The iron door closed behind them with a heavy clang.
The kitchen was enormous. Rows of stone stoves lined the walls, cold and dark. Long metal tables held cutting boards, knives, and pots. Hooks hung from the ceiling, empty but still swinging as if something had just been taken down. The air smelled of old smoke and rust.
In the center of the room stood a raised platform. On it, a figure waited.
It had been a man once. Now it was a puppet of metal and wood, stitched together with wire. A chef's hat sat on its head. Its face still held some expression—tired eyes, a mouth that had once smiled. But its eyes were not eyes. They were dying coals, glowing faintly orange.
On the wall behind it hung an old photograph. A fat old chef stood among a group of young apprentices, all of them laughing.
The puppet spoke. Its voice came out like stones grinding together.
"Sixty years ago, I taught cooking in this kitchen. One hundred children passed through my hands. Now I am a keeper of the door." It raised a long spoon. "Six of you. Too many for one dish. You will split into two teams. Each team will cook one dish. Both must score at least sixty to pass. A score below thirty means death. Eighty-five or above is perfect. Scores between sixty and seventy will be forgiven—but the door always takes a small price."
A timer appeared on the wall. 60:00.
"Choose your teams."
Shen looked at the others. "Red team—me, Jiang, Lin. Blue team—Qiang, Yun, Fang."
Qiang's jaw tightened. "We've never cooked."
"You found ingredients in the storage. You can do this." Shen held out his hand. "We're not enemies. Both teams need to pass."
Qiang hesitated, then nodded. They shook.
The puppet pointed two long spoons at opposite ends of the kitchen. "Red team, left side. Blue team, right side. Begin."
Red Team
Shen, Jiang, and Lin moved to their station. Stove, cutting board, pots, and a small pantry of ingredients. But the good stuff—the fresh meat, the rare spices—was on a central table. Both teams could reach it.
"Get the beef," Shen said.
Lin ran and grabbed the best cut of red meat. Qiang reached for it a second too late. He pulled back his hand, frowning.
"We'll use pork," Yun said. "There's plenty."
Qiang nodded. "Fine."
Blue Team
Qiang, Yun, and Fang gathered at their station. Their stove was cold. Their cutting board was chipped. Their pantry held only basic vegetables and old flour.
"We can still make something," Fang said, her nervous hands already reaching for a carrot.
"But what?" Yun asked. "We don't have a recipe."
Qiang looked at the puppet. Its coal eyes were fixed on the central table, where a small jar of dark red spice sat untouched. "It keeps looking at that jar. Maybe it likes exotic flavors."
"We don't know that," Yun said.
"We have to guess."
While the Red team searched their side, Fang found a small pouch hidden behind a loose brick. Inside were dried chili peppers—unusual, not local. "These might be exotic enough," she said.
Qiang nodded. "Save them."
Red Team — Discovery
Shen searched his side of the kitchen. Behind a stack of pots, he found the same old notebook from the earlier trial. He flipped to the last page.
"Mother's red wine stew. I never made it like her. It wasn't the recipe. It was the love."
He looked at the puppet. Its eyes were warmer now.
"It wants a memory dish," Shen said. "Something that tastes like home."
Jiang began cutting the beef into cubes. Lin lit the stove. Blue flames rose steadily.
"We need wine," Lin said.
Yun called from the other side. "There's fermented berry juice behind the loose brick. We found it earlier."
He held up a clay jar. "Take it."
Shen took the jar. "Thank you."
Blue Team — Improvisation
Without a recipe, they built their own dish.
Qiang chopped pork into rough chunks. Yun boiled water for a simple soup. Fang mixed flour and water into dough, flattening it with a bottle. She added a pinch of the dried chilies to the dough—just enough to give it heat.
"This isn't going to be good," Yun muttered.
"It just needs to pass," Qiang said. "Sixty points. Not eighty."
The smell of chili and herbs began to fill their corner.
Then the first interference came.
Red Team — Fire Snake
A thin tongue of flame shot from the stove—not steady fire, but a snake made of fire. It coiled around the burner, hissing. Its eyes were sparks.
"Fire snake," Jiang said.
The snake lunged at Lin. She jumped back, slashing with her sword. The blade passed through flame.
Shen studied it. A piece of burning coal inside its throat.
"The coal," he said.
Jiang grabbed iron tongs, wrapping her hand in a dish towel. The snake struck again. She dodged, then thrust the tongs into its open mouth and pulled. The coal came free. The snake collapsed into ash.
The stove lit with steady blue flames.
"Three minutes lost," Lin said.
Blue Team — Flying Knives
On the other side, the knife rack came alive. Knives flew off—paring knives, a cleaver—and spun in the air.
"Get down!" Qiang shouted.
Fang dropped. A paring knife sliced across her shoulder. She cried out. Blood soaked her sleeve.
Yun grabbed a metal lid and used it as a shield. A cleaver struck the lid with a loud clang.
"The box!" Qiang pointed at a small metal box humming under the rack.
He ran toward it, ignoring the knives. One cut his left arm. Another grazed his cheek. He reached the box and smashed it with his right fist.
The knives fell.
Fang was bleeding. Qiang's left arm was bleeding. Yun had a shallow cut on his neck.
"Keep cooking," Qiang said through clenched teeth.
Joint Interference — The Raging Rooster
A whole chicken, frozen solid a moment ago, suddenly thrashed to life. It was huge—twice the size of a normal bird—and its eyes were wild. It kicked a pot off the stove. It knocked over a jar of salt. Then it charged.
"Stop it!" Shen shouted.
Lin stabbed the chicken. Her sword bounced off its frozen feathers. The chicken pecked at her leg. She stumbled.
Qiang grabbed a broom and swung it like a club. The chicken squawked and turned on him.
Jiang ran behind it and drove her dagger into the back of its neck. The spirit iron flared. The chicken convulsed and fell still.
"Everyone okay?" Shen asked.
Lin had a bruise on her thigh. Qiang's left arm was worse—the bleeding hadn't stopped. But they nodded.
"Ten minutes gone," Yun said.
Cooking Continues
Red team added the fermented berry juice to their stew. The liquid hissed and bubbled, turning deep purple. The smell was sharp, almost sour, but underneath it was something sweet. Lin added honey from the previous trial.
Blue team boiled their pork in salted water. Fang shaped her dough into small dumplings, her injured shoulder making each movement painful. Yun made a thin broth from vegetable scraps and added a few crushed chili peppers for heat.
The puppet watched both sides.
Halfway through, it spoke.
"Red team. Your dish lacks soul. Give me a drop of blood. Ten points."
Shen picked up a small knife and pricked his fingertip. One drop fell into the stew. Jiang healed the cut.
"Blue team. Your dish is too timid. Give me sweat from your brow. Five points."
Qiang wiped his forehead with his finger and let a bead of sweat drip into the broth. It was small, almost nothing.
The puppet nodded.
The Taste
The timer showed three minutes remaining.
Red team plated their stew—dark red sauce, tender beef, and a sprinkle of fresh herbs. It smelled like warmth, like memory.
Blue team ladled their soup into two bowls—pale broth, pork chunks, a few dumplings floating. The chili heat gave it an unexpected kick.
The puppet stepped down. It tasted the red team's stew first.
Long silence. Its coal eyes flickered.
"Eighty-five," it said. "Perfect. You captured the feeling of home."
It tasted like the blue team's soup.
Another silence. Shorter.
"Sixty-five. Pass."
The timer stopped at forty-five seconds.
A chime sounded in their minds. Cold. Mechanical.
Cooking Challenge Complete.
Red Team Score: 85. Perfect.
Blue Team Score: 65. Pass.
Rating: Standard.
Rewards: Each survivor receives four bone fragments. Red team receives one extra fragment each.
But the puppet was not finished.
"Blue team passed, but barely. The door always takes a price for weakness."
It pointed at Qiang. His left arm, already bleeding, suddenly went limp. He tried to lift it, but it would not rise above his shoulder.
"Your arm will heal slowly. Until then, you will carry it like dead weight. The wound is sealed, but the muscle remembers fear."
It pointed at Yun. His eyes blurred. He blinked, but the world remained soft, unfocused.
"Your vision will return in days. For now, you see through the fog. The cut on your neck is nothing—this is deeper."
It pointed at Fang. Her hands, always nervous, now trembled uncontrollably. She dropped the spoon she was holding.
"Your fine motor control is reduced. Simple tasks will be hard. Your shoulder will heal, but your hands will shake until you prove yourself again."
The three stood in silence. They had passed. They were alive. But they were less than they had been.
Jiang touched Yun's arm. Her mark glowed. The blur in his eyes cleared a little—but not all the way. She tried to help Qiang's arm, but the magic resisted. "It's not a wound. It's a judgment," she said.
"It's enough," Yun said. "We're alive."
The puppet turned. A steel door slid open on the far wall, revealing a dark corridor. The air that came out smelled of many things—sweet, sour, bitter, salty, savory—all mixed, shifting like wind.
"The Taste Maze," the puppet said. "Your tongue will show you the way. Do not trust your eyes."
Shen looked at Qiang's limp arm, at Yun's squinting eyes, at Fang's shaking hands. "Can they make it through?"
"The maze does not require strength. It requires taste. They still have that."
Shen stepped into the corridor. Jiang followed. Lin followed.
Qiang pushed his dead arm against his chest to keep it from swinging. "Let's go."
Yun squinted into the dark. "I can't see much."
"Then listen," Fang said, her voice shaking along with her hands. "And taste."
They walked into the darkness. The steel door closed behind them.
The puppet stood alone in its kitchen, the stew still steaming on the counter. It picked up the spoon and took another bite.
Then it smiled. Just once. Just for a moment.
The coals in its eyes went dark.