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A squeeze in the abdomen, an uncomfortable weightlessness. She knows it all too well - although Mama and Baba never let her skip a meal, going to bed with only half a bowl of rice in her stomach is a feeling she locks away in the furthest corners of her mind.
"I'm sorry the matsutake are a little dry," Baba says one day, setting the platter down, "And the meat is a bit thin. So pair it with rice, and drink plenty of water, okay?"
She eats her fill, eyes lighting up at how tasty it is. And maybe it's the hunger speaking, but it's the best thing she's ever had. She eats so much her tummy aches, too young to know better or to notice how Mama and Baba hold off until she is through.
"Baba made this?" she asks when every last grain is gone - save for the one on her cheek.
"Baba made this," he answers, smiling proudly as he wipes away the white speck. "Was it yummy?"
"Mm- it was sooo yummy!" She's practically bouncing in her seat as she speaks. "Dry or not, the matsutake still had a lot of flavor. And the meat was so tender - what did you put on it? Salt and garlic?"
"Salt and garlic," he confirms, beaming at her. "My little girl is such a flavor connoisseur."
"That's because I'm gonna be just like Baba!" She crosses her arms and grins triumphantly. "I'm gonna be the next chef of Wanmin Restaurant."
His face almost falls, but he catches himself in time. "You'll be the best chef of Wanmin Restaurant."
So on her twelfth birthday, he hands her a worn cookbook with a nod and a smile. They're doing better now; with the Xinyue Kiosk and the Liuli Pavilion becoming more and more exclusive, Wanmin is frequently the most affordable option for decent food.
She screws up everything the first time. She burns the rice (heat too high, too little water), puts the garlic in early (no more flavor; just coals now), overcooks the chicken (rubbery, dry). It's a waste - all those ingredients, once perfectly acceptable, have to be thrown out.
"I'm a failure," she sobs, "I'm so sorry, Baba."
He shakes his head patiently, tells her to look at the first page again and to read it aloud.
A shaky breath. "There are m-many secrets to cooking; the most important of which is passion."
"That's right." He rests a hand on her head. "And you have the passion - you've had that your whole life. As long as you put your heart in your cooking, you can never be a failure."
A matsutake from this cave will have the right humidity, the right altitude to create the precise flavor she seeks. It will complete the vegetable fritters as a truly vegetarian meal by making up for the aroma lost in switching from animal fat to vegetable oil.
But these conditions are also not ideal for encouraging matsutake growth. On the unlikely occasion one somehow winds up here, it will all too easily be destroyed by a lurking monster or snatched up by a squirrel. Even so, a search company made up of fans and friends alike set out in hopes of humoring her for a free banquet. Perhaps they believe she will give up after taking a few hits from a hilichurl.
Unfortunately for them, giving up simply is not in her nature. Her bandages and the heavy scar on her back that peeks over her shoulder are not for show. After all, Mama and Baba were never people of violence. No, they did not teach her to fight; the monsters and beasts of the wilds who hunted her relentlessly did. She figures the others were just luckier in their experiences.
It turns out they have no experiences to speak of. Despite many envisioning themselves heroes their whole lives, not everyone is suited to fighting - or even defending themselves. So, bit by bit, her little party dissolves throughout the day like ashy snowflakes on the tongue. She bites back bitterness with each exit, refuses to spite them even when she is alone. Mind set on one goal and one goal alone, she doesn't watch them go. She marches onward, nothing at her side but a lance. There’s no need to blame them; it was a hopeless quest from the start.
At least perseverance yields results, even for one so stubborn. Across a shallow stream, the deep root of a tree peeks out from the damp dirt. Atop it, enveloped in an almost-ethereal spotlight sits a singular matsutake.
She finally lets herself feel the sores on her feet as she slowly makes her way to her prize. Her hands ache from all the enemies she has speared throughout the day. Her eyelids grow heavy - how late is it, for this light to be from the moon?
But of course, something is wrong. She feels a strange draft. Her head cranes to the left, and she spots a round shadow expanding. A large slime, preparing its defenses.
It happens faster than she can process. One moment, their eyes are locked. The next, cold pierces through her side, tearing deeper than is comfortable. A choked sob escapes her throat, and it takes all her energy to stay standing. She flails, brings her spear down and makes a lucky break to free herself.
The force pushes the slime backward, just far enough away for her to catch her breath and ignore the frost that pulses through her veins, slows each movement. She stumbles toward it, tries to jam her weapon between its skin and its helm. Instead, she slips on nothing and nearly crashes to the dirt, managing to flip the slime into the stream - or rather, onto, its low temperature immediately freezing a circle around it. In a fit of panic, it flees, leaving a quickly-melting trail behind it.
Now or never.
She lunges forward - a critical mistake. The single splash echoes in her ears.
Her legs go first. Numb pain clambers up her body from her toes. Her muscles turn to pins and needles, but reprieve is no longer possible - and now her waist is seizing. She manages one last wheezy exhale that she 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘴 turn to a misty cloud.
Xiangling realizes, then, that she is going to die alone.
Maybe her life won’t be for naught, she tries to convince herself. After all, without her daring exploits in cooking, Wanmin would not be standing anymore. She has already touched so many people’s lives with delicious food and delightful cheer.
But there has to be more to a complete life than just that. She has a greater purpose, a greater passion to pursue. Merely bringing smiles to a few others’ faces is not enough. She does not fully believe in ghosts, but she knows her soul will not simply go to rest.
Silhouetted against what little light peeks through, someone materializes. Through hazy tears, she can hardly make out shapes, but she can tell hands reach for her. With the tender touch of a parent, they cradle her face, and suddenly she is aware that they are too much sheer heat to be human. A mouth splits just a little too wide, and briefly she thinks she can see through to the other side of them.
「A pilgrimage for a wish; a battle to earn a name.」
Flames sear her flesh, diaphragm collapsing painfully as tired lungs suddenly fill.
「Burnt to cinders for a mere dream.」
Like a cat, heat licks her wounds and cauterizes what would have killed her otherwise.
「There are many secrets to cooking; the most important of which is passion.」
Golden eyes train on the gelatinous blob as she wrenches her lance free from the last of the ice.
"You'd taste great in soup," she growls in an unfamiliar voice.
Mindless as the species is, something akin to fear flickers in the slime’s eyes. In them, she sees a reflection of her raising her weapon, the incalescence rolling off her already melting the shell of the trembling monster.
"After all, good food is good food. Period."