AGN -Chapter 347 Advanced Heat Control

Ten Chinese yams—at Qin Huai’s current speed, he could finish slicing them very quickly.

After becoming familiar with this ingredient, Qin Huai could now easily cut yam slices suitable for stir-frying. As for mixing the starch slurry, he still didn’t really understand how it should vary with different ingredients. However, for stir-fried yam, Cao Guixiang had already given him a fixed formula—he just needed to follow it.

And following a formula was the easiest thing.

Qin Huai prepared the starch slurry.

He heated the wok, added oil, tossed in the yam, and started stir-frying.

His spatula movements were still chaotic and without form, but Qin Huai no longer cared. He always remembered what Cao Guixiang said: the key to heat control is to let the ingredients heat evenly—technique and movements aren’t what matter most.

It was like farming—how you pull weeds doesn’t matter, as long as you remove them completely.

Qin Huai clearly understood the purpose behind each of his seemingly random movements: which yam slices needed turning, whether the last stir had any effect, and whether he should speed up or slow down next.

In these five days, his biggest realization was that learning to cook isn’t about practicing techniques—it’s about training awareness.

It reminded him of middle school, when his Chinese teacher told Qin Congwen that Qin Huai’s handwriting was poor and affected his exam scores, suggesting he learn hard-pen calligraphy if possible.

So Qin Congwen enrolled him in a class. The very first lesson the teacher taught was: “intention comes before the stroke.”

For the first four lessons, Qin Huai didn’t understand those words at all. He only felt that the teacher’s writing looked different from his—balanced in pressure—while his own writing was always overly forceful.

No matter how the teacher explained it, he couldn’t grasp it. No matter how much he practiced, he couldn’t understand what “intention before the stroke” meant. Sheet after sheet of copybook writing—yet the moment he put pen to paper, the character was already wrong.

Until one day, he tried imagining the character in his mind before writing it. The moment his pen touched the paper, he suddenly understood.

That was also when he first understood what “sudden enlightenment” meant.

It truly happened in an instant—what once made no sense suddenly became clear. Whether it came from accumulated practice or a moment of realization, that feeling of breakthrough was indescribably wonderful.

And right now felt just like that moment.

Qin Huai had lost count of how many batches of yam he had cooked. He only knew that the pile he had just sliced was almost gone—at most enough for two more rounds.

He was wielding the spatula, yet not just wielding it.

He didn’t know why, while cooking, his mind drifted back to his childhood—sitting at a desk, practicing calligraphy every day without understanding, feeling deeply frustrated.

Back then, he gripped the pen tightly, putting all his strength into every stroke, as if trying to pierce the paper.

The teacher told him to write more lightly, but he simply couldn’t.

He felt he was wasting his adoptive parents’ money. Zhao Rong had enrolled him in one-on-one lessons costing 110 yuan per hour.

At the time, meat buns in the Qin family breakfast shop sold for 1 yuan each, steamed buns for 0.5 yuan, and vegetable buns for 0.7 yuan.

The children at Sanma Road Welfare Institute hadn’t even achieved the freedom to eat vegetable buns regularly yet. The orphanage hadn’t moved to the outskirts, and Qin Huai was sometimes called back to help with farm work—though most of the kids didn’t even know how to farm properly.

Back then, Qin Huai felt deeply uneasy. Every class he attended meant his adoptive parents had to sell who knows how many buns to earn it back. Yet after four lessons, his handwriting hadn’t improved at all—he couldn’t even understand what the teacher was saying.

So he wrote with even more force, believing that if he tried harder, his handwriting would improve and the money wouldn’t be wasted.

Every day after finishing homework, he practiced endlessly. Because he gripped the pen too tightly and incorrectly, a blister formed on his index finger, and his little finger ached from being pressed against the paper.

Then one night, after finishing his homework, Zhao Rong brought him a cup of hot milk and told him to drink it after finishing the page and go to bed early.

After delivering the milk, she went to sleep. Qin Huai quietly cried while drinking it—not because his hand hurt, but because it was already 11 p.m., and Zhao Rong had to wake up before 3 a.m. every day. Normally, she would sleep by 9.

He cried for as long as it took to finish the milk.

After wiping his tears, he continued writing.

Still bad.

When the page was almost filled, after pressing down heavily on a stroke, his hand hurt so much that he was forced to write more lightly—and in that moment, he realized that this stroke was better than any he had written before.

That was when he finally understood what the teacher meant.

And now—it was the same.

These past few days, Cao Guixiang had repeatedly told him that the movements didn’t matter. She could mimic his awkward style or use her own habitual technique—yet every dish she made was equally flawless.

Qin Huai understood what she meant. He was no longer that child who couldn’t grasp his teacher’s words.

But he hadn’t fully understood.

He knew his purpose when stir-frying. He knew she was teaching him to let awareness lead his actions—to know what he wanted before acting, whether thickening sauce or cutting ingredients.

But he couldn’t fully do it.

Or rather, he could only reach about 90%. The remaining 10% always eluded him.

Even after five days of stir-frying yam to the point of numbness, that final 10% still seemed out of reach.

He was no longer that child practicing calligraphy—but he was still just as lost.

Qin Huai swung the spatula again.

He saw the doneness of the yam in the wok—knew it was time to thicken the sauce.

But part of it didn’t look quite right. Should he press it down a bit?

He thought so—and did it.

Still clumsy, still rough.

Then he added the starch slurry.

An ordinary thickening.

At the moment the sauce coated the yam, another thought arose: that press earlier wasn’t wrong, but now the sauce seemed uneven—should he stir more vigorously?

So he did.

The stir-fried yam was done.

A plate not as perfect as Cao Guixiang’s—but noticeably better-looking than any he had made before.

He didn’t even need Cao Guixiang to say anything—he knew this dish was especially well done.

“That’s enough,” Cao Guixiang said. “You’ve understood.”

“Congratulations. You’ve finished what you needed to learn at this stage. You can book a flight for tomorrow afternoon—after lunch, head back to Shanshi.”

Qin Huai nodded in a daze, put down the spatula, and returned to his room to rest—without even taking a bite of the yam he had just cooked.

Back in his room, Qin Huai sat blankly on the bed, thinking about why such thoughts had suddenly appeared while he was stir-frying the yam.

It felt like inspiration—but not like any he had experienced before.

Previously, that feeling had been more like everything flowing naturally, like a fish in water. There was no need to search for it—just do the work, and it would come. As people say, it was like being “fed by heaven”: heaven would sit across from him with a big bowl of rice, smiling and asking, “Is that enough, kid? Want another bite? Oh, you don’t like this one? No problem, I’ll get you another bowl.”

It wasn’t like the feeling from his knife practice a few days ago either. That night, chopping vegetables until he felt like his soul left his body—it was more like activating a cultivation speed booster, leveling up in one night what would normally take a week.

This time, however, it was true enlightenment—the same kind he experienced as a child learning calligraphy.

From confusion, bewilderment, and having no clue where to begin—to suddenly understanding everything in an instant.

Qin Huai didn’t even need to open his game interface to know that his heat control skill had leveled up.

Just like when his filling-making skill reached Master level and he realized he understood it much more deeply, the moment his heat control advanced to “Advanced,” he finally felt he truly grasped what “heat control” meant.

Qin Huai yawned.

During the previous five days of intense training, he hadn’t felt especially tired. But today, even though he had finished early, he suddenly felt exhausted.

Tired—but excited.

Physical fatigue mixed with mental exhilaration made him both sleepy and eager to talk to someone.

Before doing that, he opened his game panel to confirm whether his heat control had really reached Advanced.

As expected.

Heat Control (Advanced): As a pastry chef, you have truly understood heat control. (3/100000)

Qin Huai rubbed his eyes, took out his phone, and sent the same message to Zheng Siyuan, Tan Wei’an, and Zang Liang.

Qin Huai: I think I’ve found the feeling—the real kind of feeling. You can’t imagine it. It’s really… that kind of feeling!

For some reason, all three were still awake and replied quickly.

Zheng Siyuan: Did that imaginary game system in your head give you another task, and you completed it?
Zheng Siyuan: I honestly don’t get how you even imagined that system. I tried imagining one myself, but I can’t even complete the tasks I set.

Tan Wei’an: What feeling? Are there different kinds of “feelings”?

Zang Liang: Holy crap holy crap holy crap!!!
Zang Liang: You found the feeling again?!

Zang Liang: I haven’t found anything these past few days. When are you coming back? I think I’ve found the feeling for crab roe sauce, but Tan Wei’an says mine is wrong. I think he’s the problem—he doesn’t even know what “feeling” is!

Zang Liang: Brother Qin! Master Qin! Are you coming back tomorrow or the day after? Can you teach me when you get back? I want to find the feeling too!

Qin Huai sent a group reply saying he’d be back tomorrow and they could talk then. After that, he went to wash up and sleep.

A night of good dreams.

It was high-quality sleep—he hadn’t slept this comfortably in a long time. He felt like he had dreamed, but upon waking, he couldn’t remember anything—only that he felt refreshed.

This feeling was wonderful. No annoying dead rabbits in his dreams demanding food.

Not having to stir-fry yam in real life during the day and continue stir-frying it in dreams at night—what a blessing!

Wait—that didn’t make sense. His yam stir-fry had improved so much—why didn’t he dream about it last night? If he did, it should’ve been like one of those wish-fulfillment stories: casually cooking, instantly impressing everyone, rabbits slapping themselves with their ears while crying and shouting, “We were blind! Master Qin’s yam is so delicious!”

Qin Huai imagined that scene.

…Better not read those wish-fulfillment web novels anymore.

Chen Huihong had been obsessed with reading novels lately, sharing every good one in the family group chat. Qin Huai sometimes clicked and skimmed a bit.

Every time she shared one, Luo Jun would scold her for reading such “nutritionally empty” stuff.

But considering Luo Jun’s recent behavior, Qin Huai suspected he secretly read them too—after all, who could resist reading a couple of chapters when bored?

Qin Huai casually ran his fingers through his hair, pushed open the door, and stepped out to greet a beautiful new day.

Cao Guixiang and Zhang Chu were already awake—and not just awake, they’d clearly been working. The air was filled with the rich aroma of broth, probably because the kitchen door wasn’t fully closed, or because the broth had reached its final stage and couldn’t be covered.

Thinking about it, the neighbor’s grandson sneaking in the middle of the night to eat a whole bag of Four-Joy dumplings wasn’t entirely his fault. That night, Cao Guixiang’s stove hadn’t been turned off—the broth had been simmering the whole time.

The kid was probably genuinely hungry.

Qin Huai took a deep breath. Even after seeing Cao Guixiang make broth so many times, he still couldn’t help but drool at the smell.

“You’re up? Pretty early today. Old Zhang and I thought you’d sleep at least another half hour, so we didn’t cook the Four-Joy dumplings yet,” Cao Guixiang said, then raised her voice, “Old Zhang, cook the dumplings!”

“Got it!”

“No need, no need,” Qin Huai quickly waved his hands. “Since I woke up early for once, let me make something else for breakfast—for you and Grandpa Zhang.”

“Something else?” Cao Guixiang looked puzzled.

Qin Huai grinned. “Um… Master, about that chicken broth you’re making today… is there any extra?”

“My chicken noodle soup is actually really good—Zheng Siyuan loves it!”

He had been eyeing Cao Guixiang’s broth for a while now. He didn’t even dare imagine how amazing longevity noodles would taste if made with her broth.

If luck was on his side, it might even reach A-grade quality.

After all, in longevity noodles, the broth was the essence—the noodles were practically just supporting actors. Last time, Cao Guixiang helped him mince meat and turned B-grade dumplings into A-grade ones. If he used her broth directly…

Cao Guixiang laughed. “I was wondering why, after five days of training, you still had the mood to make breakfast instead of resting. Turns out you’re craving chicken noodle soup.”

“There’s extra.”

“We don’t need to cook too many dishes for lunch today. Yun Yun and Qingqing won’t be here—just us and Old Shi.”

“Old Shi only cares about the shredded shark fin soup. He doesn’t mind the rest.”

“At worst, we’ll make one dish less—just throw in some braised pork belly to fill the table. Old Zhang, go to the market later and buy some good pork belly. We won’t make the clear broth willow-leaf bird’s nest dish today—tomorrow we’ll have bird’s nest with pigeon eggs.”

“Alright, alright!” Zhang Chu nodded eagerly at the mention of another special meal tomorrow.

“Xiao Qin, just slice some yam this morning. There are still two boxes in the storage room. Just finish cutting them—it’s mainly to keep your hand feel sharp, don’t let your progress go to waste.”

“Pack your luggage too. For the rest of the time, relax—scroll your phone, or sit on a stool like your Grandpa Zhang and watch at the kitchen door. Just wait for the big lunch.”

“Got it, Master!” Qin Huai replied loudly.