tossed his fork onto the plate with a loud clang, drawing disapproving glances from the well-dressed diners at the surrounding tables.

"lifeless."

Zhang Taichu leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest:

"This thing looks exquisite, but it's actually full of the smell of death."

"That goose was terrified when it was alive, and its resentment was trapped in its liver."

"And the heat is just right."

"It wasn't cooked over an open flame, but rather slowly boiled in a constant-temperature water bath, right?"

"It's completely devoid of any warmth or smoke, it's eerie and unappetizing, even ghosts would find it too cold to eat."

These words were spoken quite loudly, sounding particularly jarring in the quiet and elegant restaurant.

Not far away, a foreign chef wearing a top hat and sporting a small mustache was patrolling the hall. Upon hearing the commotion, his face instantly darkened.

He strode over, speaking in broken Chinese with an arrogant tone:

"Sir, please watch your words."

"This is the most advanced sous-vide technology, designed to preserve the original freshness and texture of the ingredients to the greatest extent possible."

"Your...rude comments are an insult to our art."

The head chef held his chin high, his eyes filled with disdain for the old man in the tattered Taoist robe in front of him.

Seeing this, Wang Ye was about to get up and smooth things over.

Zhang Taichu waved his hand, gesturing for him to sit down.

He slowly stood up, looking straight at the head chef who was half a head taller than him.

"Delicious?"

Zhang Taichu chuckled and pointed a finger at the plate of foie gras from a distance:

"All things have a spirit, and food also has energy."

"Your so-called low-temperature slow cooking seems to lock in the moisture, but in reality, it also locks in that fishy and muttony smell."

"Food separated from soil and fire is lifeless."

"Only by cooking oil over a raging fire, using the masculine energy of the flames, can the yin energy within be neutralized and its final vitality brought forth."

"You're not cooking at all."

Zhang Taichu shook his head, his eyes filled with pity:

"You're performing embalming on a corpse."

The chef was stunned.

His mouth gaped open, and his meticulously trimmed mustache trembled violently.

He wanted to refute it, to say that it was science, that it was molecular gastronomy.

But looking into the deep, unfathomable eyes of the old Taoist priest in front of him, he suddenly felt a chill run down his spine, and an inexplicable coldness shot from the soles of his feet straight to the top of his head.

All those prepared technical terms were now completely useless; I couldn't utter a single word.

"I'm gone."

Zhang Taichu didn't even bother to look at the head chef again, and turned to walk out.

"Staying in a place like this for too long will shorten your lifespan."

"Xiao Wang, lead the way."

"Let's go to a place where people eat like normal people do."

Wang Ye snapped out of his daze, quickly pulled out a black card and slammed it on the table. Without even asking for change, he grabbed the still-stunned Zhang Chulan and chased after them.

The chef was left standing there, staring at the expensive foie gras on his plate, lost in deep self-doubt.

Half an hour later.

In an old alley in Beijing.

There are no crystal chandeliers here, only a few dim streetlights and signs covered in grease.

There was no sound of violins, only shouts, drinking games, and the sizzling sound of iron woks being stir-fried.

The air wasn't filled with the smell of incense, but rather a rich aroma of garlic, vinegar, and the mouthwatering scent of meat.

"Boss! Two more bowls of pork intestines, please! Extra garlic! Extra cilantro!"

Zhang Taichu squatted there with one foot on a long bench, completely disregarding his image.

He was holding a large, rough porcelain bowl, bigger than his face, filled with braised pork buns in a rich, red sauce.

The steam rising from the heat made his old face turn red.

"Slurp—"

Zhang Taichu took a big sip of the hot soup in the bowl and let out a long, satisfied sigh.

"ha--!"

"This is what real food is!"

He picked up a piece of chubby intestine, not caring about the heat, and threw it directly into his mouth, chewing it heartily. The oil dripped down the corners of his mouth, but he didn't care at all, wiping it away with his sleeve.

"Come on, Chu Lan! Eat!"

"Don't act like a girl! This bowl will replenish all your energy and spirit!"

Sitting opposite him, Zhang Chulan looked at his uncle, who had just been talking about health philosophy in a Michelin-starred restaurant, but was now squatting at a roadside stall like a starving ghost.

Then he looked at the dark, lumpy mess in his bowl.

He gritted his teeth and, following Zhang Taichu's example, began to eat heartily.

Wang Ye held a bottle of Yanjing beer that cost only a few yuan, but didn't touch his chopsticks.

The surrounding area was filled with the noisy sounds of people from the marketplace.

There were workers shirtless, bragging after get off work; delivery guys hurriedly eating their food; and elderly people haggling over a few cents.

It's noisy, messy, and even a bit dirty here.

But at this moment.

Wang Ye, however, felt an unprecedented sense of peace.

"The Way is found in the everyday life..."

Wang Ye muttered to himself as a drop of water slid down the side of the beer bottle in his hand.

He used to think that spiritual practice meant being quiet and inactive, and staying away from worldly affairs.

So he sought tranquility on Wudang Mountain and maintained a reclusive attitude at home.

But looking at Zhang Taichu in front of him...

He suddenly understood.

True masters never hide in the deep mountains and forests, living on wind and dew.

Instead, they can live more authentically and more clearly than anyone else in this bustling world, amidst the most mundane and unbearable worldly affairs.

"senior."

Wang Ye raised the wine bottle, waved it at Zhang Taichu, and a relieved smile appeared on his lips:

"This meal was well worth it."

"Been taught a lesson."

Zhang Taichu, his mouth stuffed full of roasted meat, mumbled an indistinct groan:

Stop flattering me.

"Eat it quickly, it won't taste good when it gets cold."

The meal was eaten in a flash.

Only when a tall stack of empty bowls stood before him did Zhang Taichu reluctantly put down his chopsticks.

He let out a burp, reached into the tissue box on the table, pulled out a handful of tissues, and wiped his mouth haphazardly.

"That feels good."

Zhang Taichu touched his slightly bulging belly, and his previously cloudy, lifeless eyes suddenly became incredibly clear at that moment.

It was already late at night.

The number of people in the alley gradually decreased.

The once bustling streets began to become somewhat deserted.

A night breeze blew by, swirling up a few scraps of newspaper on the ground, making a rustling sound.

The smile on Zhang Taichu's face gradually faded with the gust of wind.

He remained in the same squatting position on the bench, his body still, only tilting his head slightly to the side.

My gaze passed through the dim yellow glow of the streetlights and landed on the dark shadows at the entrance of the alley.

"I'm full and satisfied."

Zhang Taichu slowly stood up.

He patted the dust off his tattered Taoist robe and straightened his slightly crooked collar.

"However, there are quite a lot of flies in Beijing."

"It's buzzing so loudly, it's giving me a headache."

Zhang Taichu raised his head and looked at the moon overhead, which was half-hidden by smog.

An invisible, chilling killing intent spread out from him instantly.

The temperature in the alley seemed to drop several degrees.

The boss, who was tidying up the table nearby, couldn't help but shudder and muttered in confusion:

"Why did the weather suddenly get so cold?"

Zhang Taichu withdrew his gaze, glanced at Wang Ye who was full of vigilance, and a cruel smile curled at the corner of his lips:

"Let's go, Xiao Wang."

"Let's go for a walk after dinner to aid digestion."