My name is Taotie Zao — Glutton's Stove. The demon king named me; he says my appetite takes after my ancestor the Taotie — never full.
The ancestor in the Shan Hai Jing: goat's body, human face, eyes in its armpits, tiger's teeth, man's claws, devours people without spitting the bones. Don't compare me. I'm a cook. A cook's creed: fire on the stove, food in the pot, peace under heaven.
Three hundred yao in this cavern, plus the captives, three meals a day — all from my stove. The little yao want meat, the pens need gruel, and the demon king—
The demon king needs no feeding.
Have you thought about that? Three hundred years, and the king doesn't eat.
I sent meals to his tent for three years. Year one: every meal, sent out, brought back untouched. I thought he was picky, so I varied the menu until I made myself weep with hunger. He never lifted a chopstick. Year two: every other day. Same result. Year three: I stopped sending. He never asked.
Three years. Not one bite.
A yao who doesn't eat, starves. He didn't. If he doesn't eat — what does he eat?
Last winter, I found out.
That night, someone came from the Stone-Heart Pool side and ordered nine dishes — nine, remember the number — nine dishes and a soup, a full banquet. I asked: for whom? The answer: the ninth watch.
The ninth watch.
Listen: the fifth watch brings dawn. What ninth watch? Thirty years a cook, and I'd never heard of cooking for a watch. But the rule of the den is: don't ask. I cooked. Nine dishes, one soup, perfect, and off it went.
The next day the dishes came back. Everything eaten clean — except in every bowl's bottom, one sip of soup remained.
Nine small bowls. One sip left in each. Not a drop more, not a drop less.
The way we leave a sip for the gods at an offering.
Since then, every ninth watch — yes, the den has a ninth watch now, rung by Yazhong — I cook the banquet. Six months of it, and I've worked it out: the king doesn't eat because he's saving his appetite.
The ninth-watch banquet isn't for the king. It's an offering to the guest.
The king dines alongside, for form's sake. The nine sips the guest leaves at the bottom are the return gift.
If you're fighting your way in: bring me good ingredients and I'll open the door. I know the defenses, the shifts, everything. One condition —
When you meet that guest, taste the ninth-watch banquet for me.
Tell me what it actually tastes like.