Chapter Seventy-Eight: The Little Demon Beast in the Kitchen

“Miso, bonito flakes, seaweed... Hmm, classic ingredients you’d find in a Japanese kitchen,” Feng Xue remarked as he inspected the contents of the pantry. Taking in the traditional Japanese style of the Makino residence, he nodded with approval. “Everything looks quite ordinary, but it’s clear these ingredients are regularly used.”

With that, Feng Xue pulled out some dried bonito and began preparing the dashi stock.

“Hey, hey! What do you think you’re doing in someone else’s kitchen without permission?” Ryuji Makino shouted, her expression sour. Although her words included the phrase “someone else’s,” there was none of the usual coquettishness of a typical young girl. Instead, her tone suggested she meant an outsider, which fit her tomboyish persona perfectly.

“I’m cooking, of course. Isn’t it common sense to throw a housewarming party to celebrate moving into a new place?” Feng Xue’s hands moved deftly, chopping with a precise rhythm. Though his body had changed, his knife skills remained as sharp as ever.

Vegetables were scarce in this Japanese kitchen, but perhaps due to their coastal location, fish and sashimi were surprisingly affordable. Feng Xue decided to make a fish-centric meal.

“What kind of common sense is that? Besides, my grandmother and mother will be back any minute now! If they see this, how am I supposed to explain?” Ryuji kept glancing at the clock, like a schoolchild frantically trying to tidy a messy room before her parents returned.

“Just say I’m your boyfriend—ouch!” Feng Xue didn’t have time to finish his sentence before she smacked him on the forehead. Even though he was now much taller than Ryuji, he wasn’t quite out of her reach.

“Are you really a Digimon? Or is someone just dressed up as one, playing a prank on me?” Ryuji eyed him with deep suspicion. The “partner” who had appeared so suddenly was becoming more and more of an enigma. Since when did Digimon know how to cook?

“Come on, have you ever seen a human head shaped like mine?” Feng Xue pointed to his own large, round head, his expression growing darker. “Digimon survive and evolve by absorbing data from the internet. So what’s the big deal if I picked up a few recipes? I even know of a fool who absorbed a whole collection of classical Chinese texts and now can’t speak normally anymore!”

He kept up the banter as his hands moved tirelessly. He couldn’t help but marvel at Ryuji’s family background; in an ordinary household, he’d be lucky to make a few small salted fish. (Say what you will about China, but when it comes to food, it’s the best—thanks to both variety and price. Don’t complain about the cost of vegetables; at least the average family can afford them. Korea’s obsession with “homegrown only” is another story entirely. In America, you eat vegetables by the piece—a single cucumber has to last three meals. The author’s friend in the States once said he had plenty of cucumbers; after searching the whole fridge, only half of one turned up. After finishing it, the friend even complained about waste… In Japan, both meat and vegetables are expensive, but fish is cheap.)

Mindful of the time, Feng Xue didn’t make too much—just four dishes and a soup. The soup was a miso broth with bonito base; the dishes were sashimi, steamed fish, kelp salad, and assorted tempura. The main course was plain white rice.

Feng Xue wasn’t entirely satisfied with the result. As he divided the meal into three portions and plated them, he sampled the leftovers, muttering, “Why is there no fugu? Aren’t you Japanese obsessed with pufferfish? If I had some, I’d let you taste my ultimate dish!”

Ryuji, however, had no time to complain about how even a little monster could prepare fugu. She was already captivated by the food before her. Though the dishes appeared simple and lacked the refined presentation of kaiseki, and only the sashimi could be considered fancy, the combination exuded an irresistible aroma. Even she, who was never particularly enthusiastic about food, found her mouth watering uncontrollably.

“I’m home!” An elderly voice called out. An older woman, her face lined with wrinkles but still showing traces of youthful beauty, stepped inside. As Feng Xue and Ryuji were setting the three plates on the table, Feng Xue instantly stepped back and vanished from the room in a blink.

“Hey…” Ryuji started to say something, but seeing her grandmother appear, she hurried to finish setting the table, placing each plate in front of a seat.

“Our Ryuji has grown up—she’s even making dinner for the family! She’ll make a wonderful bride one day!” The old woman, dressed in a simple kimono, paused in surprise at Ryuji’s actions, then smiled. Yet a hint of suspicion lingered at the corners of her eyes. Her gaze flickered repeatedly between the kitchen and the dishes, clearly searching for the real cook.

“It wasn’t me! It was a fairy! Yes, a fairy cooked it!” Ryuji stammered, but her tone grew more forceful on the word “fairy.” Only after she realized what she’d said did a blush creep across her cheeks.

“Hey, I’m a demon, not a fairy. Don’t forget it!” Feng Xue’s voice suddenly rang out in her ear, making her freeze for a moment. But glancing at her grandmother and seeing no reaction, she let out a sigh of relief.

“A fairy? You mean a fox, don’t you? Did Ryuji save a fox in distress and now it’s come to repay her?” The old lady smiled mysteriously, clearly pleased that Ryuji was finally displaying some girlish imagination. But when she saw the sashimi, her face stiffened. As a seasoned housewife, she immediately recognized the incredible knife skills displayed. She didn’t believe for a moment that Ryuji, who had never set foot in the kitchen, could produce such exquisite sashimi.

“Could it really be a fox repaying her kindness?” The superstitious grandmother wondered, childhood fantasies long dormant now resurfacing. The Makino home had been in the family for generations; having a fox spirit as a guardian didn’t seem impossible. Perhaps its sudden appearance meant the fox had finally accepted Ryuji?

With these thoughts, the old woman watched Ryuji bustling about with a look of contentment, making no move to help herself.

Meanwhile, Feng Xue, oblivious to the trouble he’d caused Ryuji, sat atop the roof, savoring his share of the meal. A thousand years—he hadn’t had a proper meal in a millennium! He could hardly contain his hunger for the art of food.