Chapter 8: Ten Bowls of Spiritual Rice
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║ MISSION 8 AVAILABLE! ║
║ ║
║ Mission: Consume ten bowls of spiritual rice in ║
║ one sitting at the communal dining hall. ║
║ ║
║ Difficulty: MODERATE (for a normal human) ║
║ Difficulty: IMPOSSIBLE (for you, specifically) ║
║ ║
║ Reward: Iron Stomach (Lv. 1) ║
║ Penalty for failure: Intense hunger for 72 hours. ║
║ Penalty for failure: You owe the System 5 favors. ║
║ ║
║ Time limit: 20 minutes ║
║ Timer starts: NOW ║
║ ║
║ NOTE: Spiritual rice contains concentrated Qi ║
║ meant to aid cultivation. It is delicious. ║
║ You will not taste the difference. ║
║ This is not a compliment. ║
║ ║
║ P.S. — The kitchen elder already hates you. ║
║ Good luck with that. ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════════════════════╝
Owen read the mission three times.
He was sitting on the low wall outside the dormitory, watching Fatty Wang eat a chicken leg. Fatty Wang had acquired the chicken leg from somewhere — Owen had learned not to ask — and was consuming it with the focused intensity of a man defusing a bomb.
"Ten bowls of rice," Owen said.
Fatty Wang looked up. A piece of chicken skin clung to his chin like a decorative ornament. "What?"
"Nothing." Owen stared at the countdown timer ticking in the corner of his vision. 19:42. 19:41. 19:40. "Hey, Fatty Wang."
"Yeah?"
"How many bowls of rice can you eat in one sitting?"
Fatty Wang's eyes went distant. This was a question he had considered before — perhaps the only question he had considered with genuine philosophical depth.
"Depends on the rice," he said. "Spiritual rice? With the Qi in it? I could eat twelve. Fourteen if there's pickled vegetables. Why?"
"No reason."
"I once ate nine bowls during the Autumn Feast and the kitchen elder said I was a disgrace to the sect." He bit the chicken leg cleanly in half. "I took it as a compliment."
Owen looked at the timer. 18:55.
The communal dining hall was a long, stone-walled room that smelled permanently of steam, overcooked grain, and the particular brand of despair that came from eating the same meal three times a day. At this hour — late afternoon, between the second and third meals — it was mostly empty. A few disciples sat at the far tables, nursing bowls of rice and looking at nothing.
Owen walked in with the determined expression of a man walking into his own execution.
Fatty Wang walked in beside him, carrying a folding chair.
"Why did you bring a chair?" Owen asked.
"In case they don't have enough seating." Fatty Wang unfolded it and sat down at the nearest table with the satisfied air of a person who had secured prime real estate. "Also, it's my lucky chair. I eat better when I'm comfortable."
Owen stood in front of the serving counter. Behind it, a kitchen disciple — a thin, harried-looking boy about Owen's age — was washing bowls.
"Ten bowls of spiritual rice," Owen said.
The kitchen disciple looked up. "How many?"
"Ten."
"That's a lot of rice."
"I'm aware."
"We usually serve two bowls per disciple, three if you have a meal token." The disciple eyed Owen. "Do you have a meal token?"
Owen held up the mission interface, which only he could see. "I have a System mission."
The kitchen disciple stared at the empty space where Owen was pointing. "I don't see anything."
"Right. I have — it's a personal thing. Ten bowls. Please."
"Without a meal token?"
"Without a meal token."
"Are you going to pay for them?"
Owen opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at the System.
COST: Covered by the System.
NOTE: Payment was deducted from your favor balance.
Current favor debt: 15.
This is not a reward.
"I have a tab," Owen said.
The kitchen disciple shrugged — the universal shrug of a person who did not get paid enough to care — and ladled the first bowl of spiritual rice onto a ceramic plate. The rice was white, almost luminous, with a faint shimmer that caught the afternoon light. Steam curled from it, carrying the clean, sweet scent of Qi-infused grain.
Owen sat down across from Fatty Wang. He picked up his chopsticks. He looked at the rice.
He took a bite.
It tasted like — nothing. Not bad, not good. Not warm, not cold. Just a texture in his mouth, soft and slightly grainy, like eating a spoonful of wet paper. The shimmer was gone. Where the rice had glowed white on the plate, it was now a flat, matte gray. The steam had vanished. The sweet Qi scent had evaporated, replaced by the faintest ghost of what food was supposed to taste like.
His dantian hummed — a deep, contented sound, like a cat that had just caught something.
Owen swallowed. Picked up another bite. Chewed. Swallowed.
Bowl one.
The kitchen disciple refilled the plate. Fresh rice, glowing, steaming, fragrant. Owen ate it. By the fourth bite, the glow faded. By the eighth, the steam was gone. By the last bite, the rice was gray paste and tasted like a concept of flavor rather than flavor itself.
Bowl two.
Progress: 2/10.
Time remaining: 14:22.
Stomach status: 15% full.
Flavor reception: DETERIORATING.
Across the table, Fatty Wang had acquired a bowl of his own.
"How did you get a bowl?" Owen asked.
"I asked." Fatty Wang was already on his third bite. His eyes were closed. His expression was the transcendent peace of a person eating something genuinely delicious. "Owen. Owen. This rice is incredible. The Qi is — you can feel it, right? It's like — it's like eating sunshine."
"I can't taste anything."
"What?" Fatty Wang looked at Owen's gray pile of mush. "Why does your rice look like that?"
"Doesn't yours?"
Fatty Wang held up his bowl. The rice inside was bright white, steaming, fragrant. It shimmered. "Mine looks fine. It tastes amazing. What happened to yours?"
Owen looked at his rice. Gray. Flat. Dead.
"I think the kitchen gave me a bad batch," he said.
Bowl three.
The rice arrived glowing. Owen ate it. The glow died mid-bite. By the time he set down the bowl, the rice had turned to the color of wet cement and carried the flavor profile of a damp napkin. His stomach felt fine — full, but comfortably full, the way a person felt after eating a normal meal. His dantian, on the other hand, felt like it had just received a gift. A warm, pulsing satisfaction radiated from his core, the way a bonfire radiated heat.
He could almost hear it purring.
Bowl four.
A second kitchen disciple emerged from the back. She stopped, looked at Owen, looked at the growing collection of gray bowls, and turned to the first kitchen disciple with an expression that said what is happening.
"He wants more rice," the first disciple said.
"How many has he had?"
"Four. He's going for ten."
The second disciple looked at Owen. Owen looked at her. She looked at the bowls. The bowls were gray. The rice inside them was the color and texture of old mortar.
"Why is his rice gray?" she asked.
"No idea."
Owen ate bowl four. Fatty Wang ate bowl two and asked if there was any pickled radish.
Bowl five.
The rice arrived warm but barely shimmering. The glow lasted exactly as long as it took Owen to lift the chopsticks. The moment the rice entered his mouth, any remaining trace of Qi vanished. What came out the other side was a pale, flavorless paste that stuck to his teeth in the unpleasant way that only overcooked, spiritually drained rice could manage.
Owen was not a quitter. He was many things — unlucky, confused, the target of an elderly man's deep and abiding hatred — but he was not a quitter.
He ate the paste.
Progress: 5/10.
Time remaining: 08:47.
Stomach status: 55% full.
Flavor reception: NONEXISTENT.
NOTE: You are currently eating something that has been
stripped of all spiritual content. In technical terms,
you are eating sad rice.
Fatty Wang was on bowl four. His cheeks were round and full. Rice grains clung to his chin, his nose, the collar of his robe. He was in a state of pure, unfiltered joy.
"This is the best rice I've ever had," he announced. "The Qi content is — Owen, can you feel that? My meridians are tingling."
"I can feel my dantian being smug."
"What?"
"Nothing. Eat more."
Bowl six. Gray. Paste. Owen chewed mechanically. The mission timer blinked in the corner of his vision: 05:12. His stomach was full — genuinely, uncomfortably full. But the hunger penalty loomed. Seventy-two hours of intense hunger. Three days of his stomach trying to eat itself. He had survived Elder Zhao's lectures, the testing stone explosion, and Fatty Wang's snoring. He could survive ten bowls of rice.
Bowl seven.
The kitchen disciples had stopped what they were doing. They were watching. The few other diners in the hall had also stopped eating. They were watching. Fatty Wang was not watching. Fatty Wang was eating.
Owen's jaw hurt. His stomach groaned. The rice had no flavor, no warmth, no Qi — it was just mass, a substance that existed to fill space. He shoved it in. Chewed. Swallowed. Picked up more. Chewed. Swallowed.
Bowl eight.
Progress: 8/10.
Time remaining: 02:33.
Stomach status: 85% full.
WARNING: Approaching human stomach capacity.
NOTE: You are not approaching human stomach capacity.
Your Iron Stomach reward is being applied retroactively.
This is unprecedented.
Please consult a physician.
Bowl nine.
A small crowd had gathered at the far end of the dining hall. Word had spread — the way word always spread in the sect, through whispers and sideways glances and the particular species of gossip that only bored cultivators could produce. A cripple was eating rice. A lot of rice. The rice was gray. Nobody knew why.
Owen did not care about the crowd. Owen cared about the last bowl.
Bowl ten.
The rice arrived. It was already gray. The kitchen disciple set it down with something between pity and horror.
Owen picked up his chopsticks. His hands were shaking — not from weakness, but from the sheer mechanical repetition of shoveling rice into his mouth for the past fifteen minutes. His stomach was a full, heavy thing pressed against his ribs. His dantian hummed with satisfaction — a deep, resonant hum, like the lowest note on a pipe organ, felt rather than heard.
He ate the last bowl.
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║ MISSION COMPLETE! ║
║ ║
║ Ten bowls consumed. ║
║ Spiritual energy absorbed: 4,728 Qi units. ║
║ (You didn't receive any of this.) ║
║ (It went into the void.) ║
║ (You're welcome.) ║
║ ║
║ REWARD: Iron Stomach (Lv. 1) ║
║ Description: Your stomach lining has been reinforced║
║ by the Chaos God's residual amusement. You can now ║
║ digest things that would hospitalize a normal ║
║ cultivator. This includes, but is not limited to: ║
║ rotten fruit, questionable soup, and whatever the ║
║ cafeteria serves on Tuesdays. ║
║ ║
║ Favor debt: 15 (unchanged — mission complete) ║
║ ║
║ Broken kazoo sound plays. ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════════════════════╝
The broken kazoo echoed through the dining hall.
Everyone stared at Owen.
"What was that?" the kitchen disciple asked.
"I have no idea," Owen said, and stood up, and walked out, and did not look back.
Behind him, Fatty Wang was still eating. Bowl six. He waved a grain-covered hand in farewell.
The next morning, the sect woke up to a crisis.
It started with a sound — a collective groan, rising from the outer disciple dormitory like a wounded animal. Then came the footsteps: hurried, uneven, the distinctive rhythm of people running to places they needed to be immediately.
Owen heard it through the wall. He was lying in bed, feeling surprisingly fine — his stomach was flat, his dantian was quiet, and the morning light coming through the window was almost pleasant. Fatty Wang was asleep in the opposite bunk, one arm dangling over the edge, his mouth slightly open.
Owen got up. Opened the door.
The hallway was chaos.
Disciples were doubled over, clutching their stomachs. Some were running — past Owen, past the bathroom, past the emergency washbasin at the end of the hall — with the focused desperation of people whose digestive systems had staged a violent uprising. Others were sitting against the walls, pale-faced, breathing in shallow gasps.
"What happened?" Owen asked.
A disciple staggered past him. "The rice," the disciple managed. "The rice at breakfast. Something — something is wrong with the — I need to — move—"
He was gone.
Owen stood in the doorway. His dantian hummed — a low, contented sound, the same purr it had produced the night before while he ate. He ignored it.
Down the hall, Fatty Wang emerged from the room, rubbing his eyes.
"Morning," Fatty Wang yawned. "What's all the—"
A disciple rushed past him, nearly knocking him against the wall.
"—noise?" Fatty Wang finished. He looked at the chaos. His face went through three expressions: confusion, concern, and finally, the particular dread of a person who had just remembered that he had also eaten rice that morning.
He patted his stomach. "I feel fine."
"You feel fine?"
"Great, actually. Amazing. Like I could run a mile." He paused. "Why is everyone else dying?"
Owen did not answer. He was looking at the kitchen.
From the direction of the communal dining hall, a voice rose — a voice Owen recognized from two days ago, when the same man had blamed him for the rice losing its Qi. A voice that belonged to a man who treated his kitchen the way a dragon treated its hoard: with territorial fury and zero tolerance for trespassers.
Elder Peng. The Kitchen Elder.
He was a stocky, barrel-chested man in his fifties with forearms like cured ham and a face that defaulted to the expression of someone who had just found a fly in his soup. He ran the sect's food operations with an iron ladle and a volcanic temper. He had already blamed Owen for the rice losing its Qi. He had already threatened to bar Owen from the dining hall. He had already — according to Fatty Wang — composed a formal complaint to the sect elders that he read aloud to the kitchen staff every morning for motivation.
Right now, Elder Peng was standing in the middle of the dining hall, surrounded by groaning disciples, holding a bowl of rice up to the light.
"This rice," he said. His voice was quiet. Dangerously quiet. The kind of quiet that preceded explosions. "This rice has no Qi."
A kitchen disciple tried to explain.
"This rice." Elder Peng shook the bowl. The grains inside were gray. Flat. Lifeless. "This rice was infused last night. I personally oversaw the infusion. Six hundred Qi units. Measured. Calibrated. Stored in the sealed chamber." He set the bowl down. "This morning, every grain is dead. Not low. Not reduced. DEAD. Someone tell me how six hundred units of Qi vanish from a sealed chamber overnight."
Silence. Groaning. The distant sound of someone being sick.
Elder Peng turned. He looked down the hallway, past the moaning disciples, past the panicked kitchen staff, past the morning light slanting through the windows. His eyes found Owen.
Owen, who was standing in the doorway of Room 14. Owen, who was the last person to walk past the rice storage two days ago. Owen, whose dantian was humming a song of satisfied fullness.
"YOU," Elder Peng said.
Owen closed the door.
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║ ALERT: Kitchen Elder's hostility level has increased║
║ ║
║ Previous level: STRONG DISLIKE ║
║ Current level: ACTIVE WARFARE ║
║ ║
║ Suggestion: Avoid the dining hall for 3-5 business ║
║ days. Or forever. The System recommends forever. ║
║ ║
║ NOTE: Seventeen disciples currently experiencing ║
║ acute gastrointestinal distress. This is not ║
║ technically your fault. ║
║ ║
║ (It is absolutely your fault.) ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════════════════════╝
Owen pressed his back against the door. Fatty Wang looked at him.
"Owen," Fatty Wang said carefully. "Why does the kitchen elder hate you?"
"I have no idea."
"You went to the dining hall last night. You ate ten bowls of rice. This morning, all the rice in the sect has no Qi and everyone who ate it is sick. Except us."
Owen stared at him.
"And also except me, which is weird," Fatty Wang added, "because I ate the same rice. Six bowls. I feel great."
"I didn't do anything to the rice."
"I know."
"I just ate it."
"I know."
"Then why does everyone keep looking at me like I did something?"
Fatty Wang considered this. He looked at Owen with the expression of a person who had a theory but was not sure if he should share it — which was, for Fatty Wang, an extremely unusual expression.
"Maybe," Fatty Wang said slowly, "it's because everything bad happens near you."
Owen opened his mouth to argue. Then he closed it. Then he thought about the testing stone, the herb garden, the formations, the robes, the rice. The long, accumulating list of things that had broken or died or gone wrong in his vicinity since the day he arrived.
"That's not fair," he said.
"I know."
"I didn't ask for any of this."
"I know."
"The testing stone just exploded."
"I know."
"And the herb garden died on its own."
"I know."
"And the formations—"
"Owen." Fatty Wang put a hand on his shoulder. It was warm, solid, and smelled faintly of spiritual rice. "I know. I'm not saying you did anything. I'm saying that wherever you go, weird stuff happens. That's just — that's just what it is."
Owen looked at his best friend. At the hallway behind him, where disciples were still staggering past, clutching their stomachs. At the dining hall down the corridor, where Elder Peng was composing what sounded like a war declaration.
"It's just bad luck," Owen said.
"Yeah," Fatty Wang said. "Sure. Bad luck."
He did not sound convinced.
Owen turned back to the door. Through the wood, faintly, he could hear Elder Peng's voice:
"Get me the sect elders. Get me the kitchen board. Get me — get me a formal investigation. That boy — that BOY — if he comes within fifty meters of my rice again, I will personally—"
Owen sat on his bed. His dantian hummed. The ceiling formation — repaired the day before yesterday — flickered.
Then it went dark.
Owen did not look up. He was getting used to the dark.