AGN -Chapter 191 Are All Male Leads in System Novels Like This?

That evening, Qin Huai got to eat a special staff meal personally prepared by Dong Li—sizzling eel in oil, Eight-Treasure tofu, and steamed perch.

What a rich and colorful day it had been!

Before going to sleep, Qin Huai watched the San Ding Bao tutorial video again. Only then did he close the game panel and fall into a deep sleep.

At a little past 7 a.m. the next morning, Qin Huai woke up right on time thanks to his biological clock. After a quick wash and changing clothes, he ate an orange from the fruit plate, grabbed two cheese sticks from the fridge that he had ordered the day before, and slowly headed out.

When closing the door, he glanced at the neighboring apartment and the hallway, only then realizing that Gong Liang was still in Beijing enjoying himself at Fen Garden—no one was next door.

Not running into Gong Liang in the morning felt a bit unfamiliar.

During the month of making crab roe siu mai, Qin Huai had not only grown close to Gong Liang but also to his wife and children.

Gong Liang’s legendary wife—the original partner who had broken up and remarried multiple times just to eventually attend Huang Ji Restaurant’s wedding banquet with him—was none other than Xiao Guo, whom Qin Huai had heard about from Gong Liang’s mother.

Her name was Guo Mingzhu.

To be honest, she was quite a remarkable person. Like Gong Liang, she had been an only child in an era when that was rare. But unlike typical “breaking engagement because the man is poor” storylines, the drama had played out with her parents instead.

According to Guo Mingzhu, when Gong Liang’s father suffered a stroke, she herself didn’t want to break off the engagement. But her parents thought the Gong family was a sinking ship and refused to let their daughter marry into hardship. They even went to her workplace to arrange for her to perform out of town.

(As a side note, Guo Mingzhu had been a dancer in an arts troupe when she was young.)

While she was away, her parents went to Gong Liang’s family and called off the engagement themselves. By the time she returned, everything had already been settled. Then came the cliché plot—she was kept at home and not allowed to go out.

Just when Guo Mingzhu thought she was about to become the tragic heroine of a melodrama, Gong Liang struck a huge deal at a trade fair, bringing unprecedented success to the silk factory and returning in glory.

Overnight, Gong Liang became highly sought after, with matchmakers lining up at his door. Just as Guo Mingzhu’s parents began to regret their decision, Gong Liang and his mother came to ask for the engagement to be restored.

In reality, things aren’t like face-slapping fantasy novels. From Gong Liang’s perspective, Guo Mingzhu came from a good family, was beautiful, and was a popular dancer—it was only natural her parents didn’t want her to suffer.

Now that he had the means, of course he rushed to win her back—what if she married someone else?

All of this had been vividly told by Guo Mingzhu herself one evening when she brought freshly stewed lamb soup to Qin Huai’s home while visiting.

Now, Guo Mingzhu no longer had the aura of a novel’s female lead. She looked like a slightly plump middle-aged woman.

There were fine lines at the corners of her eyes that even cosmetic treatments couldn’t fully erase, but her skin was still fair and her temperament elegant. Her hobbies were skincare, watching TV dramas, and shopping with her daughter.

She and Gong Liang had a pair of twins—a son and a daughter. The daughter was a fashion designer, and the son was learning to take over the family silk business. This time, when the couple went to Beijing, they only brought their daughter; the son stayed in Suzhou for work.

Compared to Gong Liang’s thick skin, Guo Mingzhu was a bit more reserved—she wouldn’t do things like sitting outside Huang Ji’s kitchen on a stool just to eat pastries. Usually, Gong Liang would bring food home for her.

At first, she strongly opposed moving.

Then she ate a bowl of chicken soup noodles.

After that, she fell in love with visiting neighbors—showing up in the evening with hot soup or fruit desserts, knocking on doors, and asking whether “Little Chef Qin” had eaten enough, offering post-meal sweets.

Qin Huai remembered she also loved crab roe siu mai.

The couple truly had identical tastes.

Ending his reminiscing, Qin Huai headed to Huang Ji.

Zheng Siyuan was already making wontons—still the same gauze wontons and bubble wontons.

Such persistence, such dedication—being able to make the same pastries every single day—made Qin Huai feel inferior.

“Have you ever thought about changing things up in the morning?” Qin Huai asked while checking the broth.

“I’m used to it,” Zheng Siyuan replied. “I don’t think my wontons are good enough yet. I don’t usually sell them at my pastry shop, so now that I have the chance, I want to practice until I’m satisfied.”

Qin Huai wanted to ask—what exactly did “satisfied” mean?

He had always been curious.

Qin Huai himself had a very clear understanding of his own abilities. He knew his level and the limits he could reach with each dish. Combined with the game system’s numerical visualization, his self-assessment was frighteningly precise.

He had assumed everyone was like that.

But after coming to Huang Ji, he realized that wasn’t the case.

Dong Shi, for example, had little awareness of his own level.

He often attempted things beyond his ability, failed, and couldn’t immediately figure out why—only realizing after repeated failures that his skill wasn’t enough, then finally giving up.

This cycle could last weeks.

Sometimes Qin Huai wanted to ask him: Don’t you know your own level? You only have advanced knife skills—why attempt master-level Wensi tofu?

And it wasn’t just Dong Shi—Wang Jun, Qi Tian, even Huang Jia had similar tendencies.

That’s when Qin Huai realized—not every chef truly understands their own level.

So he asked directly, “What does ‘satisfied’ mean for you?”

Zheng Siyuan paused for two seconds, then continued wrapping wontons.

“It just means satisfied. When I feel the effort I put in is worth it, that the dish can be presented without embarrassment—that’s satisfaction.”

Qin Huai nodded. Their standards were the same.

“What about you?” Zheng Siyuan asked back. “Have all the dishes you’ve been practicing reached your satisfaction?”

This time, Qin Huai paused.

After thinking for a moment, he decided not to make something up and explained honestly. Zheng Siyuan already knew about his “imaginary system,” so there was nothing to hide.

“I’ve basically reached it,” Qin Huai said. “In my imagined system, I assign ratings to dishes and categorize my skill levels…”

Five minutes later—

Zheng Siyuan was completely stunned. He didn’t even want to wrap wontons anymore.

He just stared at Qin Huai, full of question marks, while Qin Huai calmly kneaded dough and even asked,

“Did you understand what I just said?”

“…I understand,” Zheng Siyuan replied.

But he couldn’t accept it.

He had never imagined Qin Huai’s “system” could be this practical.

Was this why Qin Huai improved so quickly?

Zheng Siyuan fell into deep thought.

Qin Huai, unaware of the shock he had caused, continued making chicken soup noodles as usual.

At 8:30 a.m., breakfast at Huang Ji began.

Everyone in the kitchen happily held their bowls of chicken soup noodles, feeling that starting the day with such a meal was pure joy.

What they didn’t know—this was just the beginning of their happiness.

Today’s menu was simple: fermented rice buns and San Ding Bao.

Originally, Qin Huai only planned to make San Ding Bao, but the fermented rice buns held special meaning for Huang Ji, so he couldn’t skip them.

Besides, they were simple and stable B-grade “buff dishes.” Alternating them with San Ding Bao also helped him relax.

Recently, Qin Huai felt a bit obsessed with making San Ding Bao.

He really liked them.

More than crab roe siu mai.

With siu mai, it had been about practice and tasks. But with San Ding Bao—it was genuine love.

So much so that he rewatched tutorial videos every night before bed.

He just loved it.

(And if you asked why—because Qin Luo liked to eat them.)

Qin Huai happily kneaded dough, mixed fillings, and directed Wang Jun to cook the stuffing.

He even had the leisure to glance at Dong Shi’s knife work—

Which was actually quite good. The diced pieces were neat and uniform, at least improving the appearance.

The kitchen ran smoothly, everyone doing their part.

At 10 a.m., the first batch of San Ding Bao was ready.

Qin Huai looked at the steamer, surprised.

[San Ding Bao – B+ Grade]

After days of steady B-level results, it had finally improved.

At that moment, he deeply realized—teamwork matters.

Dong Shi leaned over. “Are they ready? Can I try one?”

“Go ahead!” Qin Huai said generously. “Everyone have a taste.”

Soon, everyone got one bun.

Dong Shi blew on it and took a bite—

“—Hiss!”

From the heat.

Then again—

“—Hiss!”

From shock.

Dong Li looked at him helplessly. “Is it that hot?”

“—Hiss! Bro, this bun—Qin Huai—this is just—this is too—he—”

Dong Li: ?

Was he burned stupid?

He carefully took a bite—

“—Huh!”

He almost gasped too.

It was…

An extremely delicious bun.

Even better than the five-diced version.

Had Qin Huai really just gone home on vacation?

Or did he secretly train?

Just then, Zheng Siyuan walked over holding half a bun.

“Qin Huai… can you explain that ‘imaginary system rating method’ again?”

“I want to know exactly how to imagine it.”

Qin Huai: …?

???