The Reviled God of Cooking Tries to Slack Off - Chapter 1

Jiang Tingzhou suddenly felt his body lighten, like a feather floating in the air.

Memories flashed before his eyes like a revolving lantern—countless fragments from the past.

He remembered being seventeen, just starting out as an apprentice. Not yet an adult, thin as a rail, his chef’s uniform hung loosely on his frame. Nervous and inexperienced, he knelt down and kowtowed three times before the head chef.

After the formal ceremony, he looked up and foolishly asked, “Master, what kind of chef is considered the best chef?”

Chef Wang, who looked like a smiling Maitreya Buddha, seemed to understand there was more behind the question. He chuckled twice but didn’t give the usual clichés about “there is no best, only better.” Instead, he replied, “In our line of work, whether you’re good or not isn’t up to you to say. It’s about whether everyone likes you—whether the dishes you make earn unanimous praise. That’s what makes you the best.”

Then, as if reading Jiang Tingzhou’s thoughts, the gentle, kind chef added, “Tingzhou, I know you’ve only been home for two years. They don’t understand you. You’ve suffered a lot, but believe me, you’re the better one. If you study with me seriously, you’ll definitely become the youngest and best chef in the business. As long as you’ve got the skills, you’ll do better, and people will like you more.”

Jiang Tingzhou had said aloud, “Who cares if those Jiang family people like me?”

But deep down, those words had truly encouraged him.

He remembered that sentence for many years and always believed that as long as he worked hard enough, everything would get better.

But now, after all this time, he felt miserable.

That lightness lasted only a moment. Suddenly, it felt like a stone was tied to his body, dragging him down. He sank to the bottom, his whole body unbearably heavy.

He tried to take a deep breath, but it was blocked. Fine, sharp pain filled every inch of his body. He didn’t know how long it lasted, until a voice pierced through—someone calling him. It was like finding a crack in a sealed wall, just enough to take a breath.

“Chef, Chef Jiang… Jiang Tingzhou! Wake up! The guests are almost here—why are you still sleeping? Get up and start cooking!”

“He had a fever yesterday…”

“It’s just 39 degrees! Young people are strong, what’s the big deal? Who else can make the ‘Stuffed Rivers and Mountains’ dishes besides him? Just hold on for a few more hours—there’ll be plenty of time to rest later!”

All the shouting stirred Jiang Tingzhou before his eyes even opened.

He felt feverish, his head heavy, his eyelids like iron weights. Someone was shaking him, slapping his face, pressing a cold towel to his forehead, trying to feed him water, urging him to wake up.

Jiang Tingzhou tried to curse whoever was tormenting him, but his throat was hoarse. He couldn’t speak. Half-conscious, he couldn’t even open his mouth.

Someone tried to pour water into him, but it didn’t work—it spilled down the corners of his lips, soaking into his collar, icy cold, making him shiver violently.

It felt like torture from hell.

He had definitely died.

Just moments ago, while driving, he’d rolled off an overpass. Trapped in the car, blood had run from the corner of his mouth down his neck and soaked his whole body. It had felt this cold then, too.

But maybe it was just an illusion. After all, with a crash like that—there shouldn’t have been time to feel pain. He should’ve died on the spot.

Lying there in a haze of pain, Jiang Tingzhou suddenly realized something.

—Wait… didn’t I die?

He remembered it clearly.

He’d gotten up at three in the morning to retrieve an important document from the office. He hadn’t felt well when he left, but he brushed it off. On the way, his heart had suddenly begun to race, his breathing turned shallow—it felt like acute angina. His vision went black.

The next moment, the car lost control, skidded, and fell from the viaduct.

The blood he coughed up at the end was from both pressure—and fury.

He had struggled his whole life. He never imagined he’d die so miserably.

At thirty-two, he was the president of Jiang Food, a rising star in the culinary world. His life had finally become smooth and successful. But over the past two weeks, a storm had stirred: his half-brother Jiang You—whom he had defeated long ago—had suddenly returned.

That sly fox really had some skill. After all these years, Jiang You had found another foreign backer and came sneaking back. With his manipulative charm, he bribed several mid- and low-level shareholders, stirring up trouble.

But these were just minor storms after all the trials. Jiang Tingzhou, the ultimate competitor, wasn’t afraid of this defeated rival.

Their rivalry had lasted a long time, fighting back and forth. This time was no different.

When Jiang Tingzhou was five, he got lost in an accident. At fifteen, when the Jiang family found him, the steward had frowned and waded through muddy market streets to find him working in a butcher shop with a boning knife. Next to the chopping board lay his blood-stained textbooks and barely passing test papers. Jiang Tingzhou had looked up at him, smelling of blood.

He had looked completely out of place in the wealthy Jiang family.

After returning, he and Jiang You—his adopted brother, the same age—became instant rivals. They competed in everything.

He learned to cook early, entered competitions, won countless medals, and even pursued the heir of the Lu family—someone Jiang You could never reach. He fought tooth and nail to rise from an unwanted outsider to a major figure in the family.

Even after a hand injury ended his cooking career, he transitioned into business, drove Jiang You abroad, and climbed to the top of Jiang Food as its CEO.

He was no longer the boy who got bullied in silence.

Jiang You’s return was unexpected, but nothing more than a ripple in the sea. Jiang Tingzhou had deep roots now—Jiang You couldn’t touch him.

Jiang You knew it, too. He sent message after message, saying, “I just want to meet my brother and settle the past.”

But Jiang Tingzhou didn’t believe a word.

He had vowed—nothing would disrupt his life again.

Then, the biggest accident happened.

The day before the board meeting, just when he was ready to crush Jiang You again—he died of a heart attack. He crashed and fell off the overpass, and no one knew if his body would even be intact.

Somehow, he gave Jiang You, who originally had no chance, a lucky break he didn’t deserve.

Jiang Tingzhou’s mind and body were shattered. He felt terrible, as if holding his breath trapped inside, neither able to let it out nor take it in. And even though he was already dead, someone insisted on waking him up, trying to feed him water but failing, then lifting him roughly so his upper body leaned against a wall, forcing medicine into him like force-feeding a duck.

The soup was bitter, scalding hot, clashing with the icy water from earlier.

He was already feeling horrible—how could he swallow that?

It choked him. The taste of bitter Chinese medicine filled his mouth. Then came a violent, thunderous cough.

And slowly… he woke up.

“He’s awake! He finally woke up!”

Jiang Tingzhou was currently surrounded by three people. When they saw him open his eyes, they all brightened with joy, completely ignoring how red his face was from coughing.

They spoke over one another:

“Hurry up, Head Chef! You need to get to the kitchen, we’re running out of time—everyone’s waiting for you!”

“Do you know how long you’ve been asleep? It’s really too late!”

Jiang Tingzhou struggled to open his eyes and finally saw clearly who these noisy people were—and he froze in place.

It was strange. He hadn’t seen these people in years.

The three standing in front of him were employees from the old branch of the Jiang family restaurant, Gongyan. They were familiar faces—old acquaintances.

The Jiang family had a long legacy of gourmet cooking. Their ancestors had once served as royal chefs. The family business, Gongyan, was a chain of high-end Chinese restaurants.

The “old branch” was their very first location. These three—store manager, floor manager, and sous-chef—had worked there. But that was ten years ago.

The three weren’t particularly polite to Jiang Tingzhou.

The store manager, surnamed Yang, even though he knew Jiang Tingzhou had just woken up from a fever, was still impatient and pulled at him while speaking.

“What are you spacing out for? The guests are on their way. You know Zhao Tongzhi, right? That traffic-star celebrity? The media’s coming too. No matter how much money people spend, they can’t buy this kind of publicity. It was a last-minute reservation, sure, but it’s a rare opportunity! I know you’re not feeling well, but can you hold out—for the sake of Gongyan?”

Jiang Tingzhou is still weak. They try to pull him out of bed, but he collapses back down.

Wait.

He’s still not thinking clearly.

Didn’t I die in a car accident?

And then he remembers—after he gained real authority in the Jiang family, the first thing he did was get rid of these three. They had no skill and only relied on seniority.

So why are they still here?

This makes no sense.

But as he looks around, everything continues to feel off.

He’s in the old branch’s rest room—a space barely larger than a birdcage, located right next to the kitchen.

In his early twenties, he used to crash here all the time. Back then, he worked through the night to develop new recipes and didn’t mind the cramped conditions.

But this rest room was remodeled years ago when the old branch was renovated.

He turns his head and sees an electronic calendar hanging on the wall.

April 1, 2016.

Ten years ago?

He stares at the date and suddenly jolts awake. He looks down at his right hand and checks it over again and again.

Aside from a few calluses and blisters from burns, his hand looks normal—strong and intact.

He stretches it out slowly. Each finger is healthy and flexible. Not at all like the hand he lived with for years, where the damaged nerves never fully recovered.

“Chef? Chef!” someone keeps nudging him. “Can you stand? The kitchen’s waiting.”

This isn’t a dream. It’s not an illusion.

He’s certain now.

After his inexplicable death, Jiang Tingzhou has been reborn—ten years in the past.

He takes a deep breath.

Some people would be thrilled to be reborn a decade younger, but Jiang Tingzhou feels like his head might explode.

What the hell?

Who wants to be reborn?

Is this some kind of joke from the heavens? After finally making it—after all the suffering—he ends up back in the most miserable part of his life?

Even though he’s surprised that his right hand is restored, he feels no joy—only suffocating pressure.

Even if both hands were crippled, he’d rather not come back to this time.

Now that he’s more clear-headed, he remembers everything. At this point, his 22-year-old self had just achieved a long-held dream—becoming the official executive chef. On the surface, it looked like glory, but in truth, he was nothing more than a workhorse.

Just a month ago, Jiang Tingzhou represented the Jiang family in a prestigious national TV cooking competition. He brought home the gold medal. One of his final dishes—“Stuffed Rivers and Mountains,” made with fish, fish maw, and wild mushrooms—was praised endlessly by the judges for its umami flavor. Thanks to this, Gongyan’s reputation soared and drew in waves of new customers.

Since then, the old branch has been fully booked.

Unfortunately, those winning dishes were complex. When others tried to make them, they always fell short, so everything had to be done by him alone.

The more capable you are, the more work you get.

As the new executive chef, Jiang Tingzhou worked like a machine. And because of his youth, people constantly whispered about favoritism. To shut them up, he worked even harder.

Technically, an executive chef should mostly manage and supervise, rarely cooking themselves. But Jiang Tingzhou did everything—cooking, supervising, managing.

And if that wasn’t enough, he had to give interviews, attend marketing events, maintain customer relationships, source ingredients, design menus, and develop new dishes constantly. Whenever special customers visited, he had to show up and socialize.

He even handled tasks that belonged to the store manager, floor manager, and sous-chef. And after all that, he still stayed up late to study—because he was also preparing to compete abroad.

Even a mule doesn’t work this hard.

But Jiang Tingzhou is only human. He eventually fell ill. He started burning with fever the day before but still forced himself to finish his shift.

This morning, unable to stand, he took medicine and crashed in the rest room.

He told the staff he wasn’t feeling well. But not only did no one help him or call a doctor—they even accepted a last-minute VIP reservation, just to squeeze a little more out of him.

Back then, his 22-year-old self was still trying to prove something. So even with trembling hands and a knife he could barely hold, he got up and did it—all the dishes, perfectly.

As long as there was a carrot dangling in front of him—“beat Jiang You, prove yourself”—he would chase it, no matter the cost.

He even forced himself to go out and entertain guests after the meal. That night, he collapsed from exhaustion and got a lung infection. He was hospitalized for a week.

Was he regretful? Not really.

Looking back, Jiang Tingzhou paid dearly for those ten years, but never regretted any step. Even the irreversible injury to his right hand brought him immense value.

But if he had to relive all of it from scratch?

That was a whole different matter.

The reborn Jiang Tingzhou doesn’t feel grateful—only rage.

Compared to the pain of an injured hand, the hell he lived through in his twenties was far worse.

He had suffered, worked his way to the top, and now, sick and burning with fever, these three fools—whom he’d long since fired—are ordering him around again?

He might as well have died in that car crash.

The more he thinks, the more furious he gets. Anger rises to his head.

The three idiots are still talking in his ear.

“Shut up!” he growls.

His voice is hoarse, like it’s been sliced open. His body clearly isn’t doing well, but the three still won’t let up.

“It’s just one table, hold on a bit,” the store manager pleads, slightly softer. “Tingzhou, work a little harder. This opportunity is rare. As long as you hold up the old store’s reputation, no one in the Jiang family will dare say a word about you. We’ve got your back. Jiang You can’t compare to you.”

He really shouldn’t have said that.

As soon as Jiang You’s name comes up, Jiang Tingzhou’s temples start to throb. He leans against the wall and cuts him off.

“My throat hurts. Get me a glass of water.”

Manager Yang—medium build, narrow face, triangle eyes—blinks. “Me?”

He looks stunned. Jiang Tingzhou had never spoken to him this way before. As an old-timer with family ties to Jiang Tingzhou’s father, Manager Yang always acted like an elder—and had never been ordered around.

He’s about to blow up, but swallows his anger and brings a glass of cold water.

The moment he hands it over, Jiang Tingzhou throws it in his face.

Water splashes into his nose and mouth. It soaks his collar and trickles into his shirt. It’s early spring in Yongqing—still cold and damp. There’s no heating in the rest room. He shivers violently and coughs hard before finally recovering.

“Jiang Tingzhou! What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“I figured you didn’t know how uncomfortable choking feels. Thought I’d show you.” Jiang Tingzhou leans back on the bed, voice raw. “Go pour me another glass.”

“You—!” Manager Yang glares at him but dares not retaliate.

Manager Chen from the lobby silently fetches a new glass—he just touches the rim and says, “You’re giving a sick man cold water? I want it warm.”

“There’s no warm water.”

“Then go boil it. You think the medicine boiled itself?” Jiang Tingzhou says coldly. “Go on. What are you standing here for? Can the water heat itself if you keep staring at me?”

None of them dare make another move.

The three glance at one another, confused. They don’t understand why Jiang Tingzhou’s entire demeanor has changed.

He never used to talk like this. Never looked at them like this.

Now he half-squints with a raised chin, even while sick. His hoarse voice scrapes like sandpaper. His eyes gleam cold blue. There’s a heaviness around him—like a cloud of black resentment rising off his body.

He looks like a ghost.

And he’s terrifying.