AGN -Chapter 155 Teaching and Employee Benefits

The whole roasted pig head, braised to a rich reddish-brown with a complete glossy sauce coating, didn’t even require much force for Qin Huai to pick up with his chopsticks. With just a slight press and gentle lift, a piece of pork—fat but not greasy, thoroughly braised to tenderness, and pleasantly springy in texture—came away.

Each piece of meat was coated in a layer of thick, gelatinous sauce.

The flavor was extremely rich.

Overpowering, in a good way.

This was a classic banquet dish—savory with a hint of sweetness, rich in oil and salt, packed with fat and energy. Its deep color and bold taste delivered the most primal joy of eating meat in big bites, both visually and sensorially.

It was completely different in style from crab roe lion’s head meatballs and stewed fish head. If Qin Huai had been an ordinary person who had never tasted a “Three Delicacies Banquet,” he would never have imagined these three dishes appearing on the same table.

But now, as he alternated between bites of steamed buns and meat—carbohydrates and fats blending together for double the satisfaction—he felt this was exactly how it should be.

Deliciousness is king!

Qin Huai kept alternating between buns and pork, unable to stop eating. Every few bites of meat, he would take a bite of stir-fried greens to cleanse his palate, so he wouldn’t feel too greasy and get acid reflux the next day.

He had a real-life lesson about this.

Back when Qin Luo was in the first year of middle school, she had a strong craving for pork knuckle for a period of time, probably after seeing a TV drama where the protagonist ate one. She kept insisting on eating it.

Qin Congwen made a deal with her: if she improved by 10 ranks in her final exams, he would take her to eat it. Unexpectedly, Qin Luo exceeded expectations and improved by 11 ranks, successfully completing the goal and earning her pork knuckle.

Since Qin Congwen and Zhao Rong were busy, they asked Qin Huai to take her. However, the restaurant wasn’t well chosen—the pork knuckle there was a bit too greasy. Qin Huai only had a couple of bites, but Qin Luo, who had a pork knuckle as big as her face, finished the entire portion in one sitting.

Then she got sick of it—nausea, acid reflux, vomiting and diarrhea, gastroenteritis—and ended up in the hospital on the first day of the holiday, receiving IV fluids.

Since then, Qin Luo never mentioned pork knuckle again.

That was probably the only time in her life she overate a single food to the point of getting sick.

Having seen that negative example, Qin Huai remained quite restrained while eating the roasted pig head. Unlike the previous night’s welcome banquet, he didn’t overindulge to the point where just opening his mouth made food feel like it was coming back up. He only ate three buns.

Qin Huai felt he had truly changed—broadened his horizons—and could now taste great dishes with moderation.

The remaining pig head was not wasted. Zheng Siyuan couldn’t finish it, and neither could Huang Anyao. The young boss wasn’t picky—he was happy to join in and eat leftovers whenever there was food.

Even the remaining sauce on the plate was soaked up with buns and finished off completely.

When Huang Shengli arrived at the kitchen, what he saw was his own son nearly licking the plate clean.

Huang Shengli: …

Is this really my son?

Did we take the wrong one home?

We haven’t mistreated him in food or drink over the years—how did he end up like this?

Huang Shengli could only accept it, since he had no other son to replace him.

With his signature warm smile, he said gently, “Xiao Qin, how was today? Are you getting used to the work?”

“I heard Gong Liang added you on WeChat at noon. If he messages you with anything annoying, just ignore him. If he sends red envelopes, feel free to accept them. If you have any issues, come to me or Zheng Da—we’ll help you solve them.”

From this, Qin Huai could tell that Huang Shengli and Gong Liang were indeed close friends.

Money can be accepted, but work must not be done in return. No complaints there—true childhood friends.

“Today we’re going to try a new way of learning how to stir-fry greens,” Huang Shengli said, signaling his disciples to clear several stoves.

Soon, the stoves were cleaned and prepped, and the ingredients—already processed greens—were brought over.

“Today, you’ll not only watch me cook, but also watch others. I remember you’re quite familiar with Huang Jia, Dong Shi, Dong Li, and Wang Jun. You should also know Qi Tian. We’ll use these few.”

Qi Tian, Huang Shengli’s third disciple, was not very familiar to Qin Huai. He was a formally apprenticed chef from a culinary family, having trained his basic skills from a young age under elders before becoming Huang Shengli’s disciple through connections. Among the disciples, his skill ranked just below Huang Jia.

He had a cold face and didn’t talk much. Qin Huai had barely interacted with him—fewer than five conversations in the past couple of days in the kitchen.

Huang Shengli didn’t let Qin Huai cook. Instead, he had him stand aside and observe each person stir-frying greens.

Huang Jia went first.

As Huang Shengli’s first disciple, Huang Jia had been trained personally from the basics. His skills, techniques, concepts, and dishes were all shaped by Huang Shengli himself—he could be considered the disciple most similar to him in style.

Not to mention he had already demonstrated his ability to handle top-tier banquet dishes like the roasted pig head.

His stir-fried greens were excellent—just as good as the one he had made for lunch.

His movements were elegant, control precise, wrist work smooth, and the final dish and presentation both refined.

If anything had to be pointed out, it might be that perfection is hard to achieve.

Even for Huang Shengli, there was no guarantee every plate of greens would be perfect.

In a sense, no dish in the world is truly perfect—there’s always something to critique. There will always be someone even more skilled who can make something better.

“Try it,” Huang Shengli said.

Qin Huai tasted it. Just like at lunch—delicious.

Next was Qi Tian.

Qi Tian cooked with a blank expression.

His movements weren’t as visually elegant as Huang Jia’s, but they were cleaner and more efficient. Compared to Huang Jia, he was more pragmatic.

While many chefs like to add flair to their movements for show, Qi Tian did the opposite—his motions were straightforward, as if he had a hundred more plates to cook and needed to get on with it.

Soon, his dish was done.

Visually, it looked just as good—perhaps even slightly better than Huang Jia’s.

“Try it,” Huang Shengli said.

Qin Huai tasted it.

Also delicious—but different.

Qi Tian’s greens were crisper, with a well-controlled level of firmness—just right between perfectly cooked and undercooked.

Qi Tian stepped away calmly, and Wang Jun began cooking.

As Huang Shengli’s least skilled disciple, Wang Jun’s stir-fried greens lived up to his reputation.

He couldn’t quite meet the standards required of a head chef at Huang Ji.

If Huang Jia and Qi Tian represented different but equally excellent styles, Wang Jun’s dish revealed noticeable flaws.

Heat control wasn’t precise, tossing technique lacked smoothness leading to uneven cooking, and the reduction before plating was slightly insufficient.

If one were to nitpick, at least ten issues could be found.

In simple terms, it wasn’t as good as Zheng Siyuan’s stir-fried greens.

Still, compared to average street food, it was much better—Huang Ji’s baseline was already high.

Next were Dong Li and Dong Shi.

To Qin Huai’s surprise, Dong Shi actually performed better than Dong Li in stir-frying greens.

Though Dong Shi talked a lot and often seemed unreliable, he did have real skill.

You could slack off—but you couldn’t actually be bad.

Finally, Huang Shengli personally cooked a plate.

Compared to Huang Jia and Qi Tian, his dish completely outclassed theirs.

It was the kind of stir-fried greens that could make even picky children say, “Mom, I want more vegetables!”

Without comparison, there’s no harm—but once compared, the gap becomes obvious.

“Do you know why I had each of them cook a plate for you?” Huang Shengli asked.

After thinking for a moment, Qin Huai replied, “Is it because each of them has their own style?”

Huang Shengli paused. Then he continued: “Huang Jia is my first disciple. He trained with me from the basics, and his techniques, philosophy, and dishes are all personally shaped by me. You could say his style is closest to mine.”

“Qi Tian learned from a master before me. His style was already formed before he joined me. Even after years of training, his approach is clearly different from Huang Jia’s.”

“Wang Jun came from a non-traditional background. He had many bad habits, which I’ve corrected over the years, but he still retains some. These occasionally cause small mistakes. That’s why his progress hasn’t been very smooth, though he is hardworking. With a few more years, he will likely make a big breakthrough.”

“You’re probably most familiar with Dong Shi and Dong Li. Dong Shi is lively, Dong Li is steady. Their personalities are still reflected in their cooking.”

“In terms of talent, Dong Shi is stronger than Dong Li. Even if he slacks off occasionally, his level isn’t inferior. He’s someone with his own ideas, capable of adapting and questioning authority. He even modifies techniques he thinks are wrong. His tossing technique alone shows how independent he is.”

“Dong Li, on the other hand, is more methodical—he follows instructions closely. That’s good, but also a limitation. Huang Jia is similar, which is one reason he still hasn’t been able to take over my position.”

“When learning cooking, a chef shouldn’t be without their own ideas—but also shouldn’t have too many too early. A master teaches the foundation, but eventually, the student must find their own path.”

“Huang Jia has only learned about 80% of my skills. The remaining 20% must be realized on his own. I’m the same—I only learned about 60–70% from my own master. The rest I’ve never fully grasped.”

“Zheng Da and Zheng Siyuan both told me you’re very good at imitation. Zheng Da even worried that relying solely on imitation would make it hard for you to develop your own style.”

“I had that concern at first too—but after watching you yesterday, I no longer do.”

Qin Huai looked at him.

“I feel like you’re not just imitating,” Huang Shengli said.

Qin Huai: ?

He felt Huang Shengli might be seeing him through some kind of filter. Honestly, even Qin Huai himself sometimes felt his imitation ability was frighteningly strong.

Why he could replicate Zheng Siyuan’s apple-shaped pastries so perfectly, he still didn’t understand.

“Give it a try,” Huang Shengli said.

Qin Huai began stir-frying greens.

One plate after another—just like the day before, each had different technical flaws.

Just moments ago, he had been criticizing Wang Jun’s cooking as subpar. Now his own dishes were even worse.

Compared to Wang Jun’s, his heat control was clearly lacking.

…Middle-level heat control really was hard to improve.

Though his dough fermentation seemed to be leveling up.

Qin Huai wasn’t overly concerned with the game system’s skill ratings. He had a clear understanding of his own abilities and could tell whether he was improving without needing a system.

When he first awakened the system, his fermentation skill progressed at a snail’s pace.

Over time, his fermentation and seasoning skills improved at a ratio of about 2:1, which didn’t make much sense if you thought about it.

Given the types of pastries he made daily, fermentation should have been used far more frequently.

He suspected the system didn’t reward experience like a typical game. Instead, different levels of difficulty likely yielded different experience values.

More complex fermentation techniques gave more progress; simple, routine kneading gave little or none.

From a culinary learning perspective, that made sense—just like solving simple arithmetic over and over wouldn’t improve a high school student’s math ability.

Recently, while making pastries, the higher fermentation difficulty had rapidly increased his proficiency. He estimated it would level up within a week or so.

Qin Huai plated the greens.

There’s a qualitative gap between basic and intermediate heat control. Would there also be one between intermediate and advanced fermentation?

If he trained heat control here for ten days without improvement, but fermentation advanced rapidly instead, would that confuse his master?

He pushed these random thoughts aside and continued focusing.

One plate after another, like an assembly line.

Huang Shengli stood silently nearby, observing without instruction or demonstration.

From a distance, Dong Shi couldn’t help himself.

“Why did Master only demonstrate once?”

“Wasn’t he supposed to show us mistakes and then correct examples for Qin Huai to learn from? Shouldn’t he have demonstrated more times so Qin Huai can compare and reflect?”

“I wasn’t prepared earlier—I barely made any mistakes. Next time, I’ll be ready! I’ve prepared three common beginner mistakes to demonstrate!”

Dong Li didn’t even bother responding.

Huang Jia explained patiently that the purpose wasn’t to show mistakes, but to let Qin Huai observe different styles and understand how heat control affects basic dishes.

Eventually, the teaching session continued.

After Qin Huai had cooked a full batch of greens, Huang Shengli demonstrated two more times, pointed out a couple of key issues Qin Huai could improve, and then had him continue practicing.

At 4 PM, the training session ended.

Qin Huai stretched his arms, feeling slightly sore but fulfilled.

“Don’t go just yet,” Huang Shengli said. “There’s a bone-setting clinic nearby with excellent skills. Gong Liang has already arranged a card for you—he topped it up with 20,000. You should go every couple of days to relax your muscles and avoid injury.”

“Huh?” Qin Huai was confused.

He hadn’t even tried to get close to Gong Liang yet, and already had a membership card?

“Every chef here has one,” Huang Shengli said. “Gong Liang owns 50% of that clinic.”

Qin Huai understood.

This was the professionalism of a top salesperson.

This card alone made him feel like he owed Gong Liang a couple of pastries.

“Thank you, Master Huang. You’ve worked hard today,” Qin Huai said respectfully.

“It’s what I should do. Being able to teach a promising student like you—even if I’m bedridden, I’d bring my bed into the kitchen to teach,” Huang Shengli said with a smile.

After changing back into his clothes, Qin Huai checked his phone.

Gong Liang had sent several messages.

He ignored those.

More importantly, Luo Jun had replied: “It means his tribulation has taken a turn for the better. If nothing unexpected happens, he will succeed in this lifetime.”

Qin Huai immediately called her back.

After a few seconds, he picked up.

“How long are you going to stay in that damn Suzhou? I wake up on time every day now, but there’s no aged tangerine peel tea, the drama I was watching is terrible, and the new one is even worse. The female lead has died twice but still isn’t actually dead—can the writers even write a proper plot?” Luo Jun’s voice was full of frustration.

“…Maybe two more months,” Qin Huai replied.

“What?! Why don’t you just wait until I die before coming back?”

“Why don’t you come stay in Suzhou for two months?” Qin Huai suggested.

“Not going,” she refused instantly.

“Just wait until I die before coming back. What did you call for?”

Qin Huai straightened up.

“I wanted to ask what it means that his tribulation has taken a turn for the better.”

“It means exactly what it sounds like.”

Luo Jun’s voice became serious.

“You really do attract these beings. Just three days in Suzhou and you’ve already encountered another one. As I told you before, after failing their tribulation, these beings reincarnate repeatedly, gradually losing their memories until they forget everything and become like ordinary people—like that person named Qu Jing—still influenced by lingering obsessions.”

“Yes.”

“Generally, in their final life, it’s almost impossible for them to succeed. But if luck is on their side, they might encounter the right trigger earlier and succeed before that final life.”

“The one you met likely has reached such a turning point.”

“Many of them reach this stage—especially in their third life, where partial memories remain. They may forget their identity as a special being, but still retain fragments of past lives.”

“At that point, they may either accidentally act in ways that resolve their obsession, or meet someone who helps resolve it. That’s what we call a ‘state of awakening.’”

“The one you encountered is likely in that state. In most cases, you don’t need to intervene—unless something unexpected happens. Otherwise, they will naturally succeed in this life.”

Qin Huai still had doubts.

“That sounds like a good thing. Having residual memories without being burdened by them should make success more likely, right?”

“…That’s only in theory,” Luo Jun replied. “In reality, it often goes to extremes. Either they’re mistaken for insane, or they themselves feel something is wrong with their mind—like Qu Jing.”

“She had one relatively normal life, but what did it lead to? She worked herself to death. Would a normal person do that?”

Qin Huai was somewhat convinced.

“So… I don’t really need to intervene?”

“Did you trigger a quest?” Luo Jun asked.

“Yes.”

“Then you might still need to act. Since you encountered him, you could be the trigger.”

Qin Huai: …

Accusation! Pure slander! He just made some pastries—he didn’t do anything else!

Still, he would complete the quest. After all, it was rare to get such a clear task with good rewards.

Most importantly, Gong Liang was generous—he even gave him a 20,000 bone-setting card. Though all Huang Ji staff had one, Qin Huai wasn’t a formal employee.

He walked into the bone-setting clinic.

“I’m from Huang Ji. Qin Huai. I’m here to spend!”