AGN -Chapter 240 Is This Still Eight-Treasure Filling Glutinous Rice Dumplings?

In the end, both Gong Liang and Qin Huai ended up eating two eight-treasure filling glutinous rice dumplings.

As for how Gong Liang was doing, Qin Huai didn’t know—but he himself was almost sent away by those two dumplings.

The next morning, the first thing Qin Huai did when he arrived at Huang Ji wasn’t to eat breakfast, but to grab Tan Weian and have him re-explain the entire process, ingredient list, and rationale behind the normal eight-treasure filling glutinous rice dumplings.

This scared Tan Weian so much that he thought Qin Huai had come to do a surprise inspection of his homework.

Although Qin Huai hadn’t assigned him any homework related to eight-treasure dumplings, Tan Weian also hadn’t been practicing them lately.

He had his own rhythm.

And his rhythm was: don’t touch eight-treasure filling.

He was basically allergic to those three words now.

“Uh… well… let me think for two minutes… the process of eight-treasure filling dumplings is…” Tan Weian’s brain practically froze under the sudden questioning, as if he had been transported back to school and called on by a teacher while daydreaming.

He kept giving frantic signals to his junior apprentice, hoping Gu Li would save him.

Gu Li brought over a bowl of cooked wontons—wrapped in fine net-like skins, with seaweed, small dried shrimp, and a sprinkle of chopped scallions. Qin Huai’s favorite combination.

Qin Huai took the bowl and ate while casually asking, seeing that it was Gu Li: “How’s your Ruyi Rolls practice going?”

Qin Huai knew he had somewhat neglected Gu Li recently.

Too many things had happened lately: discovering that Old Wang was a spirit-like being, Qi Jing waking up, Chen Huihong and the “housing tour group” from Yunzhong Canteen arriving… his attention had been split among familiar people, leaving less for those nearby.

Gu Li was always the quiet type anyway—first to arrive, last to leave, doing whatever he was told without complaint. At first everyone paid attention to him, impressed by his work ethic, but over time they all got used to it, and his presence faded into the background.

Qin Huai realized he hadn’t had Gu Li’s Ruyi Rolls for several days. Gu Li made them every day, but never took the initiative to bring them to him.

Other chefs in the kitchen were very proactive, always offering food and snacks, so Qin Huai’s attention naturally went elsewhere.

Gu Li replied softly: “Still the same. No changes.”

No change meant no progress.

“I’ll practice more,” Gu Li added.

“Good,” Qin Huai encouraged. “Quantitative change leads to qualitative change.”

While speaking, he had already finished half a bowl of wontons and turned back to Tan Weian: “Done organizing yet?”

Tan Weian: “……”

He felt like Qin Huai had secretly switched careers to become a teacher.

Reluctantly, he stammered out the eight-treasure filling recipe again, adding some improvised explanations on the spot, then said with a miserable expression:

“I really don’t specialize in this. I only learned it from Master Zhou. I didn’t go deep into it…”

“I know,” Qin Huai nodded.

To him, Tan Weian was like a young noble from a cultivation novel—average cultivation, not exceptional, but full of treasures in his storage bag.

You can’t expect him to be a top-tier expert—but you can expect him to pull out something useful from his “treasure pouch.”

“I just want to confirm the main ingredients,” Qin Huai said.

Tan Weian’s recipe came from Chef Zhou, the most famous chef at Zhiwei Pavilion. So the formula itself was definitely solid.

Thinking about it this way, Qin Huai suddenly realized Zheng Da’s initial approach might actually have been correct: when he couldn’t make proper eight-treasure filling, he went back to Chef Zhou, got the recipe, and added a few more nuts and preserved fruits in a “tweak without changing essence” approach.

That was a low-level version of “making do”—he just didn’t realize you could go further by increasing winter melon sugar.

Seeing Qin Huai lost in thought, Tan Weian nervously asked: “Qin… Qin chef, you’re not going to practice eight-treasure dumplings this afternoon, are you?”

His voice was so small that Zheng Siyuan, not far away, still heard it.

The moment he heard “eight-treasure dumplings,” his attention snapped over.

“You’re practicing eight-treasure filling today?” Zheng Siyuan asked, sounding almost relieved.

As if to say: I knew it—you were just playing with other pastries. Your real focus is still eight-treasure filling.

“Got a bit of an idea. I’ll try it tonight at home. Ou Yang’s there; he can help taste-test,” Qin Huai said honestly.

“What idea?” Zheng Siyuan pressed.

“I’ll tell you after I get results.”

Zheng Siyuan didn’t ask further and went back to eat.

Instead, Tan Weian hesitated and asked: “Then… what are you practicing this afternoon?”

Qin Huai didn’t rest at noon. After lunch he always practiced pastries for a while, then trained heat control with Huang Shengli, then rested briefly before evening service.

“Inch-thorn buns,” Qin Huai said, lifting his tool bag.

He had brought a full set of pastry shaping tools.

Small tweezers, carving needles, shaping sticks, various molds—he had them all.

Recently he even acquired a special tool for pleating decorative edges, strongly recommended by Zheng Da.

“Why did you suddenly switch back to practicing that?” Tan Weian asked curiously.

“To refine finger technique. I plan to practice flower-pleated palace lantern buns later.”

He casually grabbed a passing chef: “Anyone making soup dumplings today?”

“Yes, Qin chef, I’ll bring some!”

Since Zhiwei Pavilion chefs joined Huang Ji, breakfast options had become increasingly diverse.

“You’re practicing something new again,” Tan Weian muttered, then raised his voice: “Qin Huai, why are you practicing so many different pastries?”

He had voiced a question that had also troubled Zheng Siyuan.

“Because my friends want to eat them,” Qin Huai said, casually biting into a tomato.

“Four-treasure dumplings—Old Gong wanted them.”

“Rice cakes—Doctor Qu likes them.”

“Double-crab buns—Old Wang wanted them.”

“Even the daily pastries like fruit fillings are for a friend you don’t know.”

“And many meat-filled and palace pastries are for my sister Luoluo.”

Tan Weian was stunned.

“You’re just practicing them because your friends want to eat them? Like this?”

“Yes,” Qin Huai replied. “Isn’t that what pastries are for?”

“Some chefs cook for customers. I cook for my friends.”

“As long as my family and friends enjoy eating them, I feel satisfied. And if I can earn money at the same time, why not make the things that make them happy?”

Tan Weian was shocked—then slowly began to understand.

That evening, Qin Huai made another batch of eight-treasure dumpling filling.

With prior failures and clearer direction, this batch was a huge improvement.

Still not delicious—but less awful.

Less cloyingly sweet. More controlled.

The old diners even gave “reluctant praise.”

It was still bad—but now it was “the best among the bad ones.”

Over the next days, the flavor kept improving.

Day 2: slightly less sweet.
Day 3: more balanced.
Day 4: approaching the correct direction.

The elderly “tasting group” came every day without fail, standing from Qin Huai’s home to Gong Liang’s house, some even bringing stools.

They privately discussed how long they would have to endure this tasting journey.

Until one day, they suddenly realized—their taste had adapted.

It wasn’t “as bad anymore.”

No—it was no longer bad at all.

It had become a very ordinary, acceptable sweet glutinous rice dumpling with mixed nuts and preserved fruits.

Not delicious.

Just… normal.

A few elderly ladies stared at their bowls in disbelief.

“Is… is this still eight-treasure filling dumplings?” one of them asked.

“How can it… actually be okay?”