In the kitchen, Kiyomi Liuli stood with a Tibetan Fox expression, wearing a little pig apron, emotionlessly slicing lamb. Nanahara Takeshi was carefully mixing the soup base, getting ready to have lunch together.
Of course, the argument hadn't finished; this was a temporary truce both had sworn to uphold, with a promise not to launch surprise attacks and to return to their original positions after the meal, ready to fight to the death.
Soon, an exquisite enamelled gilt-bronze hotpot was lit on the small square table, the milky white broth slowly beginning to boil and roll, with the occasional joyous jujube bobbing on top. Plates of fresh-cut, even more festive red lamb, frozen tofu, thinly sliced tripe, tender bok choy, and delicate vermicelli were neatly arranged to the side.
