Dawn broke over Scion Mountain with a chorus of ethereal trumpets—literally, small cloud sprites tooted horns to signal the start of the trial. Li Fan stood at the foot of the mountain alongside two dozen cultivator disciples. They ranged from cocky young heavenly nobles twirling their swords, to stern-faced warrior monks cracking their knuckles. All of them exuded confidence and barely concealed curiosity at the lone mortal in their midst. Li Fan gulped and tried to look inconspicuous, which was difficult given he was carrying a wok on his back and currently fighting an updraft trying to blow his chef's hat off.
A rotund celestial official wobbled towards the group, his robe emblazoned with the emblem of the Trial Administrators. He carried a giant hourglass under one arm and a megaphone-shaped conch shell in the other. "Gather 'round, esteemed trial participants!" he bellowed, voice amplified by the conch.
Li Fan shambled closer with the others. He caught a few sidelong glances—mostly incredulous or amused. One tall disciple with flowing green robes whispered loudly to his friend, "Is that the mortal cook I heard about? What's he going to do, sauté the monsters?" His friend snickered.
Another participant, a haughty young man with a fan, chimed in, "Perhaps he'll season the Jade Lotus to perfection for us after we pick it." A ripple of laughter followed. Li Fan felt his cheeks heat but held his tongue. Better to keep a low profile. He adjusted the strap of his satchel (packed with the essentials Yuechan gave him: flint, herbs, a modest defensive talisman, and indeed a few spice jars).
The trial official cleared his throat, unfurling a comically long scroll (why were all scrolls in Heaven absurdly lengthy?). "Welcome, welcome! By decree of the Celestial Court, you fine cultivators—and one guest—shall undergo the Crucible of Scion Mountain. Standard survival trial, nothing to worry about," he read in a tone one might use for a picnic itinerary.
A scholarly-looking cultivator raised a hand. "Sir, can you clarify the rules regarding combat between participants? Is elimination by fellow competitors permitted?" Clearly some were already eying each other as much as the mountain's threats.
The official flipped a page. "Ah yes. Rule 37-A: Direct killing of fellow participants is frowned upon," he said, adjusting his tiny spectacles. "Violators will be... disqualified." There was a pause as he peered closer, "Oh, and also punished by ten thousand years in the Lotus Reflection Prison. So do frown upon it, okay?" The disciples murmured and nodded; apparently murder would be a no-no unless absolutely necessary.
"However!" the official brightened, "Friendly competition is expected. Skirmishes, duels, games of capture-the-flag, sudden but inevitable betrayals—all part of the fun, folks." He gave a thumbs up. Li Fan wasn't sure if he was joking. The official continued, "As for any... unusual participants," here he glanced obviously at Li Fan, "fret not! The trial is totally fair. The mountain will judge your worthiness. If you are meant to succeed, you will find a way." He said that last part with a rehearsed mystical tone, clearly something he didn't personally believe but had to say for the brochure.
Li Fan mustered a polite smile. "Totally fair," he muttered, "in the way a tiger cage is fair to the one goat inside it."
Suddenly, a blur of green robes stepped in front of Li Fan. It was the tall disciple who had mocked him earlier. He was lanky, with an upturned nose and a perpetual smirk. "Greetings, Chef Li," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm Zhao Da of the Verdant Blade Sect. I do hope you last long enough for me to have a taste... of your skills, of course." The words were polite, but Zhao Da's eyes danced with cruel amusement.
Li Fan felt a prickle of irritation. Years of serving haughty restaurant patrons had given him some tolerance for jerks, but this guy really deserved a ladle to the face. Still, Li Fan bowed lightly. "Pleasure to meet you. Always happy to cook up a challenge." He held Zhao's gaze and added with a slight grin, "Just beware—some find my cuisine... overwhelming."
A few onlookers chuckled at Li Fan's comeback. Zhao Da's smirk faltered, replaced by a scowl. "Careful, mortal. In these trials, accidents happen." He flicked his sleeve, brushing past Li Fan so hard that the fan in Zhao's hand accidentally whapped Li Fan's cheek. Not very painful, but clearly an insult.
The official with the conch obliviously carried on, "Now then, before sending you off, we'll have a brief demonstration duel to...er... warm up the crowd! Completely optional of course." He winked at a few watching dignitaries lounging on clouds nearby. It seemed some Celestial bigwigs had come to spectate early stages for entertainment. Li Fan even spotted the sharp-nosed bureaucrat from yesterday taking bets with a minor thunder god.
Zhao Da immediately seized the moment. "Honored Official, I volunteer for a demonstration duel," he declared, loud enough for all to hear. In a dramatic flourish, he pointed his folded fan at Li Fan. "And I challenge Li Fan, the mortal cook, to be my opponent. Let the heavens see his... prowess."
Li Fan's stomach dropped. "What? Me?" he squeaked, then tried to recover some dignity. "I mean, is that necessary... Fellow Daoist Zhao?"
The official clapped his hands in delight at the brewing drama. "Splendid idea! Nothing like a classic face-off to kick things off. It'll be like a sacred martial arts battle!" He paused, eyes widening as he considered something. "Ooh, and by ancient custom—why not make it a Face-Slapping Duel?"
An excited hush fell over the assembly. Some immortals in the audience exchanged gleeful looks. Clearly, this was a well-loved sport among the bored celestials.
Li Fan blinked. "Face... slapping?" He half-expected someone to laugh, but everyone looked quite serious now. Zhao Da's grin returned tenfold.
"Yes," the official said with relish, "an honorable face-slapping duel. The first to yield or collapse loses. A time-honored way to resolve minor disputes." He gestured, and two junior officials scampered out, drawing a large circle on the ground with glowing chalk to mark the impromptu arena.
Zhao Da stepped into the circle with theatrical grace. "Come now, mortal. Unless you plan to yield already? In which case, do kneel and apologize for your earlier insolence." He flexed his fingers, stretching his palms. Around his hands, a faint green aura of Qi formed—a sign of internal energy. He clearly intended to put some power behind his slaps.
Li Fan's heart hammered. This was insane. A formal slap fight?! And Zhao clearly was a cultivator with strength far beyond his. Backing down would shame him (and disappoint Yuechan, who might be watching from somewhere). But going forward... Think, Li Fan, think!
He took a breath and stepped into the circle, trying to ignore the whispers and chuckles. "Alright, Zhao. You want to do this? Let's do it." He unslung his wok from his back and set it aside just outside the ring; it didn't seem right to use a weapon in what was apparently a martial art of open palms. Instead, Li Fan pulled off his chef's hat and handed it to one of the officials, who held it like a referee holding a boxer's robe.
An elderly referee (where did he come from? Heaven seemed to have officials for everything) tottered into the ring between them. He wore a black-and-white striped robe, of all things, and carried a small gong. "Alrighty, gentlemen, clean fight, open palms only, no sneaky punches. Slaps to the face, neck, or ego are all valid. First to yield loses face—literally and figuratively." The old ref cackled at his own joke.
Li Fan suddenly realized that the "elderly ref" was the same senile janitor, now inexplicably acting as referee, complete with a little bowtie on his janitor robes. The janitor must have thrown it on over his clothes. Li Fan gaped, but the old man gave him an encouraging toothless grin as if this were perfectly normal. How did he even get here so fast? And why was he refereeing? The onlookers didn't seem to find this odd at all—perhaps they assumed any old guy could be an elder.
Zhao Da seemed oblivious to the janitor's identity; he was laser-focused on Li Fan. The ref/janitor raised his hand. "Begin on the gong strike. Three… two… one—"
GONG!
Zhao Da moved like a viper. He stepped in, twisting his hips, and delivered a swift slap toward Li Fan's left cheek, Qi energy crackling. This was no playful pat; it was a strike that could knock a lesser man out cold.
Li Fan's reflexes, honed from years of dodging kitchen fires and irate head chefs, kicked in. He lurched backward awkwardly. Zhao's palm missed by a hair's breadth, the force of the swing causing a small sonic boom that ruffled Li Fan's hair.
The crowd "oooh'd."