In the kitchen, White Cat watched black mist boil up from the pot, coal-smoke coiling into the air like ink snakes. In the haze, it swore the mist knit itself into grinning skulls, bone lanterns bobbing in steam.

Terror surged first, claws cold as rain, then thought crawled in. The skulls clacked their jawbones, like wind chimes made of teeth, muttering, “Come eat me, come eat me…”

“Eh? Little cat, what are you doing, hiding in that corner and shaking like a leaf?” Ouyang held a spoon, moonlight on stainless steel. He spotted the trembling White Cat curled by the wall—cute enough to floor ninety-nine percent of girls—and didn’t even blink. He tossed more strange bits into the bubbling dark, like a magpie feeding a cauldron.

“Mm. Half a bar of soap. A spoon of laundry powder. Three pages of paper. Ten drops of ink…” Each word dropped like stones into a pond; the ripples smelled like trouble.

White Cat couldn’t bear it. It let out a mew, thin as frost.

“Mew what? Little White Cat, you wanna taste?”

Ouyang smiled, crooked as a crescent moon. He ladled a bowl of soup—black and sticky like tar—and set the night-colored sludge under White Cat’s nose. “Here, try it. It looks rough, sure, but one bowl and you’ll beg for a second.”

Panic first, fur bristling like thistle, then resolve clamped down. White Cat shook its head hard, a drumbeat of refusal. The early stuff had been normal—sauces, chilies, ordinary fire—but soap and laundry powder were shadows that spelled death. Not eating. Not even if stars fell.

It crouched tighter in the corner, head tucked between forelegs like a pebble under waves, paws shielding its mouth, guarding its little gate like a temple dog.

“Oh? You can resist now? Be good, little cat.”

In the end, Ouyang forced a whole bowl down its throat, the way a storm forces open shutters.

“Holy crap—this good?” White Cat squeezed its eyes shut, surrendering to fate like a reed to wind. It waited for death’s ice, and instead the world blazed like sunrise. Spirits soared, bright as new leaves. “This is too good. Ouyang, I want ten bowls!”

Desire first, wild as a river, then words rushed out. It swore it had never tasted such joy, such happiness wrapped in heat. The bowl still breathed black mist, the soup still looked like oil slicks, but the flavor sang like a deity’s bell. If the God of Food walked the earth, he’d cook like this.

“More? No problem. Plenty left… Easy now, don’t choke.”

Glug-glug, White Cat drained a bowl, throat working like a thirsty spring. “Ouyang, another!”

Glug-glug. “Another!”

Minutes later, Ouyang stared at White Cat on the floor, foam pearling at its mouth like sea spume. His sly smile stayed, a fox under starlight. “This Dream Cuisine gives a dreamy bliss, a first step into heaven. But you, fool, should’ve checked the mix. Soap and laundry powder alone can freeze half your body.”

While Ouyang savored his triumph, Youyun’s voice drifted in from the living room, soft as breeze through paper screens. “Ouyang, is dinner ready? The guests are here!”

“Oh? Coming, coming. I’ll bring it.”

In the living room, Youwen’s eyes were earnest as morning, and Youyun eagerly introduced the guests. Truth be told, they were just Youyun’s classmates—two little girls like sparrows. One wore a black short skirt and had long straight black hair, a shadow ribbon. The other was a redhead with a single ponytail, flame tied back.

Ouyang gave them a quick glance, a dragonfly touching water. He didn’t even catch their names. To this world, he was only passing through, a traveler in fog.

They lifted the lid Ouyang had set down. Faces changed like weather. A thing that breathed black mist, dark and sticky, bubbling with glug-glug like tar pits—was that food?

Youyun said nothing. She grabbed a fruit knife, light glinting on the blade like winter sun.

“Hey, little miss, be reasonable. Ever heard of Dark Cuisine? It looks nasty, but it tastes amazing. Don’t believe me? Let Youwen try. If anything goes wrong, cut me down.”

Ouyang sounded ready to stake his neck, words steady as stone. Seeing his serious face, Youyun leveled the paring knife at Youwen. “Youwen, eat.”

Fear first, knees weak as water, then duty bit deep. “I… I eat?” Youwen shuffled back, eyes caught by the nightmare in the bowl. Courage was a thin thread. But with his sister pressing him with a blade, Youwen shot Ouyang a look laced with bitter herbs.

In the end, with a gaze emptied of hope, he shut his eyes and drank a whole bowl, like diving into midnight.

“This… this…” Youwen’s body trembled, a tree in storm, shaking like a man seized by lightning. Then joy snapped like a whip. “Good. So damn good!” A clean-cut boy cursing meant Ouyang’s Dark Cuisine had lit his tongue like a temple fire. “Brother Ouyang, another bowl… no, ten!”

Youyun watched Youwen’s change, her caution a silk veil. She dipped a small spoon of black unknown, brought it to her pink mouth, and sipped like a shy swallow.

“Mmm—uh—good!” Satisfaction warmed her voice like tea steam. The two little girls dove in too, turning the table into a harvest field.

Minutes later, the living room lay wrecked, crumbs and bowls scattered like fallen leaves. Bodies foaming at the mouth sprawled everywhere, crooked as broken puppets. From start to finish, Ouyang watched coldly, eyes like winter ponds. With a faint meow, White Cat crawled from the kitchen, slow as a wounded fox.

“Ouyang… you… you really did them in…”

Ouyang ignored the complaint. He stood still, thinking, a pine holding snow.

After a long breath, Ouyang sighed, wind through reeds. “White Cat, do you know the essence of this world?”

“The essence of the world?”

Ouyang lifted a pack of instant noodles, the plastic crinkling like dry leaves. “At first, I didn’t. But when I saw this, I started to doubt. The text is in Eastern Empire script. But the picture—this is Old-Jar Pickled Cabbage.”

He tore the pack open with a rustle, pulled out the brick, and crunched it, teeth clicking like pebbles.

“Old-Jar Pickled Cabbage?” White Cat’s mind was fog, tail a question mark.

Ouyang didn’t expect the cat to grasp it. He was venting, smoke leaving a kiln. “With ultra-high transplantation tech, they can turn a normal human into a star soldier with built-in cannons. Yet they still make Old-Jar Pickled Cabbage instant noodles? The Eastern Empire’s tech is bizarre, like a fault line in a mountain. Cooking with iron pots, then hunting with Stone Age weapons. Every corner screams dissonance.”

White Cat understood this part, whiskers twitching. It had come from the Western Empire into the Eastern Empire and seen the same broken mosaic all along the road.

“Maybe… the world survived an apocalypse, so we got this mess?” White Cat sat down, paw under chin, mind pacing like a cat on a wall.

“No. Rather than shattered tech, it’s like… this world was stitched together. A patch here, a patch there, quilted into the present.”

White Cat didn’t fully get it; the ideas were deep water. Even listening, it felt like chasing clouds. So it asked, simple as a bell, “Is that why you poisoned them?”

Yes—Ouyang had just poisoned them.

He stayed calm, head tilted like a raven. “Watch. This world has tricks.” He raised his right hand, traced lines in the air, and a phantom clock bloomed like frost on glass. Ouyang turned the hand once, a needle in mist.

In that instant, the world blurred and twisted, like an old TV with loose wires, the image buckling toward collapse.

…

“What… what is happening?” White Cat’s brain felt like wet cotton. Night had fallen like ink, and they stood before a house. Looking closer, it realized the house was Youwen’s home, lamplight breathing behind the windows.

“Simple. Time rewound. We came back to last night. If I hadn’t floored Azure Bird with Dark Cuisine, these so-called miracles wouldn’t trigger. Azure Bird’s presence suppresses the rules here. Once Azure Bird fully wakes, all illusions break.”

Two moons, one violet and one green, hung high like twin lanterns. The long river of stars poured bright silver, a Milky Way bridge over black water. The night wind drifted through, ruffling Ouyang’s hair like grass by a stream.

White Cat stood rooted, fog in its eyes, silence heavy as dew. At last it spoke. “I still don’t understand…”

“You’re not alone. I’m not sure either. I’ve glimpsed only the tip of the iceberg; the rest is guesswork. I need more data.”

He stared at the twin moons, a little wistful, a traveler under banners of light. If his guess was right, this world balanced between solid and smoke: part real, part dream.

Man and cat raised their faces to the sky, a quiet of high mountains settling between them. For a heartbeat, they felt like hermit-sages who’d shrugged off worldly dust.

“So,” Ouyang said, breaking the hush like a pebble skipping water, “White Cat, top priority—hit an internet café and boot a few PCs.”

White Cat’s ears drooped, a wilted leaf. “But… we don’t have money.”

“Idiot. Then we rob some.” His grin flashed, a knife in moonlight. “Also, we leave this trouble spot fast. Time rewinds, but Azure Bird’s memory doesn’t. I think Azure Bird’s already flying this way.”

White Cat padded after him, voice small as a mouse. “Hey, Ouyang—so what is Azure Bird, really?”

“You dummy, Azure Bird is Azure Bird.” He flicked White Cat’s forehead, a spark in the dark. “Less talk, more action. Start the heist. I haven’t gamed in years, and my hands itch.”