Chapter Ninety-Five: The Culinary Contest of Medicinal Dishes!

Ye Wushang looked up.

Qiao Sen appeared to be around forty years old, with a receding hairline and a rotund figure. His face bore a genial smile, giving off an air of friendliness. However, his hawk-like eyes betrayed a sharpness that was far from pleasant—he was the very model of a smiling tiger, all smiles on the surface and cunning beneath.

“Greetings, Steward Qiao,” Master Wang said respectfully.

Ye Wushang merely nodded slightly.

“You two are the elites handpicked by the An and Pei families,” Qiao Sen began. “The outcome of this medicinal cuisine competition will determine the future prospects of both families. Remember, not only must your dishes be delicious, but they must also bring out the medicinal effects. Of course, the most crucial point is to fill in the missing three ingredients. Do you understand?”

With these words, he waved his hand. Immediately, several staff members brought trays laden with ingredients, placing them on the preparation tables.

Two identical sets, with all necessary utensils provided.

Ye Wushang glanced at the end of the table. When his eyes landed on the last two ingredients—Pleated Grass and Riverflow Water—they lit up greedily. Their combination could produce the very fourth ingredient he had so desperately sought: Springheart Bud.

“Well, look at you, stunned, aren’t you?” Seeing Ye Wushang’s astonished expression, Master Wang snorted with disdain. “These ingredients are exceedingly rare and precious. Their value is beyond measure, and even the Luo family went to great lengths to find them. For the An family to let you make medicinal cuisine with them is sheer waste. If you mess up the dish and ruin these treasures, it will be a tragedy. If you can’t do it, just say so—why act tough?”

Huang Yuanxiang looked awkward. Even he assumed Ye Wushang had never seen such things before. How could someone so inexperienced make a decent medicinal dish?

“Mr. Ye, are you sure you still want to compete?” Qiao Sen looked at him coolly. He knew little about this young man, but one glance revealed him for what he was—a greenhorn, a poor lad with nothing but a handsome face to his name. Having worked with the An family for years, Qiao Sen knew An Lan to be smart and capable. How could she possibly be taken in by someone like this? Handsome men are everywhere—why tie herself to this tree?

In such a critical event, to send this fellow to face the Luo family was simply outrageous.

“Of course,” Ye Wushang replied, straightening his back. “Once the bow is drawn, there’s no turning back. I’m rather looking forward to seeing Master Wang’s skills.”

“Hmph. Stubborn to the end. You’ll regret it soon enough!” Master Wang snorted and strode to his table, busying himself without another word.

There were seven base ingredients, plus the three missing ones, making ten in all. The recipe was called ‘Heaven’s Tenfold Feast.’ There were many ways to prepare it, and Master Wang chose to steam.

His knife skills were superb, his sorting meticulous. Under his skilled hands, the baskets of medicinal herbs were neatly arranged on the table. Whether chopping or grinding, his movements were as fluid as a piano sonata, a pleasure to behold.

“Master Wang’s technique is truly impressive,” murmured the crowd.

“Absolutely superb—just watching him is thrilling. The dish will surely be outstanding.”

“He’s even better than I expected—no wonder he’s the Pei family’s chief strategist. Few can match his skill.”

“My hat’s off to him.”

The room was abuzz with admiration and respect for Master Wang. Pei Huaide and his son, initially anxious, visibly relaxed and settled comfortably into their seats, sipping tea and humming tunes.

In contrast, Ye Wushang’s face was grave, silent and dazed, as if overwhelmed by the spectacle.

“Miss, do you think Mr. Ye can beat Master Wang?” Xiaocui whispered.

Huang Pianruo shook her head and sighed. “I’m afraid not. My father has presided over many such contests—he’s seen more than enough. If he says Mr. Ye isn’t up to it, then he probably isn’t.”

“I believe in Wushang!” Though softly spoken, An Lan caught the words. Though she herself felt unsure, she had chosen to trust Ye Wushang. Besides, her connection with him went far deeper than mere friendship.

“He never fights a battle unprepared. If he’s agreed to do this, he’ll do it well,” An Lan said earnestly.

Xiaocui pouted and mumbled, “Who wouldn’t hope for Mr. Ye to succeed? But the facts are plain—why insist otherwise?”

“Xiaocui,” Huang Pianruo interjected, taking a breath to steady herself. “President An, I understand your feelings. But you’ve seen Master Wang’s skills. I fear Mr. Ye’s chances are slim.”

Before she could finish, a sudden clatter drew all eyes to Master Wang as he lifted the lid from his steamer. A rich aroma instantly filled the hall, putting everyone in high spirits.

“It’s done,” Master Wang announced, ladling his soup into nine large bowls. He instructed the staff to serve the judges and declared, “This is my ‘Five Flavor Soup,’ crafted according to the recipe and available ingredients. Sour, sweet, bitter, spicy, and salty—all five tastes are blended together. It nourishes the body and soothes the stomach. After drinking it, one’s vigor will be restored several times over.”

Soon, the soup was placed before the nine judges. At the same time, staff connected each judge to monitoring devices, which displayed their health metrics as the switches were flipped on.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Huang Yuanxiang explained into the microphone, pointing at the numbers, “these figures represent the judges’ health. After drinking the soup, if the numbers improve, it proves the medicinal effect. If the taste also pleases the judges and it scores well, then it’s a perfect dish. Now, please, judges, taste Master Wang’s Five Flavor Soup.”

The judges nodded and began tasting.

All eyes were on them, full of anticipation.

“Delicious.”

“Excellent soup.”

“Nourishing and tasty—a rare treat.”

“I give it nine points.”

“I give nine point five.”

“Ten points—full marks!”

With praise and scores given, the judges awarded Master Wang a total of eighty-five out of ninety points. The missing five came from one judge who, displeased by his own lower health readings, docked points.

Still, this was a very high score. Not only did the soup win unanimous praise for taste, but the judges’ health metrics also improved two- or three-fold. Their faces glowed with renewed vigor.

Applause thundered through the hall.

Everyone present—guests, judges, even Qiao Sen—lavished praise on Master Wang. He basked in the adulation, nodding and smiling broadly.

Glancing at the somber Ye Wushang, Master Wang couldn’t resist taunting, “Well, you waste, have you learned something? I gave you a chance, but you didn’t cherish it. Even if you want to back out now, it’s too late. You’ll regret crossing me!”

Ye Wushang ignored him and merely shook his head, regret written across his face.

Pei Qinghu jeered, “What’s the point of sighing? Even we have to admit Master Wang’s performance was admirable.”

Pei Huaide chimed in, “You might as well give up now and let Steward Qiao announce the winner. No need to waste more time.”

Before he could finish, Ye Wushang interrupted him.

They frowned in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Who are you calling disappointing? What’s with your sarcasm?”

“You,” Ye Wushang replied, staring calmly at Master Wang. “I’ve seen many so-called masters, but none as poor as you who still claims the title. How could I not sigh?”

Master Wang was stunned, then furious. “You dare mock me?”

“It’s not mockery—it’s the truth,” Ye Wushang said coolly. “Clearly, you don’t understand what medicinal cuisine is.”

With that, he walked to his table and began sorting through the ingredients.

Unlike Master Wang’s swift, decisive movements, Ye Wushang was slow and methodical, making a mess of the baskets. He didn’t steam the ingredients but chose to stir-fry them, not as a hodgepodge but with careful selection.

To outsiders, it seemed as if he didn’t recognize the herbs or know how to cook them, groping in the dark. Those who already doubted him grew even more scornful, seeing his actions as nothing but a waste of ingredients and time.

Soon, with the sorting done, Ye Wushang poured the herbs into the wok and began stir-frying, filling the air with a harsh crackling sound.

Ten minutes passed with no aroma—if anything, a faint burnt smell could be detected.

The onlookers grew ever more contemptuous. Was this cooking? It was nothing but nonsense.

But Ye Wushang ignored their ridicule and continued, infusing his inner strength into the process. The more he fried, the drier the mixture became, as if he were refining pills, evaporating all moisture.

After half an hour—

With a sudden blast, the wok erupted in flames.

Smoke billowed, but Ye Wushang calmly lifted the wok and poured nine black, mushroom-sized pellets onto a plate.

“My dish is ready. Please serve it to the judges.”