The stress of his internal crisis, compounded by his stealth flight across the sect, had left him feeling strangely depleted.
His throat was suddenly feeling incredibly dry.
The chaotic, burning heat of his suppressed desires was making him physically thirsty.
He looked at the kitchen counter.
Sitting on the edge of the stone slab, completely unattended, was a dark ceramic pot.
The lid was slightly ajar.
Elder Qin approached it.
He could smell a rich, deep, incredibly savory aroma radiating from the pot.
It smelled like high-grade bone broth, steeped with ginseng.
In the orthodox cultivation world, it was common for chefs to leave restorative broths simmering for general consumption.
'A simple broth to soothe the throat,' Elder Qin rationalized, his judgment entirely clouded by his exhaustion and his desperate thirst. 'I will take a sip to clear my meridians first, and then I will leave here before he returns.'
