AGN -Chapter 346 A New Way to Grind Proficiency

Qin Huai quietly watched Cao Guixiang slicing Chinese yam.

Her knife moved incredibly fast, the motions simple—cutting yam was no different from cutting a radish. To Qin Huai, it seemed she neither hesitated nor thought; she was simply following instinct. The blade moved so quickly it left afterimages, and in the blink of an eye, one whole yam was already sliced.

Qin Huai glanced at the slices. Each piece was evenly thick, as if copied and pasted—slightly thinner than the ones he had cut earlier.

“When your knife skills are skilled enough, you can cut as fast as I just did. But fast doesn’t mean good. Many chefs chase speed, thinking the faster they are, the better their knife work is—but they often make a lot of mistakes because of it. In reality, the few extra seconds you spend cutting won’t affect your work for the day. And going slower won’t affect the final dish either.”

After saying that, Cao Guixiang picked up another yam. This time, her speed was much more normal—almost the same as Qin Huai’s.

Her movements were steady, slow but rhythmic, and extremely detailed. So detailed that Qin Huai felt he could see exactly where her strength was applied with each cut.

The angle of the blade, the position of the wrist, how the arm exerted force—she wasn’t just cutting vegetables; she was teaching. A meticulous, face-to-face demonstration.

“You see, going slow lets you notice the details. When I was cutting fast earlier, you couldn’t clearly see how each cut was made. As an observer, you can’t see it clearly—and even the person cutting can’t fully grasp it. But when you cut slowly, you have a higher margin for error and time to find the right feel.”

As she spoke, she finished another yam.

“Not slow, right?” she asked with a smile.

Qin Huai nodded firmly.

At that moment, Qin Huai finally understood that Cao Guixiang and Huang Shengli had two completely different teaching styles.

Huang Shengli, a rare top-tier instructor with exceptionally clear verbal expression and rich teaching experience, focused more on detailed explanations. He preferred to observe Qin Huai first, point out problems in real time, and only demonstrate after the same mistake had appeared many times.

Cao Guixiang’s method was similar in principle, but since she wasn’t as verbally expressive, she relied more on hands-on demonstration while explaining.

She preferred to let Qin Huai repeat the process multiple times, expose all his problems, and then correct them one by one.

Both were master-level teachers, both following very traditional teaching approaches.

Qin Huai watched as Cao Guixiang finished slicing ten yams and began stir-frying them.

In the first round, she used her own style—simple, no flashy movements. She moved the spatula exactly as needed, with no unnecessary gestures.

Even during thickening, there were no dramatic motions—just a plain, standard technique.

“To learn thickening, you must first learn how to mix starch slurry. The reason I say your thickening has major problems is because you were wrong from the very beginning.”

“There’s a lot of knowledge behind thickening, most of it in the starch slurry. What kind of starch to choose, how to mix it, whether it should be thick or thin, the proportions, whether to blend different types—these are all decisions the chef must make. It really tests your overall understanding and judgment of the dish.”

“Of course, as a pastry chef, you don’t need to master it to that level. In the document I gave you, all dishes that require thickening have the starch ratios listed. Just follow the recipe.”

“But when you study a recipe, don’t just memorize it—think. The moment you understand why a dish uses a certain starch ratio, that’s when you’ve truly learned thickening.”

Then, right in front of Qin Huai, she slowly mixed the starch slurry while explaining the proportions, and started stir-frying again.

This time, she deliberately imitated Qin Huai’s style—her movements looked somewhat clumsy and uncoordinated—but the final dish still turned out excellent.

Qin Huai: …

Is that really what I look like when I cook?

Back at Huang Ji, how did those chefs manage not to laugh while watching him cook?

“You can see it, right? The movements don’t really affect the final result. Practicing heat control and wok tossing is all about making the dish heat evenly. Your movements might look a bit strange—I have no idea where you learned them—but your intention is clear. You know what you’re trying to achieve with each motion.”

“So I think your heat control foundation is quite solid—no major issues.”

“Of course, it would be better if you corrected your movements a bit. So… who exactly taught you those techniques?”

Qin Huai: …

No idea. Maybe it’s just talent.

And so, Qin Huai spent the entire night stir-frying yams.

Working in batches of ten, he would cook ten, then Cao Guixiang would cook ten, over and over again. The difference between their dishes was like night and day—you didn’t even need to taste them; just by looking, you could tell which plate was his and which was hers.

Zhang Chu sat outside on a small stool, watching—and eventually started eating. He would take a bite of Qin Huai’s dish, then a bite of Cao Guixiang’s, occasionally muttering his critiques:

“Little Qin’s cooking and his pastry skills… they really are quite different.”

Sometimes he spoke too loudly, and Cao Guixiang would hear him, shoot him a glare, and scold in a low voice, “Just eat your yam.”

Qin Huai didn’t care about Zhang Chu’s obvious comparisons. People only feel hurt when they have a basis for comparison.

To Qin Huai, Cao Guixiang’s stir-fried yam was on the same level as Jiang Chengde’s locust flower buns—except Jiang’s buns were almost impossible to comprehend, while Cao Guixiang’s cooking was deliberately made understandable, at least the parts he needed to grasp.

That night, Qin Huai dreamed of stir-frying yams.

In this dream, the rabbits ruling the world were obsessed with yams—specifically stir-fried yams—and they had extremely high standards. Every slice had to be uniform, the heat perfect, the thickening just right.

Previously, he only had to cut radishes in his dreams. Now, he had to practice everything—from slicing to stir-frying to thickening. And those damned rabbits were incredibly picky—one moment complaining about heat control, the next about thickening, and some even saying the yam slices looked so bad they didn’t want to eat them at all.

He ended up sweating profusely in the dream, and when he woke up, his forehead was covered in a thin layer of sweat.

He changed clothes and walked out to wash up, forgetting to fix his hair—stepping out with a messy bird’s nest on his head.

By the time Qin Huai woke up, Cao Guixiang and Zhang Chu were already up, and breakfast was on the table: three-diced buns, fermented rice steamed buns, and Four-Joy tangyuan—the full pastry trio—along with three fried eggs and soy milk made by Cao Guixiang.

Seeing his appearance, Cao Guixiang smiled and asked, “Judging by that look, you were stir-frying yams all night in your dreams, huh?”

Qin Huai was startled. “Did I talk in my sleep again?”

Today he woke up from exhaustion, not from shouting in his dreams!

“Not this time,” Cao Guixiang said, gesturing for him to hurry up and eat after washing. “Just guessed from how you look.”

Zhang Chu took a bite of his bun and explained, “Totally normal. That’s how it is when you’re an apprentice. When I first learned carpentry from my master, I was working even in my dreams. I’d wake up every day more tired than before I went to sleep.”

“Your Master Cao… well, her situation was even worse. When she was learning to cook, she dreamed every night about being scolded by her master. In reality, her master never scolded anyone. But during the day, if she didn’t get scolded to tears, in her dreams she’d be scolded until she cried—she woke up crying every single day.”

“At that time, the neighbors all thought her master looked kind on the surface but was actually really harsh—making a young girl cry secretly at home every night, and waking up the next morning with swollen eyes.”

Qin Huai knew Zhang Chu and Cao Guixiang were trying to comfort him, and he had to admit—it worked. Experience from those who’ve been through it is always far more effective than empty theory.

After washing up, Qin Huai sat down at the table. “Got it, Master. Are we still stir-frying yam today?”

“Of course. Originally, I planned for you to practice thickening for two days and knife skills for three days. But now it seems there’s no need to separate them—you can practice together.”

“Once you can slice the yam well, your second stage of knife skills will basically be complete. After you go back, if you’re interested, you can keep practicing—yam or radish slices are fine. Come back when your radish slices are thin enough to let light pass through.”

Cao Guixiang added with a friendly reminder, “But this method isn’t very targeted—you might not finish in five days.”

Qin Huai replied confidently, “Don’t worry, Master. I’ll work hard and try to finish in five days. If I go back any later, my little sister Luoluo will start crying again.”

Last month, Qin Luo’s exam results came out—she had improved. During the holidays, Qin Huai had promised to cook her something delicious if she made progress. These past few days, she was probably living just for that promised treat.

If Qin Huai delayed his return any longer, her world would collapse again.

As for what to make, Qin Huai had already decided—he’d ask Cao Guixiang to help mince the meat and make a deluxe version of Four-Joy tangyuan for Qin Luo.

And so, Qin Huai spent five whole days stir-frying yam.

Every time he came to Cao Guixiang’s house for training, it followed the same pattern: first a big feast as a reward, then practice. The first day was manageable, but by the second day, it turned into full-on “devil training mode”—from the moment he opened his eyes until he went to sleep, it was nonstop practice. It felt like going back to senior year of high school, the intense 100-day sprint before the college entrance exam.

Of course, there were breaks—but not really. Cooking time was technically his rest time.

Rest, but not entirely—because Qin Huai would stand by and watch, observing how Cao Guixiang cooked.

During this intense training period, Cao Guixiang didn’t have time to prepare elaborate meals every day—usually just one main dish and three simple home-style dishes.

Learning to cook is physically demanding. Whether slicing or stir-frying, it consumes a lot of energy. Stir-frying yam all day is, in a way, no different from hauling bricks all day. By mealtime, Qin Huai was always starving, wishing he could eat eight bowls of rice.

And every time, Cao Guixiang would watch him with a smile, occasionally adding food to his bowl.

Five days passed in a flash.

By the end, Qin Huai had stir-fried so much yam he barely knew what day it was. He didn’t remember the date or the day of the week—only the time, and whether it was time to cook, watch, or eat.

As for “feeling”…

Even the so-called “feeling-based masters” would admit that once practice reaches a certain intensity, you stop feeling anything at all.

On the fifth day, Qin Huai didn’t even immediately check a piece of shocking gossip Dong Shi had shared—that Wang Jun seemed utterly dejected, didn’t sneak out during lunch to meet his girlfriend, and was likely dumped.

When Qin Huai finally saw it, he just replied with a single word: “tragic.”

Completely perfunctory.

He was too tired—so tired he couldn’t even care about gossip anymore.

Thinking about how red-kitchen chefs had to build their fundamentals like this for years filled Qin Huai with genuine respect. This wasn’t a life for ordinary people. Compared to this, waking up at 2 a.m. every day to run a breakfast stall didn’t seem so bad.

Of course, Qin Huai himself couldn’t wake up at 2 a.m. every day—he simply couldn’t get up.

“Let’s stop here for today. Tomorrow morning we’ll rest. Old Shi is coming over for a meal. Xiao Qin, you should meet him—his seafood prices are quite reasonable. If you’re interested in buying from him, I can introduce you.”

At 11:20 p.m. on the fifth day of stir-frying yam, Cao Guixiang finally called it a day.

Qin Huai, dizzy from five days of nonstop cooking, didn’t even remember who Old Shi was at first. He just asked blankly: “Huh? We’re not practicing tomorrow?”

Cao Guixiang laughed. “Seems like you actually want to keep practicing. What, found your rhythm? Want to fry another twenty yams before resting?”

Qin Huai shook his sore, aching arms, thought seriously for a moment—and nodded.

He really did want to keep going.

Even though he hadn’t opened his game interface for two or three days, his intuition told him his heat-control skill was about to level up.

His proficiency had never increased this quickly before.

Back at Huang Ji, he could stir-fry vegetables all afternoon and barely gain any progress. But in these five days, he felt himself improving every single day. Ironically, although he was practicing knife skills and thickening, the most obvious improvement was in heat control.

It made no sense.

Qin Huai couldn’t figure it out—why was it always like this?

When he wanted to grind heat-control proficiency, he ended up improving filling preparation. When he wanted to improve filling, his knife skills improved. When he wanted to train knife skills, his heat control improved instead.

He didn’t know whether the problem was with him or with the system.

By this logic, when he wanted to train finger techniques, he shouldn’t train finger techniques—he should go knead dough instead.

Thinking this, Qin Huai silently told himself:

I want to practice thickening!

Heat control, do you hear me? I want to practice thickening!

Qin Huai picked up the knife and started slicing yam again.